by Mia Malone
“My house,” he said and nudged her forward into the kitchen. “Fucking shit.”
“You need some time alone.”
No, he did not need any goddamned time alone. He needed a big shot of whiskey and her.
“Goddamned kids,” he murmured. “I thought we’d mostly spend our time having sex.”
She giggled, but he winced.
“Didn’t mean it like that, babe. Figured we’d go to the Bar every now and then too. I’ll take my bike out in a month or so. We’d work on your bucket list. Buy you some hippie clothes and start running together. I did not see grandchildren appearing from nowhere, and Jag walking in was a big fucking surprise.”
“It’s good, though?” she asked.
Fuck, yes. He’d pushed the thoughts of his son far back in his mind, but the jolt of happiness that coursed through him when the boy walked in had settled in his gut, and he felt good. Working together would be interesting, but they’d find a way.
“I thought we’d have a lot more sex,” he muttered, not willing to put words to what he felt.
“More?” she said weakly. “We’ve had more sex in the past few weeks than I had in total during the last five years.”
He chuckled but narrowed his brows when he realized she hadn’t joked.
“You’re serious?”
“I told you my husband, and I had nothing in common.”
He wanted to ask her how she'd survived in a relationship without that connection but realized that it would be nosy, and also that she had survived, but the relationship hadn't. He'd ended his two marriages in shitstorms full of shouts and accusations, and it had been godawful. The slow death of a marriage she'd been through was just as bad, he realized.
“We have things in common, baby,” he said. “And I could spend a lot more time buried in you if it weren’t for shit getting in the way.”
He liked that she had embraced his request to follow his lead and not be shy about sex, but he still loved that fucking adorable blush he saw creeping up her cheeks.
“Okay,” she murmured, but added, “It’s probably not politically correct to label our offspring shit.”
“But accurate,” he said with a grin. “When are yours coming?”
“Joey is coming next weekend with his girlfriend. Amelia said she’d come later in the spring. She didn’t want to talk about it, but I got the feeling she and Marlena had had a... difference of opinion.”
She had talked about the girlfriend, and Brody thought that she sounded pretty horrible, but didn’t want to tell Marie that.
“Where do you want them? In the Mermaid house on the couch and a mattress? Motel? You could stay with me, and they could be next door? Either works.”
“I thought the Motel would be best,” she said with a sigh. “I don't like Joey's girlfriend very much, and I don't think she'd appreciate the couch. I'm sure she won't approve of me sleeping with you.”
“She sounds like fun,” Brody muttered.
“She isn't.”
“I need a drink,” Brody said.
Sitting on the couch with a glass of whiskey in his hand and her at his side sounded like a great way to unwind after the evening they'd had.
“I think I'll have some wine,” Marie said and moved toward the fridge.
Brody watched her as she bent to pick up the bottle and it occurred to him that there might be another way to unwind which would be a lot more enjoyable than a shot of whiskey.
She had put her a glass on the kitchen island and was about to pour some pink wine from the already opened bottle when she noticed that he hadn't moved, and turned toward him with a brow raised.
“Brody?” she asked, but he saw in her eyes that she knew what he was thinking.
The way his jeans suddenly stretched over his dick was another indication.
“Move the glass forward, baby,” he said quietly.
Her eyes widened but she did what she was told, and he moved up behind her to press her to the edge of the countertop.
“Now, lean forward and pour yourself some wine.”
His voice was hoarse, and he heard her breath hitch, but she didn't say a word. When she was done, she put the bottle down and twisted her head around to look at him under her lashes. His dick had quickly turned rock hard, and he swayed his hips slowly to rub it against her soft ass. Then he pulled her up toward his chest and kissed her neck.
“Take a sip, baby,” he murmured.
She leaned forward to take the glass, and he put a hand on her hip to steady her and hold her in place as he moved his crotch against her again.
When she had straightened with the glass in her hand, he put a hand under her tee and cupped her breast.
“You're not drinking,” Brody murmured and pulled her bra down to roll her nipple with his fingers.
She exhaled and drank some wine. Then she put the glass down and started turning, but he held her still.
“Nuh-uh,” he said against her neck. “Move the glass to the other side of the island.”
She caught on and leaned forward slowly, and when she was about to let go of the glass, Brody moved one hand from on her hip to her back and pressed down gently. She was a lot shorter than him, so he took hold of her hips again to lift her up until she rested on her belly in front of him, and used a knee to nudge her legs apart. Then he stepped in closer and leaned over her.
“Good, baby?” he asked and ground his crotch against her again.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“I’m gonna raise your skirt, pull down your panties, and put two fingers in your pussy, Marie.”
He felt her soft shiver and smiled. She was open to anything he’d suggested so far, but the thing she got off on the most was when he talked dirty. The more words he used, the hotter she got, and when she ignited, he did too.
“You’re wet for me,” he said and started sliding his fingers in and out. “Do you like it when I finger-fuck you?”
She whimpered, and he stopped his movements.
“Say it.”
“I like your fingers, Brody.”
“Where?” he said and started moving his hand again.
“Oh God,” she rasped out, and he stopped. “In my pussy,” she moaned.
“That's right,” he said and pulled out to start circling her clit with his thumb. “What do you want, baby?”
“I want your cock,” she said. “Please fuck me, Brody.”
He used one hand to unbutton his jeans and pull out his cock. Then he reached into a drawer and pulled out a condom, rolled it on, and positioned himself.
“This will last a while, Marie,” he said and pushed inside, holding himself in check.
He wanted it to last forever and hadn’t lied when he said he wanted to spend a lot more time buried deep in her. Leaning over her on his elbows, he moved his hips slowly, and murmured in her ear how hot she was, how hard he was and fucking fantastic it felt to slide his cock in and out.
She pushed out a soft whimper with every breath, and he felt her shift her hips impatiently, trying to get him to move faster, but he pressed in deep and held her pinned to the countertop.
“There's no rush, baby.” Then he started moving slowly again, enjoying every sweet second. “This is gonna last until we can’t take any more. Until we’re both so hot we can’t stand it anymore. Until you’re screaming underneath me.”
He made it last, but when she was shaking with need, and a soft, “Please,” accompanied her every exhale, he started bucking his hips fast and hard.
It took a few thrusts only and then she arched into his chest.
Brody felt it rush through him and started pounding, growling in her ear, “That's it, Marie. Let me hear how good you feel, baby.”
She let go and her soft scream made Brody tilt his head backward and push inside all the way to the hilt.
He came so hard he had to close his eyes, and it seemed to go on forever. Marie was still moa
ning under him as he hung over her, shuddering and coming until his low growl turned into something that almost was a whimper.
“Jesus, fuck,” he ground out and fell forward on his elbows. This made his cock shift inside her and another shudder coursed through him. “Fuck,” he repeated shakily and leaned his forehead on her shoulder.
He stayed like that for a long time and wondered if he’d ever manage to move, hoping that he didn’t crush her.
“You okay?” he managed to get out finally.
“God, yes,” she sighed. “I can’t believe you have condoms in your kitchen-drawers.”
“Told you,” he murmured. “I've learned to be prepared. I've stashed them all over the place.”
“Everywhere?”
“I guess you’ll just have to wait and see.”
Chapter Ten
Nightmarelena
Marie
I made Jools cry. He said we hadn't cleaned the sawdust away properly, but I knew it was an excuse, and so did Brody but he pulled out a few paper napkins and told the old man calmly that they'd do an extra sweep of the floor the next morning.
The reason Jools cried was partly on account of the picture I'd put up on the wall. I had photos of the town from when the Café was opened, and recent ones taken by Cora Clarke. There were some from inside the Café too, both old and new ones. In the center, I had placed a photo of Jools standing by the stove, grinning as if he had no troubles in the world. Next to it, there was one showing Brody by the same stove. I'd taken that one, and he'd been focused on something in a pan and just turned his head when I called out to him, so his eyes were intense and some of that energy he craved so much was swirling in them. There was a faint whisper of a smile on his lips, and I loved that picture.
By the counter, I'd put a photo of Jools in his thirties with an arm around an eight-year-old Brody. They were looking at each other and laughing as if they shared a joke no one else would ever understand.
“Where the hell did you find that?” Jools muttered. “I look like an idiot in those pants.”
It had been the seventies, so he was not wrong, but I nudged him gently to the side and straightened the frame slightly.
“Dottie had it, and we had to have it here. This place is about what Brody wants to make out of it, but he knows well that everything here is about what used to be too. Without the history you've made here, this café would just be another new place popping up, and probably closing down after a few seasons.”
“Huh,” Jools said, but his voice was thick.
“That’s why we kept the sign. Well, that, plus it’s beautiful.”
And that’s when Jools had to wipe his eyes.
Then Brody served his first customers in his renovated café, and they kept coming in a steady trickle through the day. Jag worked next to him, and I stood to the side for a while and watched them move around each other. Jag had been in Bakersville less than a week, but they had already settled into a routine, and Brody had told me that, “the boy doesn't have the faintest clue what to do in a real kitchen, but damn if he doesn't have potential.” This apparently meant loud shouts full of curses were required, but Jag held his ground and roared right back when things got a little out of hand.
And if things got seriously out of hand, to everyone’s surprise, Jools stepped in and cursed too. The way the old man and Jag had clicked was unexpected, but I thought it was sweet and informed Brody of this which made him stare at me and shake his head.
“Watching the two of them rip me to pieces is sweet?” he asked, brows high on his forehead.
“Three-generational bonding, Brody. Yes, I think it’s sweet. Besides, you can handle them.”
“Standing in a very small space shouting the word fuck over and over again is bonding?”
“Totally.”
“Is three-generational even a word?” he asked sourly.
“I have no clue,” I said sweetly. “I might have invented it.”
“Babe,” he muttered and walked back toward the kitchen where Jools was showing Jag something by the stove.
I saw the smile in his eyes before he turned, though, and heard how they laughed later.
When we walked home on opening day, life was good. The Café had been busy, and there had been some glitches, but no one had noticed, and everyone had been happy. I was thinking that this warranted a celebration involving my latest splurge on some very, very fine pieces of blue lace.
Then we had our first fight, and it was not like any kind of fight I’d ever been in before.
It started when Brody gave me back the summary of the total expenses for the renovations. I'd asked him to check it, and then pay me what remained so I could settle it with the various contractors and suppliers. We were slightly below the budget I'd made, and way below the total he had told me was what I could spend, so I felt good about myself.
“Babe, this isn’t correct.”
“It isn’t?”
“You’ve undercharged for the drawings you made, and you have forgotten your time.”
I’d agonized over what to charge the man who was also my lover for the simple ink drawings I’d made. They’d taken me some time, but I’d enjoyed myself, so I’d settled for the cost of the material and enough to let me buy a bottle of wine or two.
“I’m not charging for my time, Brody.”
“Yes, you are.”
It somehow went downhill from there, and we ended up shouting at each other right outside my back door, ending with me informing him that I wasn't a hooker, so he didn't pay for my services. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, and then he marched away, snarling something angrily as he passed our cars. I heard his door close with what I thought was completely unnecessary force since he was the one who was wrong. I was the one who was right, so when I slammed the door shut behind me, I had good reason to do it.
The tears didn’t come until I’d circled my tiny living room fourteen times. I counted.
God. How could we break up over a stupid summary of renovation expenses? I'd tried to do something nice, and the idiotic, stubborn man should have understood. A small voice at the back of my mind told me that I should perhaps have explained it to him, and then the same annoying voice urged me to walk over to his house and do just that.
“No,” I snapped straight into the silence.
I needed something to do and brought out my brushes and tubes, thinking that I'd do some small, colorful paintings that Miss Clarke might want to sell. Or, try to sell, at least.
When I’d hurled the third attempt across the room, I decided that, fuck this. I’d go for a walk along the ocean instead. Or... I could do some more work on the mermaid. I’d added things here and there, and it was just soft brushes to even out lines or add some shades, deepening the colors. No one had noticed, and I decided that it was time to work on her eyes, so I did.
I made the round circles just slightly oval, thinking that I could continue making them even more eye-shaped over the next few weeks. I’d also continue to work on the hints of eyelashes I had added. I had nothing better to do anyway. This depressing thought made fresh tears slide down my cheeks, and I sniffled as I stood there in the cold, dark Maine evening, trying to sort out a goddamned mermaid.
When my teeth started chattering loud enough to wake the dead, I walked back inside and sat on the couch, wondering what to do. Should I leave? Oh, God. Perhaps Brody would want me to pack up and leave immediately. Where would I go?
I closed my eyes and tried to swallow the lump in my throat but opened them again when I heard a soft scraping sound behind me. A shadow fell over the couch, and I screamed loudly as I scrambled toward the other side of the room.
The shadow, which turned out to be Brody, screamed too.
“What the hell is going on?” Patrick shouted as he ran into the room, and I closed my mouth with a snap.
“Jesus,” Brody grunted. “Do you want me to have a heart attack?”
&n
bsp; “You scared me,” I snapped, and turned to Pat. “What are you doing here?”
“I was just coming back from the Bar, heard you scream bloody murder in here.”
“Oh.”
Patrick narrowed his eyes suddenly and pointed at me. “You’ve been crying.”
“He broke up with me,” I told him, refusing to look at Brody.
“Oh, for fuck's sake.”
Two male voices said the exact same thing at the exact same time, and I wasn't sure who to look at.
“I did not break up with you,” Brody growled.
“Okay,” Patrick said patiently when I just glared at Brody. “What are you fighting about?”
I told him in a few sentences and waited for him to share with his brother how wrong he was. I did not have to wait for more than two seconds.
“Bro, that’s just dumb. You don’t charge her for lunch.”
“Fuck,” Brody grunted which I assumed meant that he’d seen the errors in his ways.
I smirked, which I really shouldn’t have because Patrick turned to me.
“What would you have been paid if you sold your art in a gallery?”
Fuck, I thought but did not say, mostly because I didn't use that word very often. Although, if I had been a fuck-saying kind of woman, this would absolutely have been an f-bomb situation.
“Shit,” I whispered instead.
“Okay,” Patrick said calmly. “No paying for hours, proper payment for the drawings. Sorted. Now go and have make up sex, and preferably in Brody’s house. I need my beauty sleep.”
It took a split second and then his words registered in full force.
“You heard us?” I wheezed out.
“Well, yeah,” he said with a grin. “My bedroom window is right there, and I like to keep it open.”
I stared stupidly at the window he’d pointed at, and then at him.
“Oh, God,” I breathed out.
“Yes, that’s what I heard.”
“I’ll die.”
I totally would. I had never in my life been the kind of woman who had sex so someone else heard it. I’d never heard anyone either. And we were –
