Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
I got into my house and threw my bag down on the couch with angry force.
Then, for good measure, I belted out a loud “FUCK!” to the ceiling.
She was right.
Of course she was.
This was bigger than any “crush” I may have on her.
We had to think about Kira. We had to think about the bigger picture.
She also never confirmed whether she felt the same way. All she did was tell me that the way we were acting and my flirting had to stop.
I needed to make things right on Christmas. I needed to go there, grateful for the invite, but with nothing more than gratitude in my mind and heart.
I had three days to shake my feelings for Greta.
You’ve been in love with her since you were fifteen. You really think you’ll be able to quit in three days?
No, but I had to try.
Peeling off my wet clothes, I headed to my bathroom.
Since moving back home, my mom gave me basically the entire basement to myself. I had my own bathroom, my own living room, and even a mini-fridge. I kept weird hours and was barely home, so it was just easier than constantly waking her up or disturbing her when I came and went.
I turned on the shower, giving it a moment to heat up, and stared at myself in the vanity mirror. “Get your shit together, George. She’s off-limits.”
As if liking the challenge and taboo nature of it all, my dick started to thicken.
Fucking hell.
Of course it did. Because the idea of sneaking around with Greta, when the odds were monstrously stacked against us, did nothing but turn me on.
Fuck.
I stepped under the warm spray and let the water sluice down my body and over my face.
“I’m twelve years older than you.” Her words echoed in my mind.
I didn’t fucking care if we were forty years apart. I still wanted her. I was still madly attracted to her. With age came wisdom. With age came experience. With age came knowing what the fuck you wanted, and not being all wishy-washy.
Not that they had to have their lives all figured out, but girls my age just didn’t do it for me. They were flighty and flaky, and a lot of them were vain and obsessed with their number of followers. I couldn’t give two shits about any of that stuff.
Taking my cock in my hand, I began to stroke myself.
I closed my eyes and pictured Greta pushing open the glass shower door and stepping into the steam with me.
Her wild, dark, curly hair piled high on her head, and her blue eyes hooded with lust. A small, playful smile curled her lips, and she ate up the distance between us, pressing her breasts to my chest and reaching lower to take my shaft in her hand and continue stroking me.
She bit my chin, and I growled, grabbing her by the back of the neck and pushing her up against the tile wall, claiming her mouth as mine. Her moan made my cock grow even harder in her palm, and I thrust forward, revelling in her strokes, in the way I fit perfectly into her palm.
Reaching up with one hand, I cupped her breast, rolling the peaked tip between my thumb and forefinger until she gasped. Smiling, I deepened the kiss, sweeping my tongue into her mouth, exploring.
She met my tongue with her own, tangling and massaging.
Another moan vibrated through her, pulling out one from me as well.
She rode my thigh now, stroking me with her hand while using my leg to pleasure herself.
If there weren’t such a height disparity between us, I’d reach my hand between her legs and get her off myself.
But I was also A-okay with her using my leg. I’d take care of her in a minute.
She picked up momentum, squeezing the crown just a little, bringing all the blood to the head. I was already close. So fucking close. I couldn’t wait until she let me come down her throat. I’d take a mental screenshot of her on her knees with my cock in her mouth, and hold on to it forever.
“Deacon,” she moaned, breaking the kiss. I trailed my mouth across her cheek, jaw and neck, biting her shoulder.
“Greta,” I murmured.
“Oh, Deacon.” Her hand picked up speed again.
I was going to come.
I was going to come so fucking hard.
“Deacon!” She rode my thigh harder and faster, using me like a ride ‘em bull in a country bar. I fucking loved it.
Heat built in my lower belly, my balls cinched up tight against my taint, my brain went all fuzzy and … I fucking exploded.
All over the shower wall, her belly, the glass door and the tile floor, my cum spurted out thick and ropey, painting everything in its path.
I exhaled in relief, the echoes of my release making me shudder a little and slump against the wall. I opened my eyes and … I was alone.
Of course, I was alone.
It’d all been a fucking fantasy.
A really vivid, really sexy fantasy. One I’d had some iterations of many times before. And yet, tonight felt more realistic than ever. A small part of me really thought she was here. I could feel her heat on my thigh from where she rode me. But it was all just a mind-fuck.
How did I ever expect to fall out of love with Greta Robinson in three days?
I guess I’d just have to pretend and hope for the best.
Worst-case scenario, I sit at home on Christmas and eat a massive pot of mashed potatoes and steak and beat off to my fantasy of her, while she sits mashed potato-less at home with Kira.
Yeah … nobody deserved to go without mashed potatoes on Christmas.
I guess I needed to just suck it up and pretend.
Not that I’d ever been very good at it, but I’d try. For Kira, for Greta, I’d try.
* * *
“Mom! Deacon’s here!” Kira shouted when I showed up on their doorstep the evening of December twenty-fifth.
Greta came scuffing in her slippers around the corner to the front door, wearing a cute—but also sexy—holly berry-covered apron. “Merry Christmas, Deacon. We’re glad you could join us.”
I smiled at her, hoping it was warm enough she didn’t think I was being weird or awkward. “Thank you for having me.”
“Of course, of course,” she said, waving her hand in dismissal of my gratitude, like hosting me was no big deal and wasn’t going to be weird at all. “Kira, can you grab the mashed potatoes from Deacon so he can remove his coat and boots, please?”
Kira nodded and retrieved my mother’s big orange Le Creuset cast-iron pot from me, making a little grunt of a noise when she realized how heavy it was. “What’s in this? Rocks?”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s an old family recipe.”
She snorted and stuck her tongue out at me before taking the pot into the kitchen.
“Uh, this is for you,” I said, handing Greta the bottle of wine. “As requested.”
Smiling, she accepted it from me. “Thank you. I trust you drove here?”
“I did. I do as I’m told. No walking or bussing for me today. Promise.”
She nodded. “Good. How are the roads?”
“Not great, I’ll admit,” I said. “It was getting pretty dicey when I left the liquor store—because of course I left getting the wine to the last minute.” I rolled my eyes at my own procrastination and followed her into the kitchen, where the action was happening.
The table was set for three with festive placemats, candles and cloth napkins.
There were three wine glasses out as well.
The mouth-watering scent of turkey filled the air, and my belly rumbled.
“Did you at least chat with your parents and brother today?” Greta asked, pulling a foil-covered dish out of the oven and checking under the foil to see if it was cooked.
“I video chatted with my brother earlier today, and with my mom. I spoke with my dad last night, since it was already Christmas in Thailand. Brandi says hello by the way.”
Greta snorted. “Hi Brandi.” She opened up a cupboard and pointed to the top shelf. “You’re not here just as company. We needed a giraffe to grab stuff, too. Reach that decanter up there, will you, please?”
Chuckling, I stepped forward, but not until Greta made sure she was well out of the way. No risk of us touching or being in the same breathing space. I reached up and pulled down the crystal decanter from the shelf, placing it on the counter. “How’d you get it up there?”
“Stepladder,” she said. “I figure a nice bottle of wine like the one you brought needs to breathe. This stuff I buy from the store—”
“She nearly drinks straight from the bottle,” Kira interjected, earning a shocked look from her mother. The twelve-year-old cheeky child started laughing. “Just kidding!”
“Just for that, young lady, you can have grape juice,” Greta retorted.
Kira snickered. “You already gave me Carolans in my tea this morning.”
Greta rolled her eyes. “Yeah, there’s no prohibition in this house.”
She opened the wine and emptied it into the decanter. “Where is the cruise your mom and aunt are on?”
“Caribbean,” I answered. “She’s never been, so this was a pretty big and exciting trip for her. They’ve got like eight different port stops.”
“Oh, that’ll be fun. I got my scuba diving certification in St. Lucia back in the day when life was simpler.”
“You mean before you had the responsibility of a child?” Kira added.
“Yeah,” Greta said simply. “Life was simpler before I had you. Not gonna lie about that.”
Kira made a pretend and playful sneer at her mother before popping an olive into her mouth from the pickle and olive tray on the counter.
Even though they were sort of arguing, I could tell it was all in jest. They said it all with love in their eyes and smiles on their faces.
There was a strong mother-daughter bond here that I appreciated, and certainly didn’t want to come between.
Greta was doing her very best to give her daughter a good life after the bombshell Damien dropped on them.
And from what I could see, Kira was thriving.
Greta was an incredibly strong, capable and caring mother.
“How long do we need to let it breathe?” Greta asked, eyeing the wine.
I chuckled. “You’re asking the wrong person. I usually drink beer if I drink anything.”
“Oh shit! I should have picked up some beer. I’m sorry.”