Chapter 27
Arthur Kraut might not be the life of the party, but he’s not a recluse either.
I find this out when he comes to stand in front of me while I’m buried in schoolwork on the couch.
“You mind if I have people over?”
I shove errant curls out of my face as I stare up at the towering man. This close, it’s like trying to spy the top of a mountain.
“It’s your house. I’m just squatting here.” Not technically true.
The first of the month, I gave him a check for rent. He grumbled something inaudible and tried to give me back the money, but I reminded him I got a housing stipend from the military while utilizing the GI Bill to attend college classes, and it would be dishonest to not spend the money on housing—even though I definitely have in the past, but Arthur doesn’t need to know that. Then, I said if he felt weird about taking the money, he could spend it on a pillow topper for the concrete-block mattress.
The next day, I walked into my bedroom to find a cushy new covering waiting for me.
I wouldn’t impose upon Arthur if finding rentals in Green Valley wasn’t so rough. This town is getting more popular, which means more out-of-towners are settling here and scooping up what few rentals there are. Leaving no escape for me.
Thankfully, my name is not on the title of the house Daren bought. We agreed that I would cover utilities and groceries while he handled the mortgage.
“You live here,” Arthur says. “And you’re studying.”
“I need a break.” I stretch my arms over my head, letting out a groan when my spine cracks.
Arthur steps back, shoving his hands in his pockets. “You don’t mind?”
“Nope.” I stick my highlighter in my textbook and shut it, saving the page.
At last week’s Cheated On-Onymous meeting, I realized it felt good to talk to people. Not even about the breakup. Just having a casual get-to-know-you-better chat. Since the end of my relationship, I’ve mainly stuck around Arthur’s house unless I’m going to work. The stoic postman makes it easy to just be. The lack of social pressure is nice. Daren was big into going out every weekend, which I’m only now realizing was more than I’d opt for on my own.
But now I can’t remember the last time I changed my hearing aid battery—that’s how little I’ve used it.
I don’t want to become a hermit. I need balance. “Is this an exclusive group of friends, or am I allowed to join?”
The big man’s beard twitches, a sure sign he’s on the verge of smiling. “Mostly postal people. We gonna bore you?”
“Gwen and the gang? Sounds like fun. I’ll bring my stamp collection.” Should probably start working on one of those to maintain the support group’s cover. I was told the secret code for joining was to show up at the library with a book on philately. I had no idea what philately was, but of course Arthur, the postman, did. Now I guess I have to feign an interest in stamps so I can keep the support group a secret.
Pondering the people about to fill Arthur’s house, I remember who else works at the post office and what I said about him. Mortified, I pop out of my seat and grab Arthur’s shirtfront. “You didn’t tell Lance I said he was short, did you? Because some guys think it’s an insult, but I swear it wasn’t. Short kings can get it.”
Arthur’s brows dip. “No.”
“Do you mean, no, you didn’t tell him? Or, no, short kings can’t get it? Because if it’s the second, I can assure you, they can. The best sex of my life to date was with a jockey I met in Knoxville. I don’t know if riding horses means you know how to ride everything well, but he literally got me to come five times in one night.”
Never mentioned that fun past-sex-life fact to Daren.
Maybe I should . . .
Arthur clears his throat, and the sparkle of suppressed humor is gone. “No, I didn’t tell him.”
I sigh in relief. “Good. Great. Because Lance is a hottie, and I don’t want him thinking I think otherwise. Oh, one more thing.” I spring upward, wrapping my arms around the mountain of a man, and yell, “Kiss attack!” before mashing my mouth against his.
This is my new technique for kissing training. Utilizing the element of surprise so Arthur has no time to overthink what’s happening and stiffen up.
At least, that was my logic. Doesn’t always work. Like yesterday, when I misjudged the distance and almost chipped a tooth on his nose.
But today, my aim is true, and our mouths meet.
Arthur goes still in surprise, and I almost count this as another failed experiment.
But then his arms wrap around my waist and heave me higher until our faces are level. A tension lingers in his body, but with each press of my lips against his, I can feel his mouth softening. His beard brushes my cheeks, and I want to knock off his baseball hat and twine my fingers in his soft hair. To free up my hands to do so, I wrap my legs around his waist.
Arthur, the cheeky minx, cups my ass, providing the perfect seat.
The student is learning.
Fully supported, I flick his hat to the floor, allowing the wild mass of his hair free. Then, I take my time, like I did in the chair, showing Arthur how he should relax his mouth, guiding him with teasing licks and gentle nips.
A happy noise hums between us, and I realize it’s coming from my throat. It was a stressful day on the job, working across from Thomas, and the moment I arrived at home, I dived into two straight hours of studying.
This though . . . this is relaxing. Stress-relieving. Muscle-melting.
Then, Arthur unceremoniously unhooks my legs and drops me on the couch. I’m still bouncing on the springy cushions as he disappears up the stairs.
“Good work!” I call after him. “Five gold stars!”
There’s no response, but I don’t take it personally. Pretty sure the stirring I felt between us is what sent the guy running. If Arthur wants to stop our practice whenever he gets hard, then that’s a boundary I won’t push him on.
But I can’t help wondering what kind of sex Arthur has had to date.
And if there’s anything I could teach him.
Like . . . could he beat a jockey?