Chapter Two #2
Nose crinkled beneath the silver arch of his glasses, Walker sets his paper down gingerly next to his empty mug. “But it’s always such a mess. We wind up finding trash for months stuffed into random corners. I’m not sure I want to deep steam the carpets again.”
I don’t know how he doesn’t see the thin ice he’s treading across. Mom’s entire demeanor has shifted. Her chin has tilted, slitting her eyes and there’s a thin pinch in her lips that has me shifting in my seat, bumping into Dominic.
The man in question cocks his head in my direction. His warm, watchful gaze searches my face and I quickly look away.
Try to.
A warm, sturdy palm settles along my lower back. Steady and grounding. It burns through the thin fabric separating us to scorch skin. Mom is forgotten as I face the man watching me like he can see straight through into my soul at all the broken pieces.
“We can move the gathering,” Mom retorts with brittle edges.
“I only spent two months preparing and getting everything organized.” Her apron is snapped off with sharp tugs and tossed on the opposite counter.
“But if you’d rather someone else take over, I can get some reading done.
I’ll just throw everything in the trash and—”
“That isn’t what I meant,” Walker cuts in with a calmness that contradicts the annoyance in his eyes. “I simply said I didn’t want it held here at the house.”
“If not here, then where would you like it?” Mom shoots back, arms folding.
Walker shrugs, reaching up and dragging off his glasses. “Anywhere.”
“What about the cabin?” Jacob interjects. “It hasn’t been used in a while.”
The rest of the conversation drifts away as I find myself caught in Nicolas’s silver gaze. I expect annoyance that his boyfriend is touching me. Jealousy even. But there’s only a quiet contemplation that tells me nothing.
“If that’s what everyone wants,” Mom gripes, moving to reclaim her apron. “I just wish people respected me enough to see the effort I put into everything I do for this family.” The strings are pulled and knotted at her lower back. “Some can’t even be bothered to come down in proper clothes.”
It doesn’t take a degree in rocket science to acknowledge that I’m the culprit. I’m the only one in pajamas. Technically, they’re loose cotton slacks and a tank, but I sleep in them.
“I don’t think that should count against a person.” Dom shifts in his seat. His hand slips off my back, leaving a chill that makes me want to lean back into him. “It’s the holidays. If it wasn’t so cold in the morning, I’d be sitting here in my jammies, too.”
Nicolas takes a long, greedy sip, scowls down into his cup and mutters, “You don’t wear jammies.”
Dom smirks. “Would make for a great conversation starter.”
Despite the embarrassment warming my cheeks, I chuckle, earning a wink from the man next to me that makes my cheeks prickle. But it’s the distraction Mom needs to forget about me and focus on them.
“Are you cold in the morning?”
Walker sighs and pushes his glasses back over his eyes. “I spent a second mortgage building and insulating that guesthouse that only gets used once every two years. I’m sure they’re fine.”
No longer the center of Mom’s focus, I slip off the stool, careful not to touch Dominic on my way down.
I tell myself I’m not running. I’m just removing myself from further humiliation and scrutiny, but I know that’s a lie.
My goal is to escape. It’s what I’m good at. No one can outrun their mistakes the way I can. My entire life is an example of it.
But reality is a different beast. Leaving is only simple if I commit to never coming back. Running days before Christmas with zero explanation will get me murdered. As much as my feet itch to hit pavement, I know that can’t be the case. I need to bide my time. Have to wait and somehow survive.
Maybe this is a good time to stop being a sick fuck, the voice offers helpfully.
It’s not wrong.
I’m in this mess because I was doing something I shouldn’t. There’s no one to blame but myself. Still, I know to the very core of my being that I would go back tonight if I thought I’d get another chance to watch them.
I reach the doorway leading out into the hallway when Mom notices my escape.
“Isla? Where are you headed?”
At the center of attention with all heads turning in my direction, I freeze. Walker and Jacob are one thing, but being the focal point for Nicolas and Dominic is a different matter. Their attention is the equivalent of going to school naked.
“Nowhere?” I don’t know why that came out as a question, but Mom has stopped listening anyway.
“Nicky sweetie, do you boys need any more towels? I did a load this morning. I can run some fresh ones over.”
They are distracted and I take the opening to bolt.
I rush up the stairs to what used to be my room before it was changed into a guestroom.
Not even my bed survived the alteration.
The simple green and navy color scheme I had has been reverted to gold and white.
I am warned upon every visit not to use the fancy towels or the tiny soaps in the bathroom.
And I have to make sure I grab everything before I leave so Mom can sanitize the room like I’m some bacteria she needs to cleanse from her life.
In response, I’ve kept all my belongings in my duffle, including my toiletries. The only item left out in the open is my phone cord. I know myself well enough to know I will forget things and the thought of a thirty-page text stresses me out.
I take my time showering and picking clothes for the day. I doubt I’ll be going anywhere, but I can’t stay in my sleeping slacks and tank top. Not without Mom’s commentary about my laziness.
Naked, I stand a moment to survey the sight I make in front of the mirror.
I finger a coil of damp ebony curl resting on my shoulder.
It’s the only thing I got from my mother.
.. before she dyed her hair several tones lighter, nearly white.
My soft, brown eyes are from my dad, also the only thing I got from him.
The rest of me, my chin, jaw and oval features are all thanks to Dad’s mom.
As a child, before she passed, she’d tease me that I looked more like her than any of her children ever did, which I love because Grandma was a knockout in her youth.
Not saying I am, but I’m a reasonable amount of pretty.
Average even, but I’m not bothered by it.
I let my gaze drift downward. I trace the full weight of my breasts, the nipples pink, down to my small sex lips. But as always, I’m back at my chest.
I love my breasts.
I love the soft pink nipples. Love playing with them until I’m too sensitive to take any more. I love having them sucked and teased and nibbled on while I’m on top. Nothing gets my pussy wetter than riding a cock while they torture my breasts.
If they’re not red, swollen and tender, it’s not done right. It’s not enough.
Lazily, I cup them in both palms and sweep the peaks under my thumbs. I roll them and watch in the glass as they harden to responsive points. Perfect nubs to pinch and tug.
I stifle my moan and tug harder. I twist and shudder as the sweet ache pools at my center. Cumming twice already means nothing as I get myself prepped for round three.
I love sex.
I love the feel of skin rubbing, hands and mouths exploring.
I love that initial stretch right before I’m filled.
I love a man who does not care about being gentle.
A man who will toss me around, hold me down and take what he wants without apology.
I want him to be filthy, demanding and insane with the thought of just getting inside me.
It’s a tall list when every guy I’ve been with has fallen short. I can’t even be mad when my expectations for a good railing are so high, but they did their best. Ultimately, not getting enough sex was never the reason the relationships didn’t work out.
I’ve had three solid relationships. Each one, obliterated by me and every time, I tell myself maybe I need to stop trying.
And every time, I don’t want to be alone so I try again.
I’m always careful when I let another man into my life and never sleep with any of them on the first date.
I don’t like hooking up or one-night stands.
I love sex, but I want a person. A whole, full, grown ass man who will do all the other stuff like watch movies, attend family holidays, create a godawful mess in the kitchen trying to recreate a recipe together. I want all the emotional connections.
If only I knew what that meant.
They always end because of me. Because I know I’m never enough and they are always more than I deserve.
It’s fine though. Some people get to find the love of their life, like Nicolas and Dominic. Some, like me, don’t. People like me get to watch those people from a safe distance and live vicariously through them.
I blow out a long, accepting breath and peer back up into the eyes of the girl watching me with resignation.
“You have no one to blame but yourself,” I tell her. “You just can’t keep it together.”
Hollow to the pit of my stomach, I turn away from the gnawing truth glaring back from a spotless mirror and move to the bed. To my open bag with my clothes neatly folded on top.
I picked light things. The house is always an oven when Mom’s baking. It’s worse when she’s cooking at the same time. Plus, with the heat blaring through every room, anything else will only have me sweating through the layers.
Light and simple. Nothing that will upset Mom but won’t have me dying.
I scoop the articles up and pause, gaze fixed on the black microfiber bag nestled amongst my undergarments.
My brain tells me I don’t have enough time, but my body needs it. Needs the distraction. The release. For a second, I need to feel... just feel... something.
Seven inches of perfection. Smooth with a fat head and bendable center. It’s been my tried and true for three years and multiple times a day.