by Kellie Hart
“Arms over your head,” he orders.
Obeying, I lift my arms into the air, and Atticus drops the belt at our feet. His fingers bind my wrists in silk, locking them high above me, but when I think I have figured out the rest of his plan, Atticus takes the belt, wraps it in another swath of ribbon, and clasps it around my eyes to block out all of the world.
“Thank you,” I say, “for this.”
“You’re welcome, love, though you never have to thank me for anything. It is my pleasure to pleasure you.”
Atticus grows quiet, and I hear him walk away. When his sure, heavy tread returns him to my side, whatever he has brought along with him adds a gentle tink, tink, tink to the charged air. When Atticus removes a top or stopper from something, a canister maybe, the little pop makes me jump, and my heart thrums in my ears.
“Did I frighten you, darling? I’m sorry,” Atticus murmurs, “but I do like to keep you on your toes.”
I only nod as I take in the sounds of his activity, trying desperately to figure out what is about to happen. Torn wildly between aggravation and anticipation, my heart continues to rage, and I almost miss Atticus’s footsteps as he comes to stand before me.
“When I first met you, months and months ago,” Atticus whispers, his breath on my lips, “I thought you were glorious, Carolina. Your eyes, so green. Your hair, so much like fire. Your skin, my God, it reminded me of the color of a good bevvy.”
My body reacts as he presses his lips to mine. My hungry tongue sweeps out and tastes something familiar on his own.
Bourbon.
As quickly as I think the word, the cooling burn of alcohol starts at my jaw and travels over my shoulders. My nipples tighten as the liquid cascades over my breasts and down my tummy. It pools between my thighs, in my ass, in the curls above my mound, caught there by my curves.
“You were so innocent yet so fucking infuriating. I wanted to invade you with my body, to bury myself inside you, but I couldn’t. You deserved more, and I knew immediately I wanted to give to it you. When I came back for you, you then doubted me, and that enraged me all the more.”
A warm tongue meets my shoulder, and Atticus chases the bourbon over my skin, lapping here, licking there. At my navel, Atticus stops, ringing it with the tip of his tongue, sucking yet searching for more.
“But I have earned your trust,” he stops and whispers against my tummy, “and I think may have earned your heart. So, when you do not give me the tiniest of acknowledgements, when I don’t possess every fucking second of your time, I am consumed by need for you, and that is not a feeling I can abide. A life without Carolina in it, any moment of mine of which you are not part, is not one I want to live.”
When another waterfall of alcohol cascades over my tummy, down my legs, Atticus chases it, nuzzling his face between my thighs, before his tongue flicks out to touch me at last. My back arches in pleasure from one single, simple touch. His fingers sink into my ass, forcing my clit to his lips, and he keeps me there, working me over with his mouth until I am capable of nothing more than panting his name towards the heavens.
Atticus. Atticus. Atticus.
But, he pulls away all too soon.
“Tell me you are mine, Carolina. I need to hear it.”
More bourbon spills over my mound, warming my skin, and Atticus dives in yet again, as if he’s dying of thirst and my body is an oasis in the fucking desert. Speaking seems impossible at the moment, but with all the strength that is within me, I pull together the words which make him roar.
“I am yours, Atty. All yours.”
“Say it again, Carey,” Atticus growls. “Tell me who commands your body, who rules your desire, who owns your fucking heart.”
“You,” I breathe out. “It’s only y—you, Atticus. You.”
“And it is only you. I am fucking drunk on you, Carolina.”
Atticus sweeps another length of ribbon between my legs and pulls it taut against my clit. As he works the cool fabric against me, glorious, agonizing friction saps my strength yet fills me with hunger for more all the same. I grip the ribbon overhead, my knuckles cracking with the effort, as Atticus continues his onslaught. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, he tortures me until I cannot decipher up from down, left from right. I become lost entirely, but I find him again as I always seem to do.
“Atticus!”
Something deep and delicious within me snaps, and I unwind, spiralling out of control, yet still grounded by Atticus’s touch upon my body. Unable to support myself, Atticus catches me as I fall. I do not protest when he unwraps my wrists and removes my blindfold. Before I fully come back to myself, he lowers us to the floor, and he locks me up in bare arms, holding my shivering body close. When I look to him, his blue eyes are round and warm, a lazy smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“There’s something I should tell you,” Atticus says softly.
“What’s that?” I whisper as I run my finger along the edge of his lips.
“I may only be Atticus, but I will never be Mike. I may only have one heart to give, but I love you with all of it.”
I suck in a quick breath, clueless as how to respond, because I know he is not, nor will he ever become, Mike. There is simply no comparison, and Atticus never needs to tell me he loves me. I feel it in every touch, every whisper of his lips against my skin. His love is a truth I could not deny if I tried.
When I withdraw my hand, and Atticus blinks down at me, the happiness in his eyes evaporates as quickly as it came.
“Well, that wasn’t the reception I had hoped for,” Atticus laughs nervously. “I’m sorry, love. It was unfair for me to assume that you are ready to discuss such an outrageous idea—that I want to be more to you than I am now.”
Atticus is entirely wrong. It’s not too much, too soon. It is quite fucking perfect because I have wanted to say as much to him for weeks; I simply didn’t know how.
Now, I do.
I slip up to my knees and raise my finger to the little lines that have formed between his raven brows. He once accused me of having a worry V in the same place when I am overthinking, and there it is now on my Atty. His fingers raise to encircle my wrist, but I keep my hand there, massaging until the creases disappear. With a sigh, Atticus frees me, but I don’t bring my hand back to my side. Instead, I take up his full cock into my hand and squeeze.
“Wha—what are y—you doing, Carey?” Atticus chokes out.
“Loving you.”
Desperate to show Atticus how I truly feel, I take him into my mouth. He tastes of bourbon and heat and need. Each stroke of tongue, tug of fingers, or nip of teeth brings a new curse to his lips. Soon, he laces hands into my hair, ripping the last of my curls free of their braids, and shoves my mouth farther down around him. My lips touch the bottom of his shaft, and tears prick my eyes as his dick passes into my throat. I gag, but I do not care. Within, I rejoice.
I do this to him. I do this. Me. Carey.
As I suck and savor Atticus as the gift he is, his thighs twitch, and our mingled sweat coats my forehead, my mouth, my lashes. When my eyes travel up rippling abs to his face, I am nearly thrown over the edge because there is nothing more beautiful than this man on the precipice of release. This man, this madness, and this moment are my fucking reward for letting myself love again.
Seconds later, Atticus whispers my name, and he spills across my tongue. I swallow down his offering, starving for every ounce of his being he chooses to give me.
Atticus slowly pumps in and out of my mouth a few times more before loosening his grip on my hair. I wipe at my swollen lips and smile as a languid, satisfied Atty relaxes into our bed of red ribbon. As his breathing slows, I crawl up his body and curl around him. I dance fingers across his colorful chest, through the smattering of hair that graces his pecs, and pause over a familiar tattoo on his shoulder. Atticus grips my hand and laces his fingers into mine. Humming softly to himself, he pulls me even closer and kisses the top of my head. I tilt my ch
in towards him, and he pecks my lips before slowly closing his eyes.
“My Carolina,” he says quietly, reverently. “Always my Carolina.”
“Do I dare disturb the universe? In a minute, there is time for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.”
Atticus’s eyes fly open and lock with mine, questioning, seeking the meaning of the lines I have chosen from The Love Song J. Alfred Prufrock.
“When Mike and I fell apart, I convinced myself loving someone else would only hurt me. I did it so I would never feel that kind of pain again,” I offer in way of explanation. “Then you flew into my life, and every decision I had once made for myself was reversed because you unravelled all the lies that had become my truth. Never compare yourself to Mike because with you, I live in the presence of my personal Superman. With you, I am at peace. With you, Atticus, I dare to be Carey.”
Atticus’s pointer finger gently touches my bottom lip. “Is that so, love?”
“It is, and it grows truer every day because I love you, Atticus. I am unconditionally and irreversibly in love with you.”
In a flash, Atticus flips us over, and he rises above me on powerful arms. He smiles, and my heart stops a little because the simple expression is filled to bursting with unencumbered warmth and joy and peace. It is the smile of a man who thought he would never hear those words again, and yet, he has.
“Once more, Carey. Please.”
“I love you,” I say and cup his cheeks in my hands. He nuzzles into my touch, and simply to keep that look of sheer bliss on his face, I say it a fourth time. “I love you, Atty.”
“And I love you, Carolina Grant, more than I ever thought humanly possible.”
“Why don’t you show me then?”
I raise my hungry hips to bump his, and Atticus’s head falls to my chest. His lips take up a nipple, and I moan, clawing into his back. My body remains a livewire from his last use of me, and my God, do I want to be used again. Used unlike ever before.
Completely. Willingly. Above all else, lovingly.
“I’m yours,” I remind him. “I am yours, Atty.”
As he licks his way down my neck, I wrap my legs around his waist and thrust against him. Atticus bites his lower lip, holding back a groan. Though he is inexplicably hesitant, his hand finally slips between us, and a finger teases with promises of what’s to come.
“Let us go then, you and I, together,” I encourage.
“I couldn’t have said it better myself—Carolina and Atticus. Together.”
With the smile I love gracing his face, Atticus lowers his lips to mine, and I dance in his love as it illuminates the world around me anew.
Well, to be entirely honest, we have thirty fucking seconds of sexual perfection before something beats against the floor, and we freeze in place. I unfortunately know that sound all too well—the rabid thump of Mrs. Lafourche’s broom that always precedes a formal announcement.
“Carey! There’s a marathon of those yellow women you love so much on that Hallmarket channel.” Mrs. Lafourche’s twang wafts through the boards separating our apartments. “Just thought you’d like to know before that young man of yours renders your brain useless with all the fornicationing! A woman’s body ain’t built for such abuse!”
I mouth, Oh, shut up, old woman, and Atticus chuckles under his breath.
As if she can see us from below, Mrs. Lafourche adds, “Carey, put that mouth to good use instead of being rude. Either please your man with it, or keep it shut! Didn’t your momma teach you nothing!”
As I prepare to offer some snarky comeback about my oral skills, Atticus leaps off me and launches himself to the couch, leaving me entirely nude and utterly alone on the floor.
“What the hell are you doing?” I squeak as he stretches his long, naked frame over the length of my sofa and lifts the remote from the coffee table.
“’Ello… I’m watching The Golden Girls. Obviously,” Atticus explains. “Get your sexy, little arse over here, love.”
At his words, my jaw drops because I simply do not understand. Mere seconds ago I professed my love to him. I offered up my body for the taking, and when the moment was goddamn perfect, this is what I get? An Atticus who needs to watch fucking television?
Must I remind you that the fucking Lady Berry Farm has a bountiful harvest, and it’s so ripe for the goddamn dicking that it hurts!
I swear on Sophia Pe-wig-lo—just an inch or two will do!
A little pop-pop, jizz-jizz. Oh, what a relief it is—Atty-seltzer!
When the TV clicks to life and I see the immediate smile the geriatric gals paint on Atticus’s face, I admit defeat and take my place at his side.
“If I sit here and watch this, will you promise me something?” I ask like a petulant child.
“Anything,” Atticus says as he draws me to his chest.
“Just tell me you’ll fuck me when the marathon is over. Swear that you will ride me bareback into the fucking sunset the minute the final credits roll.”
Atticus lets loose a low chuckle against my back, and his breath tickles my cheek. “Of course, I will, but now, I ask for your patience, Carolina. We have years before us to fuck, but in the current moment, I care to simply hold the woman I love in my arms and hear her laugh.”
With those words, everything frantic within me settles into place, and I relish the sound of Atticus humming the familiar The Golden Girls theme song into my ear. When I laugh, he smiles against my neck. When he laughs, my God, does my heart sing along with that beautiful fucking sound.
When he whispers I love you, love, in my ear yet again, I remind myself that no perfect fucking is, more often that not, fucking perfect.
A FEW HOURS LATER, I find myself at Hot Rod. In fact, tonight is the eightieth anniversary of the club, and I can think of no other way for Atticus and I to celebrate the new stage in our relationship than to also celebrate a milestone in the history of the place that helped bring us together. This evening, the entire establishment is decorated in everything war-era from the red, white, and blue bunting on the walls to the newly added leather chairs with pintuck cushions. In the corner, a Glenn Miller tribute band is set up to provide live music for the performers, and all of this effort is simply to pay homage to the year the ole girl opened her legs to the public—1937.
Requirements for entry tonight also include period attire for both ladies and gentlemen. This means that Atticus is currently a few hundred feet away from me, wearing a vintage tuxedo and black spats. When I left him, he also donned silver cufflinks, and his hair was parted and oiled into place. What’s better? I buttoned his buttons. I tied his tie.
I smile and replay helping Atticus ready himself for tonight’s festivities, and something he mentioned earlier returns to mind.
We have years before us.
When I couldn’t figure out how to work his cufflinks this afternoon, Atticus laughed, and the very sound of it, so rich and full, reverberated around me, magical and melodic. I could do no more than stare at him because I was once again blessed to witness his happiness, and because I put that smile on his face, I couldn’t be embarrassed that it was the result my folly. My heart ached in that moment because I realized I have only loved him for a short time. Watching Atticus laugh once or twice over the course of this afternoon, or even a thousand times more over the coming weeks, will hardly be enough to sustain my need for him. I need years. I want a goddamn century of him by my side, a lifetime of moments made precious because Atticus chose me, I chose him, and we chose us.
“My fucking God,” I say with a little smile to my reflection. “this makes that Velveeta I ate before seeing him at the baby shower a very regrettable decision. Who knew things would have turned out so gouda between us?”
I skim a finger over my vintage gown, wondering what Atticus will think of it. Tonight, my wardrobe is entirely different—a period, cream silk gown, adorned with emerald beads along my breasts and waist. When I move, the beadwork catches the light, tossin
g it around my dressing room in innumerable, glittering rainbows. Beneath the dress lies a black corset paired with matching thong, garter belt, and stockings. Atop my head, however, is the biggest change I made for tonight’s celebration. Because Lola Golden is taking the night off, and I am dancing in her stead, my hair is not contained beneath another version of Sophia Pe-wig-lo. Instead, my red mane is loose, my curls pinned back over one ear with an elegant pearl comb.
“You are fucking radiant.”
A hand rises to my startled heart, and I turn to find Atticus leaning against the doorframe. Fucking dejavu makes me giggle, and I saunter over to him. Hooking a finger in his vest, I pull him to me.
“You’re pretty fucking yummy yourself, Atty.”
His eyes twinkle as he looks down at me. “Nothing will ever compare to your beauty, love.”
