Sexy Motherpucker: A Bad Motherpuckers Novel

by Lili Valente

  And if you think about it, the rhino is probably pretty grateful not to be covered in blood-sucking arachnids.

  But there aren’t feelings involved here. Not even affection, let alone love. It’s a fact I need to keep at the forefront of my mind at moments like this, when Brendan is smiling at me like he might care about my emotional well-being.

  “She is a sneak sometimes.” He glances over his shoulder. “And she has a temper. Especially when she doesn’t sleep well. She was up three times last night asking for water before I finally got her settled.”

  I shrug. “That’s okay. Sometimes I have a temper, too.”

  “Maybe it’s a redhead thing.” He reaches out, curling a lock of my hair around his finger, bringing his hand so close to my breast that my nipples tighten for reasons that having nothing to do with the chill in the air.

  They’re tight because I want him to touch me, kiss me. Because I want to feel his mouth on my skin and the muscles of his thighs, thick and strong against mine, as he nudges my legs apart and settles between them. I want him on top of me, moving inside of me, his breath hot on my lips, stealing mine away.

  For a moment, the need to touch him, to connect with this person who made me feel things that before our weekend on the beach I didn’t know were possible, is so strong that I sway forward, an iron filing helpless to resist the pull of a big, sexy, manly magnet. But before I can do something stupid like wrap my arms around Brendan’s neck or push up on tiptoe to press my lips to his, Chloe bursts back through the Visitor’s Center door.

  “Can I have an orange soda?” she asks, hopping with excitement. “They have the kind in the glass bottle that I like.”

  Brendan turns, my hair slipping through his fingers as he steps away. “No soda before lunch, and definitely no soda on a day when you’ve already had a donut and plan to have pie.”

  “But it’s my favorite!” she protests, freckled nose wrinkling as Brendan crosses to meet her. “I could have half of it.”

  “No.”

  She takes his hand with wide, pleading eyes. “Just a few drinks?”

  “No.”

  “One drink?” she wheedles. “And then I can save the rest for tomorrow?”

  “No,” he says again, reminding me of our conversations pre-underwear-burning. The man really does love saying no.

  And he’s very, very good at it.

  “You could learn something here, woman,” I mutter as I follow them into the building, wishing all over again that I had said “no” to this favor instead of “yes.”

  Because at this rate it’s not a question of if I’ll make a lovesick fool of myself in front of Brendan this weekend, but when.

  Chapter Seven

  Brendan

  I pride myself on my discipline and self-restraint.

  I rarely cheat on the diet my nutritionist designed to keep me functioning at peak potential as I move out of my drink-beer-and-eat-pizza-and-still-kill-it-on-the-ice twenties and into my have-to-work-twice-as-hard-to-maintain-game-shape mid-thirties. I never skip leg day—or arm day, or ab day—and I give everything on the ice, whether it’s an optional skate, mandatory practice, a mid-season snoozer of a game, or the final battle of the playoffs.

  I maintain firm but fair boundaries for my daughter, and ensure she’s eating well and getting enough sleep. I’m equally fair as a team captain, choosing positive reinforcement and constructive, privately-delivered criticism over a raised voice or a brutal come-down on a floundering rookie in front of his new team. I take my supplements religiously, watch YouTube videos until I master whatever French braid is in style this week at Chloe’s school, book a massage with the team trainer every Wednesday to keep my bum shoulder functioning smoothly, and clip Chloe’s nails every other Thursday night.

  I am structured, dedicated, focused, and in control of myself, my team, and my household.

  But right now, all I want to do is drop Chloe off at her grandparents’ house, drive back to Government Camp as fast as the Cruiser can go on the windy mountain roads, book a hotel room, and shack up with Laura for the next two or three weeks, shirking all of my responsibilities and committing myself solely to the study of the art of getting her off.

  The two-hour drive has done absolutely fuck all to take off the edge, probably because I’ve spent most of it mentally replaying scenes from our stolen weekend.

  A particular favorite is of Laura’s lips parting and her eyes sliding closed as I roll my tongue against her clit, increasing my pressure until she arches into my mouth and I drive my tongue deep into her pussy, needing to feel her body pulse as she comes for me. Because of me. Because I’ve brought this strong, sexy, in-control woman to her knees.

  And then there’s Laura with her shirt unbuttoned in the moonlight, holding my gaze as she straddles me on the chair we dragged out onto the deck so we could listen to the waves crash while we went for round five. Images of my hands parting the fabric of her white button-up and cupping her breasts, of her reaching between us and fitting my swollen length to where she is already hot and ready for me, so ready that the moment we glide together is pure bliss, pure relief, perfection unlike anything I’ve felt in so long.

  And then we start to move, my cock stroking deep inside her. Deeper, deeper, as our eyes meet and hold and fucking becomes something more. Something true and right and so intense that by the time we finally reach the edge together I can barely breathe. My lungs are locked tight, and my heart is pounding, and I’m so lost in Laura that all I can do is wrap my arms around her and wait for the world to stop spinning and my soul to slip back into my skin.

  It’s that moment—the moment when I realized that I was making love to Laura, not just fucking away the loneliness—that pulses through my mind again and again, inspiring an erection so intense that, after I pull into Steve and Angie’s driveway, I have to take a moment to talk myself down before I get out of the truck.

  Fuck. What the hell is wrong with me?

  This is the house where I used to spend holidays with my wife and my newborn child. And while I know that it’s healthy, even necessary, to move on after loss, and three years is probably more than sufficient time to wait before starting a new relationship, that isn’t what’s happening here.

  What’s happening is that I’ve got a completely inappropriate hard-on for the friend who agreed to help me fool my in-laws, deceiving them into backing off and leaving me be. A friend who clearly has no interest in letting me close to her body again, let alone her heart.

  Which means I need to get my head on straight and stop dwelling on the past.

  Exhaling with the same intensity as that moment before I take to the ice for a game, I push out of the Cruiser, waving at Steve and Angie, who are already halfway down the drive.

  “Hello, hello!” Angie, looking like the consummate grandma in a poinsettia sweater and khakis, topped by a “Gimme Some Sugar” apron the same gray as her shoulder-length hair, holds out both arms, aiming her slim body at Laura, who smiles widely and leans down to accept a way-too-enthusiastic hug. “You must be Laura, we’re so pleased to meet you! And you’re so beautiful! Look, Steve, look how beautiful she is.”

  “Beautiful,” Steve echoes, reaching out to pat me on the back as he meets me at the rear of the truck. “We appreciate redheads around here.”

  “I had red hair when I was younger,” Angie confides with a laugh.

  “And I’m a redhead,” Chloe crows, running past Angie into the house. “Come on, Laura, come see my toys!”

  “She’ll be there in just a second,” Angie calls over her shoulder. “Don’t rush us. We need to say a proper hello.” She turns back, beaming up at Laura as she takes her hand and pats it like a beloved pet, overdoing it every bit as much as I feared she would.

  But at least Laura should be prepared. I warned her before we left the tourism center that my in-laws are genuinely effusive people.

  “Now, tell me all about yourself,” A
ngie continues. “Brendan says you work for the Badgers. That must be so much fun. We love hockey. Catch a game at least four times a year, even though the drive home from the city at night isn’t Steve’s favorite. Brendan tries to get us to stay the night at his house, but I need my own bed. Can’t sleep a wink when I’m in a strange place.”

  “Unless it’s that fancy hotel they opened on the other side of the mountain.” Steve winks as he helps me pull the bags out of the back of the Cruiser.

  “Well, that’s another story,” Angie says with a guilty grin. “I do love a room with a mountain view. And room service for breakfast. Speaking of breakfast, have you all eaten? The turkey won’t be ready until two, but I’ve got quiche to warm up, or we could start the holiday off right with pie.”

  “We’ve eaten, but I’m sure Chloe will be up for pie.” Laura follows Angie up the walk. “She’s been bragging about her Gammy’s pies for weeks.”

  Angie nods seriously. “They really are quite good. I want us to be friends, Laura, so I won’t start things off on the wrong foot by being falsely modest about my pies.”

  Laura laughs. “Good. Why should women play down our accomplishments while men get to brag all they want?”

  Angie glances over her shoulder at me, her pale blue eyes widening with excitement. “Oh, Brendan. I love her already.” She hooks her arm through Laura’s. “So, which do you want to try first, sweetheart? My award-winning double-dark-chocolate coconut pie, the raspberry cream, or something more traditional, like pumpkin or apple?”

  The women disappear into the house. I’m about to start up the walk after them, when Steve puts a hand on my shoulder again.

  “Thanks for this, son. Angie’s been over the moon since you called yesterday,” he says, his gaze misty behind his wire-rimmed glasses. “I know it might feel strange to be here with someone other than Mary, but this is going to be good. For everyone. And it’s what Mary would have wanted. As her dad, there’s no doubt in my mind about that. From the time she was a tiny thing, she had the sweetest, most generous heart.”

  My throat goes tight, and a familiar wave of grief washes into my chest—soft, like the tide rolling in, not the tsunami of pain that used to hit, hard and without warning, in the early days after the accident, but still potent.

  I still miss her.

  I’m not sure I’m ready to move on, no matter what my in-laws, my friends, or my cock have to say about it. I care about Laura, and I want to fuck her with the desperation of a man who’s been deprived of the comfort and release of sexual intimacy for over three years, but I’m not ready to fall in love again.

  Make love, yes, but everything that goes with it—no. Hell no.

  That certainty makes it easier to force a smile for Steve and say, “Thanks. I’m glad you guys are getting to meet Laura. She’s something special.”

  And she is. She’s sexy, fun, passionate, and great with kids, and I’m sure someday she’ll make the right guy very happy. But that guy won’t be me. She deserves to date someone whole and capable of making her dreams comes true, not a fractured man who might never fully recover from losing the woman he promised to love and cherish.

  Promises like that aren’t intended to be easily broken. Maybe for most people, death makes moving on easier, but that hasn’t been the case for me.

  And I can’t be anyone but who I am, no matter how many people—including myself—wish I were someone else.

  Chapter Eight

  Brendan

  Inside the house, the smell of roasting turkey mingles with the fragrance of homemade bread, cookies, and rows of pies set out to cool on racks near the oven. The second I step through the door, my mouth starts to water, and by the time I’ve dropped Laura’s suitcase and my bag in our room and unpacked Chloe’s things in hers, my stomach is growling loud enough to be audible over the chatter in the kitchen.

  “Oh, my. I heard that.” Angie laughs as she turns away from the island, where Chloe and Laura are sitting bent over a book, in front of their already empty pie plates. “I’m guessing you’re ready for pie now, too. Raspberry or coconut? I know you have no patience for pumpkin.”

  “I have patience for it, I just don’t enjoy it,” I say, smiling as I see what Laura and Chloe are looking at. “Raspberry for me, please.”

  “Coming right up.” Angie bustles over to the cabinet to grab a plate, while I circle around the pair of redheads bent over Chloe’s baby book.

  No matter how many times Chloe pages through the thing, she never gets tired of seeing pictures of herself as a baby. And honestly, neither do I.

  “And this is when I had my first bath in the sink.” Chloe grins up at Laura as she adds in a whisper, “Now you’ve seen me naked!”

  Laura smiles. “That’s okay. We’re both girls. And you were just a baby.”

  “The prettiest baby,” I add in a sappy voice, because I know it will bug Chloe.

  On cue, she turns to poke me in the stomach and says, “Dad, stop!”

  I grin. “But it’s true. You were the prettiest baby I’ve ever seen. Though you looked nothing like your mom or me.”

  Chloe points to the next page and a picture of Maryanne laughing as baby Chloe splashes water on her T-shirt. “That’s my mom. She had brown hair and Dad had blond when he was a baby. I take after Gammy.”

  “You do,” Angie says proudly, sliding my pie across the island to the place at the empty stool next to Laura’s.

  “But you’ve got your daddy’s eyes,” Laura says, surprising me.

  “Yep.” Chloe leans forward, grinning at me, a wicked dimple popping in her cheek so I know the usual joke is coming. “Which is way better than his big old butt!”

  Laura laughs as Angie shakes her head and clucks her tongue. “Oh, stop it. You’re going to embarrass your dad.”

  Chloe wiggles happily on her stool, enjoying messing with me as much as she always does when she has an audience. “But he does have a big butt.”

  “His butt is perfectly proportionate to the rest of him,” Laura says, defending me again, which is both endearing and embarrassing. Because we’re talking about my butt in front of my daughter and my mother-in-law, and I’m not sure what it says about my parenting skills that I need defending from my seven-year-old.

  “You’re just being nice,” Chloe says, giggling. “That butt is out there!”

  “Okay, okay,” I cut in as I reach for the whipped cream can. “Enough butt talk. Unless we’re talking about the bare baby butt on the next page.”

  Chloe slaps a hand down on the book. “No way! I don’t—”

  She’s cut off by a growl from Fluffster, Angie’s West Highland terrier, as he bounds into the breakfast room behind us, deep in battle with the toy of the week. Around the Gibbons’ house, toys rarely last longer than five or six days. Fluffster is a dainty ball of white fluff—hence the name—but he goes into beast mode with his toys. I’ve seen more stuffed raccoons and giraffes ripped limb from limb than I can count.

  I turn, expecting to see something stuffed and missing an eye or a leg, but I can’t immediately peg what kind of toy he’s got locked in his jaws this time. It takes me a moment to identify the nature of that floppy rubber disc, but by that time, Laura is already flying off her stool and lunging for the floor.

  Angie’s hand flies to cover her mouth as Laura begs in a strained tone, “Okay, puppy, give that back!”

  She reaches for the diaphragm Fluffster must have liberated from the purse she left on the floor in our room—I should have warned her about the dog, dammit—but the little monster bounds away, clearly thinking it’s playtime. He shakes his head, sending the contraceptive flopping dramatically.

  “Fluffster, stop it right now,” Angie orders firmly. “Put that down.”

  “Here, I’ll help,” Chloe says, spinning on her stool.

  Before she can hop down, Angie, Laura, and I all shout, “No, Chloe!” in one jointly horrified voice.

 
But Laura is clearly the most mortified. Her face is flushed a pink so bright it looks like she let Chloe do her makeup again, and the horror in her voice as she crawls forward on all fours, cooing, “Come here, Fluffster. Come here boy. Come here and give me that toy,” is enough to make me want to melt through the floor, and I’m not the kind who’s easily embarrassed.

  But then I’ve never had the dog drag one of my condoms out for show and tell in front of the family, either.

  Finally, Laura manages to get hold of one end of the disc, but Fluffster isn’t the kind of dog who gives up without a fight. The battle for the birth control goes on for another endless minute, as Chloe repeatedly asks “What is that?” in a high-pitched voice, Angie covers her mouth with both hands, and I try to figure out what would be the best way to help Laura—getting down on the floor to aid in the fight, or staying where I am so she’s the only one with her hands on her…ahem…very personal property.

  Before I can make a final call, Laura tugs the diaphragm from the dog’s mouth and stands up, breath rushing out as she holds it over her head, out of reach of the dog who is leaping up and down, clearly determined to get his teeth back on the toy and keep the good times rolling.

  “Okay, so that happened.” She glances around the room, carefully avoiding making eye contact. “I’ll just dispose of this, dig a hole, and hide there for a few thousand years. Be right back.”

  I stand with my napkin in hand, ready to help conceal the evidence of Fluffster’s crime, but before I can cross the room, Laura makes a break for the sliding glass door leading to the patio and the backyard beyond. She slips swiftly out through a gap and closes it just as quickly, trapping an unhappy Fluffster inside the house as he tries to follow.

  I turn back to Angie, but before I can ask her to keep Chloe inside, she waves in a shooing motion “Go! Let her know there’s no reason to be embarrassed. Chloe and I will stay here and get the salad ready for later.”

  “Why should she be embarrassed?” I hear Chloe ask as I hurry for the door.