Chapter 5
Tuck
One second, I’m watching Pen’s rhythmic hip sway; the next, I’m face-to-face with the bald spot of some guy barging out of the second-to-last row.
Damn it. Pen disappears into the left-hand bathroom, and I get stuck behind Baldy. This is…awkward. I try to play it cool, but the thought of Pen waiting for me just behind that folding door sparks a growing urgency, making me shift uncomfortably.
He must sense it because he glances back at me as a muffled flush echoes from the right. When the door swings open and a young guy in a hoodie steps out, trailing headphone cords, Baldy hesitates.
“Er, maybe you were next?” he says in a thick accent I can’t quite pick.
“No, uh—I’m, er, waiting for my…wife. Yeah, you know, she’s got the…dental floss?” I mime the flossing action and point to the door. He stares at me, thoroughly confused.
“Okay,” he says finally, nodding to the vacant stall. “I will…?”
“Yes, yes! Go ahead—” I gesture hurriedly.
He enters, casting me one last look as I offer an encouraging smile. Then, I quickly rap on Pen’s door. She peeks out, pulls it open, and I squeeze into the cramped space beside her.
Cramped? It’s more like performing a full-body origami challenge.
We’re pressed together with no room to lift an elbow. Though with her tits planted firmly into my chest, I’m not complaining.
Pen, however, doesn’t hold back. “Huh. Why the hell are you so tall and bulky?”
“Why’s this space the size of a dishwasher?” I return.
“ Quick —it has to be quick, Tuck,” she murmurs urgently, her hands already working on my pants.
“Oh, so no pressure?” I say, eyeing the closeness of the walls and trying to strategize positions.
“What do you need?” she breathes huskily. “Tuck, I want your big, thick cock inside me, I’m so wet for you—”
She breaks off abruptly. “Oh, you actually don’t need any help…”
“I was there the moment I saw your ass in this—is this a wrap skirt?” I slide my hand through a panel to discover the soft warmth of her bare thigh. “Nice design. What’s the fabric—linen?”
Pen gasps as I breach the barrier of her panties to her slick wetness. “Seriously? Do you know how many pesticides are used in producing linen?” she scolds, her hands skimming mine as we attempt to hitch down her panties. “It’s hemp!”
“Source?” I shuffle sideways, steadying my feet alongside the toilet bowl as Penelope spins around, grasping the edge of the basin so that we’re angled diagonally.
“Colorado.” She tilts her perfect ass and widens her legs. “ Not China—”
“Of course,” I mumble as I consider the logistics of my approach, bending to a half-squat to fit in behind her. “Fuck this is tight.”
“Hmm, must be so hard for you,” she says with false pity. “Flying regional when you’re so used to business class, having to slum it with the masses.”
“Oh yeah, keep talking dirty, Pen. It always turns me on,” I joke.
A bout of turbulence hits and we almost unbalance, my shin banging the side of the bowl, my cock bouncing off Pen’s thigh.
“Wait—” I recalibrate my feet as she leans into the sink.
I grab hold of her hips, lifting her weight so that her ankle boots swing clear off the floor. The side of her head grazes the mirror.
“Shit—are you okay?”
“Yes!” she whispers. “Keep going!”
Somehow, our bodies come together like a contorted puzzle. I plunge into her heat, her tight cunt contracting around my cock. Then I brace again, gripping her ass, pulling her down onto me as I forcefully thrust my entry deeper.
Her skirt fabric falls over my forearm, and her cropped blouse rides up her waist, exposing the arch of her spine and expanse of her hips.
I pound faster, Pen’s breath fogging the mirror, the vanity unit moving dangerously against her superwoman grip. She bends her knees, spreading wider, giving a ragged gasp.
Her spasms vibrate against my dick. I pick up the rhythm.
Another round of gasps and curses, then Pen throws her head back. Her legs splay dangerously, and I get a hard boot to the inside of my elbow before her body sags with release.
The loudspeaker crackles, a disjointed voice talking of more turbulence. No shit—the turbulance is everywhere—inside me, climbing and rolling, every muscle trembling with exertion as the wave breaks.
I stagger a little as I lower Pen to the floor. Then, I get my bearings, discard the condom, and pull my pants up. Pen spins to kiss me hard on the lips, then immediately adjusts her clothing, smooths her hair, and checks her face.
I slip out first—and bonus—the announcement means everyone’s in their seats and there’s no line up to witness our bathroom hookup.
But just as I start down the aisle, I get wedged between the returning drink cart and a passenger’s rogue knee.
Pen steps out a moment later, polished as ever, and gives me a wicked little wink.
Then a voice, two rows down, pipes up—dry and amused.
“Ah, in my country, we do not say ‘to floss,’” he informs me gleefully. “We say: ‘to chase the squirrel.’” He flashes a knowing smile.
Pen frowns. “What does that even mean?”
“Just a cultural misunderstanding,” I say quickly, placing my hands on her shoulders and steering her toward our seats. “Best not to Google it.”
I’m grinning—not because of that bizarre squirrel comment, but because endorphins are still thrumming through my body like a natural high. One thing I can’t deny—Pen brings out an animal instinct in me that can’t be ignored.
In other parts of my life, my decisions are calculated and considered. But my compelling need to be around her? That’s compulsive, addictive, unshakable.
Anywhere, anytime, damn the consequences.
I can only assume we have that in common. It’s not like we ever talk about it. Why would I even try? I’ve seen how quickly she can retreat. Pen’s more cunning and resourceful than an alley cat when it comes to escaping what she doesn’t want to deal with.
Still, some things about her are hilariously predictable…
After we disembark and collect our bags, my one carry-on and her mountain of luggage, she volunteers to arrange the rental car. I get assigned coffee duty.
I grab sandwiches and a couple bottles of water from the chiller, and as I wait five deep in line to order the actual caffeine, my phone buzzes.
Pen: Help! I need your driver’s license. Send a pic?
Me: Thought you were driving…
Pen: Kind of misplaced mine
I sigh, dig out my wallet, juggling bottles and sandwiches, snap the photo, and hit send.
Ten seconds later—
Pen: Never mind! Found it. In my makeup bag
Yep. Chaos in a chic camel-leather coat. Organization has never exactly been Pen’s strong suit.
Which is why, halfway to Blue Mountain Lake, when she brings up Mia’s wedding dress again, I’m worried.
Apparently the dress design is set, the boning and beading details in play. But something in Pen’s energy is way off.
And I know Pen’s no procrastinator…but she can overwork her designs and second-guess herself to the maximum limit of schedules.
I press her for more details. “Er—you got a thorough brief from Mia, right?”
Pen gives me a sidelong glance as she changes gears. “Of course! That’s why I went back to basics. I even pulled out my old tech books on design. I realized I had to completely remove myself from the equation. Like, it’s not actually about me at all, is it?”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, Mia is the bride—it’s her day! I couldn’t approach this dress as I do my usual designs. This has to be deeply personal, right? Sure, Mia said I could let loose with my creativity and see what happens…but she also used words like ‘sensual’ and ‘nostalgic.’” Pen’s face twists like she’s tasted something bad.
She grips the wheel of the compact rental—a cherry-red Kia Soul with an interior that smells like synthetic lemon—shifting slightly in her seat as she focuses on the two-lane road ahead.
“And she specifically mentioned a ‘sweetheart neckline.’ Which makes sense—Mia’s got great tits,” Pen notes matter-of-factly.
The landscape opens up as we drive. The road flanked by endless green fields rolling out like patchwork quilts.
“So how far along is the actual production?”
“It’s practically done,” Pen’s voice wavers.
“Except?”
“Nothing, Tuck! It’s a perfectly acceptable, classic wedding dress, and seriously, Mia would make any dress look a million dollars, right?”
“Why are you so scared to put your stamp on it?”
Pen’s wide eyes flash white.
“Tuck—it’s not my thing! Where do I get off dabbling in romance and nostalgia and tradition? Huh ? What do I know about any of that! I’ve done the best I can. There’s nothing wrong with the design.”
“Sure. Except Mia asked you to design it, Pen. Which means she’s not after a generic wedding dress. And this is an opportunity for you to really showcase your unique talent. Why are you silencing yourself? Limiting yourself? Censoring who you are?”
We round a bend, and there it is—a symbol of our retreat from the city. A rusty green tractor lumbering along, a red triangle hazard sign bouncing on its back.
Pen groans, easing up on the gas.
She mutters something about tractors having no business on main roads as its massive wheels kick up dust.
We inch around the beast. Beyond it, the scenery expands—dotted with barns and silos, corn stalks rippling in the breeze—but that tranquility has zero effect on Pen’s emotions.
“What the fuck, Tuck? You think I’m censoring myself? I’m just trying to respect the damn tradition of all this wedding bullshit.”
“C’mon, Pen. You never fantasized about getting married?” I challenge. “Being in love, walking down the aisle, celebrating with your—” I quickly sidestep family . “Your closest people?”
Pen’s sarcasm is sharp. “Oh, sure. Like I imagined my alcoholic father walking me down the aisle. Or even entering a church after my grandmother told me we were going to hell—because, you know, I was born out of wedlock and all.”
“Pen—” I sigh.
“So, no, ” she barrels on. “Marriage never felt like something I should aspire to. And, besides, my relationships barely last a fashion season.”
“Well, that’s because you dump guys whenever things get serious,” I blurt.
Pen’s mouth drops open in full indignation. She slowly turns her head, and I brace for impact.
“You’re unbelievable, Tuck Allen. You do exactly the same thing. Are you really that immune to the impacts of your own behavior?”
“Stella and I were together three years,” I say defensively.
“Exactly. Because you’ve turbo-charged the seven-year itch into three.” Her smile is syrupy sweet. “You’ve done it with every girlfriend since high school. Think about it.”
I open my mouth to argue, but stop short. Damn. She might have a point.
“You’re a serial romancer who jumps ship the moment things heat up. In fact, I think you’re as allergic to commitment as I am. The difference is, you’re better at pretending. But the second they want more from you? Poof ! You’re gone.” Pen hooks her thumb toward the window.
All of a sudden, her exuberance melts away, and I follow her eyes to a giant signage board looming ahead.
“Welcome to Blue Mountain Lake
Where Nature Meets Adventure!
Est. 1878 | Elev. 2,400 ft | Pop. 6,610”
Penelope hits the indicator. “Shit. We’re here.”