Rootbound

Twenty-Nine

Tait

This becomes our routine for the next two and a half weeks. It’s eighteen days of golden hour.

Henry and I breakfast together at his place followed by him taking me somewhere for a few hours of shooting, each day with a new family member in tow—if not a few. Charlie and James alternate keeping the producer busy, and almost all of us manage to have dinner together every night. Emmaline retires before dinner on the days she hangs out, or comes for dinner on the nights that she doesn’t. Duane is notably absent from almost everything. We all complain under the heat, but thankfully the evenings and mornings get progressively cooler despite the afternoon’s refusal to relent.

The tension with Henry remains—I know he’s caught me letting out the odd sigh when he does something particularly forearm-y, and I’d be lying if I said I haven’t seen that jaw muscle tick whenever I wear my cutoffs, or feel his gaze when it wanders and lingers.

I’ve decided to let go of feeling suspicious of his kindness and have accepted his friendship with the view that goes with it. Every night, I make arrangements for whomever we plan to join or bring along the following day. It feels a bit like arranging for my own chaperones. And while each anecdotal story about him growing up lessens my resolve, I know that there was originally a good reason, at some point, to have needed those buffers.

On night one at the swimming hole, we start an ongoing game of Impossible Questions—sans the drinking and dares. I think we call it a game so we have an excuse to ask each other ridiculous questions, one-upping each other with their specificity. One of my personal favorite prompts comes from Henry; or rather, a radio show he heard once that asked listeners to design the seven circles of hell, made up of only inconveniences. So far, we’ve determined six, with some honorable mentions that we haven’t nailed down.

In no particular order:

1. Watching SPCA commercials on a loop.

2. Filling out those “I’m not a robot” picture grids online, when the traffic light/bicycle/crosswalk has a tiny corner in another square and you can’t tell if it counts or not.

3. Your car forever stuck next to a bad parker in the lot (apparently this is huge for Henry and happens a lot with his size. He often has to crawl through the passenger side).

4. Mosquito bites. Self-explanatory. An itch that can’t be scratched is the worst kind of torture, after all.

5. Autocorrect and “ducking” (it is NEVER ducking).

6. Forever getting the feeling of needing to sneeze, but losing it right before. This was my proudest contribution. He agreed this would be the most hellish misery we could come up with within these guidelines.

Honorable Mentions:

A) Ill-fitting shirts. Apparently, it’s hard for him to find shirts that are long enough, while wide enough on the shoulders, but not TOO wide for his trunk area. I think this is a Henry problem and not list-worthy. (Yes, yes… I did let loose a crack about how he could just go without, which earned me a wink that made me need to cross my legs aggressively.)

B) Working up the courage to kill a spider, only to miss it. Henry was disappointed in my fear of spiders, but promised to come relocate the beasts should I find any at my place during my stay.

At times, the questions turn more serious. He tells me about his mother’s passing and his dad’s incarceration—something he doesn’t seem to have much, if any, resentment about. When I comment on that, he says, “Why would I? I got to grow up here. I’ve had more opportunities and privileges than most people get in their entire lifetime.”

I want to remind him that letting go or setting aside something when he’s not actually done with it might not be good, but then I realize it’s different for him. He can’t do anything else about his dad, can’t form a new and better relationship with him when his father doesn’t even want one; when their relationship prior was, objectively, shit.

I also want to tell him that he doesn’t owe the Logans militant allegiance for his life. That he doesn’t owe Charlie his entire life. That if he wants to find his own thing, seek his own way, he can and should.…

But then the thought occurs to me that, when I did that, when I decided to go after something for just myself, it led to the dissolution of my marriage. I loathe myself for thinking it, because, logically, I know that’s not all there was to it. I know that Cole made his choices, knowingly. But those feelings and insecurities that I’ve smothered rear up, telling me that maybe if I’d finished nursing school, not sought a career with travel and adventure and art… a career to define myself by… maybe if I’d stayed the girl that I was when we married, who’d only wanted family, stability, and calm, then maybe he wouldn’t have fallen out of love with me.

Though, I don’t mourn it, I realize. I don’t wish it was any different, anymore. Henry’s done that for me.

The more morsels of information I get, the hungrier I am to know more about him—hell, about everyone.

I spend more time with Emma, and she brings me a series of articles she used to write for a local section of their newspaper. They were always about the ranch: the seasons, events they’d hosted here, recaps from town meetings, cattle and horses and even rodeos. I’m incredibly impressed with her writing—her ability to make even the mundane seem so interesting.

“Guess maybe the art genes run in the family, huh? Your photography is so good because you love it, too, you know,” she says.

But when it comes to Henry, I can’t seem to ask a weird enough, or random enough question, which he typically follows up with a more normal-adjacent one.

I think it’s on day four that I ask, “Who would you want to narrate your life in a movie?” To which he instantly replies, “Matthew McConaughey, you?”

“Leslie Jones. Do you want to work here forever?”

He quirks a brow at me, but responds in an obvious tone, “Yeah, I think I really do.”

He asks about Ava and Jack, and I ramble on story after story.

He doesn’t pry into my past, so I decide to leave his alone, still feeling a bit dirty for knowing the pieces that I do.

Game or not, it’s the most fun I’ve had in forever.

On day five, my cousin Lucy shows up, declaring that she is taking the remainder of the semester off. LeighAnn supports it without argument, and my warmth toward her increases anew. Having Lucy here is as close as it could feel to having Ava here with me. She’s a fast friend and ally, especially when it comes to ribbing Henry, and getting a rise out of Emmaline. She’s convinced everyone to throw us a joint birthday party in a few weeks, for which she’s booked a DJ, a full bar service, and a lighting company faster than I could say “whoa,” and has resumed planning on a level more suited to a wedding than a family barbecue.

On day six, Duane asks me:

“What is it about photography? Don’t get me wrong, your stuff is a different caliber, I’m sure, but isn’t everyone their own photographer these days?” He holds up his phone in explanation. Emmaline and Charlie throw him such venomous looks that I immediately go into peacekeeping mode, answering without considering being offended.

“I get what you mean. And I actually think the premise behind professional photos and taking a selfie on your phone is kinda the same. It’s wanting to stop time for a second and capture it, preserve it, make it something tangible. I guess for me… I’ve always felt a little like an observer. I think I’ve always been painfully aware of the fact that I’m not the main character?” I realize how bad that sounds, so I flail my hands and quickly continue, “Or at least, not the only character. What I mean by that is in no way belittling myself, but it’s made me feel very watchful of what’s around me, rather than always feeling like I’m the one being watched… if that makes sense.

“Taking a picture of something is my way of having my own bits and pieces of all kinds of things. And sure, it can make you cynical about lighting and angles and all that, but at its core it’s being able to notice and see something that might otherwise go unnoticed or unappreciated. I think having a camera in my hand lets me find even the most mundane, suburban existence beautiful. Even people’s daily grind and routines are beautiful, when you think about it; people just doing whatever it is they have to do to take care of themselves and each other, not for the recognition of it, just for what it is. We take pictures to preserve and stop time. So, I guess in a roundabout way, photography also helped me find myself, by shining a light on my own strengths and character. Pictures do a great job of making the ordinary come alive.”

Henry’s face is the first my eyes are pulled to, and I can’t interpret his expression.

Lucy, being a gem, cuts the tension with a resounding, “Fuuuuuuuccckkkkkk. Welp, I’m going to need to take pictures of everything, now.”

“How’d you get your ‘big break’ though?” Duane presses, finger quotes included.

“Luck, really. It was all luck.” I shrug.

I don’t miss the looks exchanged between Duane and Em again, and I feel bad for the man and the verbal whipping he’s sure to receive later.

That night, Charlie asks if he can give me a ride back to my place. When he drops me off, he reaches across the truck to grab my hand, and says, “I am so sorry that you had to grow up thinking that just because you were observant enough to see what other people needed, that it was your responsibility to be considerate of that, or to ever put yourself second, Tait. I hope you can… I hope you can see yourself through our eyes, sometime, and see how beautiful and incredible you are, and see how much you have to be proud of—not just your work, although you should be so damn proud of what you do, sweetheart—but be proud of yourself, of your life.”

In a wobbly voice, I say, “I really, truly am. I promise, Dad.”

On day nine, Henry introduces me to The Teskey Brothers, The New Basement Tapes, and vows to organize my music into appropriate playlists. I introduce him to Kacey Musgraves, 8 out of 10 Cats, and make him promise to watch Star Wars with me (since he has never seen a single movie). I talk too much about my air fryer.

For someone typically stingy with his words, I learn that he’s easy to get babbling when it comes to gardening, desserts, and music.

On day ten, he and Grady bring me to meet the llamas that they use to help carry out equipment on hunts, and I understand why loving the creatures damn near becomes a personality trait for some people. I even let Henry take a few photos of me with them when he asks. He surprises me when he does so using his phone.

We spend a few days dedicating photography to all the animals in residence, as well as the wild ones.

We finally see the wild horses.

We see herds of elk, wolves, even bighorn sheep out across the land.

When I cry watching a barn cat give birth to kittens, Henry asks me why I don’t have any pets. I brush it off with the explanation that I travel too much. When he continues to frown, I admit, “I look at dog shelters online when I’m back at home, every single day. It’s my ‘not porn.’”

His expression turns downright frightened. “Please unpack that sentence a bit for me, Tait.”

“Everyone has their ‘not porn’… a certain type of video or thing they have to look at online—something that’s not porn, but still addictive—because it makes them feel something. Like, videos of soldiers coming home and surprising their families, or pimple popping videos. I just don’t think it would be fair for me to do the rescuing if I’m going to turn around and leave all the time.”

On day twelve, I ask Henry what his favorite dessert is.

“I think it might be creme br?lée,” he says with a smirk, but before I can question him further, he asks me what my favorite show is, which leads to discovering our shared love of New Girl.

On day thirteen, Em asks me to go with her to the nursery to buy some plants for around the property for fall. When we get back to my place, she startles me by jabbing into the bottom of the plant with a pair of shears and slicing through the dirt and roots. At my dumbfounded expression, she explains:

“When you buy a new plant, you often have to cut the roots when it comes out of the pot. That way, when you put it into the ground, the roots will reach outward, and it will thrive. If you left it in that plastic pot, in that compacted shape it’s in, the roots would grow around and around in a tangled mass until it’d choke the life from itself. It would become too rootbound to grow.”

Cast and crew start arriving, with filming scheduled to start the following Monday. This is also when Charlie, James, and Henry are set to leave for ten days for a hunting trip.

I tell myself it will be good for me to have some distance from the attraction, to gather my wits like I haven’t been able to since arriving here. But the truth is, I’m not really fooling myself: I’ll miss him. I’ll miss Charlie and James, even. Charlie and I seem to understand one another now at least, and whenever certain comments trigger my resentment, he takes his lumps in stride.

It’s day sixteen that this cozy little slideshow of moments I’ve been mentally compiling (probably set to something by The Beatles, complete with snapshots and slow-mo clips, if we were to get specific) comes to a screeching, skittering halt.

It’s the first dinner that Henry and I are left to on our own. Everyone else has plans—something I did not account for when I made enough taco meat to feed twenty. I don’t know how to quantify portion sizes to begin with for cooking for more than one, but I stupidly assumed everyone would be free to join, being that it’s a Friday night, and with the birthday party coming up on Sunday. I’ve only just finished shredding the meat when Lucy’s text comes through.

Lucy: Sorry, meeting up with some friends in town tonight. Thanks for the invite, though!

Shit. I should just text Henry and tell him I’m not coming.

But, he was probably planning on tacos. I talked up my crockpot game already. It’d be an obvious cop-out at this point.

It’s fine. We manage just fine during breakfasts, after all, and we’ve had so many conversations where the others fade to the background, anyway. It really should not matter.

Still, my chest starts to hollow out and feel like a windy tunnel—of anxiety, nerves… excitement? This thing with us has begun to feel… inevitable.

My phone jolts on the counter and I jump, but answer when I see that it’s the man in question.

“Hey,” I say, overly bright, breathless.

“Hi. Just making sure you’re not going to come up with an excuse to cancel on me.” Even his stupid phone voice is full of that warm, deep timbre.

“What? Why would I do that?”

“Because you’ll actually be alone with me again.”

I suck in a deep breath, swallow. She must’ve let him know she was cancelling, too. “I’ll head over in a few.”

I hang up without a goodbye.

I take extra care with my appearance because damnit, if I’m going to be tortured, then so will he. I throw on my olive sundress because I like how it looks with my hair and skin tone. It’s a wrap style, with short sleeves and vines in a pattern all over. It’s a mid-maxi, but it opens up along the leg all the way above my mid-thigh, and the neckline is nice and deep. Sexy, yet understated. It wraps around my waist in the best spot.

It’s only when I get there and knock, crockpot tucked un-sexily under one arm (because how does one carry a crockpot without looking overly eager? Yes, this is how much I’ve worked myself up), that I realize the effort was futile compared to the raw sex appeal Henry has, without having to try.

He opens the door, looking freshly showered, in a solid black tee, soft looking jeans, and yes, his damn bare feet again. His beard/scruff combo looks like it’s been trimmed, but I thank Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and all their carpenter buddies that he didn’t cut it entirely.

I wonder what that little beard burn he left on my chest weeks ago would feel like on the inside of my thighs.…

Thankfully, his expression is also a bit wide-eyed, which gives me the confidence to stride in. He clears his throat behind me as I start setting things down and immediately go for a glass in the cupboard where I’ve learned he keeps them.

“New boots?” he asks, roughly. And I try not to squirm as I feel his eyes travel over me.

“Yeah, since you and LeighAnn have both pointed out that I needed some better shit kickers, I got them while I was out with Em.”

“Attagirl.”

Oh, fuck. I’m tempted to grab a tortilla from the package nearby and slap myself with it. An “attagirl” has me practically preening; I think one of my knees caves a little.

“Here, let me. Margarita?” He reaches to grab my glass from me as I turn around, unable to meet his eyes, yet.

“Y-yeah. That sounds perfect.” God, get a GRIP, WOMAN.

“Tait?” He waits until I finally look at him. “You look beautiful. I really like your dress.” He smiles. It’s not his full, crinkly one; this one is a little more searching, those gold eyes assessing.

His hair already looks longer than when I first got here, a piece falling forward to rest along his jaw. I reach up to tuck it behind his ear before I can think better of it.

“Thanks,” I say before grabbing my hand back with my other since she’s apparently gone rogue. I scuttle out of the kitchen and around the island to put something between us.

“Sleep Walk” by Santo & Johnny is playing from somewhere, and though the melody doesn’t take the sex out of the air, I desperately will it to calm my nerves.

He passes me my drink and says, “Question time?” Then, after I nod woodenly, “Why’d you get dressed up tonight?”

I scoff, instantly annoyed. He knows why. “You know why.”

“Maybe I need you to say it out loud, though, just to be sure we are on the same page.”

“Well, why don’t you say what page you think we are on and I will confirm or deny.”

He takes a gulp from his drink before setting it down a little too hard. “Tait. Please? ”

I close my eyes. “It felt like this was… a date.”

I open them to see him twitching that hard jaw again. “Honey, they’ve all been dates to me. I’ve just been waiting for you to catch up.”

Oh.

And, instead of taking that opening, I jolt out of my chair, shove a tortilla chip in my mouth, and say (around said chip), “I—I gotta go to the bathroom.” Damnit.

He smirks, but gallantly tries to hide it. “You really do have a thing for bathrooms, don’t you?”

I stutter step down the hallway, ready to throw myself in. I fling open the door, and step into… confusion.

A hospital bed. An oxygen tank. An end table with a basket full of pill bottles.

The bathroom isn’t in the same location as the one in my cabin. This is the converted room.

My mind starts spinning before I can stop it.

“What the fuck?” I say out loud.

“Tait?” Henry calls, and I hear him heading this way. I can’t force myself to move fast enough to close the door and pretend my oversight never happened.

He comes to stand beside me, putting his hands on his hips and looking down before I feel his gaze on the side of my face.

“Henry, when you talked about getting over someone by having them be dead to you… did you… um… did you mean that you have an ex that actually died?”

“Tait, no—”

“Because that’s pretty fucked up. Were you just, like, mocking me mourning my cheating ex the whole time, meanwhile you actually lost someone?”

“Tait, what? No. I wouldn’t compare loss like that anyways. Being left by choice isn’t necessarily easier. ” He has the good grace to wince when he says that, at least.

“Jesus, Henry, are YOU dying?”

“TAIT. Let me explain this to you. Calm down.”

“It’s just weird that you never mentioned any of this, and that you kind of hid this room. Is this going to be some weird Jane Eyre thing? Do you have a hidden wife?”

He must realize that I’ll continue to spiral out loud, so he shakes his head “no” to my badgering and approaches me like a skittish horse, eyeing me gently, silently, waiting until I breathe.

“Jesus, I’m insane,” I say, starting to calm. “You don’t owe me an explanation for any of this anyways. I—I’m sorry.”

“Can we sit?” he says with a sigh. He looks so forlorn that I squeeze my hands into fists to prevent myself from reaching for the poor man and holding him.

Especially since that would directly contradict the self-righteous badgering I just subjected him to. I feel my face wince in embarrassment.

“My mother,” he says as his intro. My eyes meet his. “… I know I told you she died. And she did. But I never told you… She left when I was three. Took off where no one could track her down, or at least my dad never tried to. Abandoned us to escape my father.”

I think I hear my heart crack for him—this kind man, who probably seems like a cranky asshole to any outsider, but who lives for the ones he cares about. Grump he may be, but I’d love for him to be my grump. He’s already become my favorite friend.

I have a friend again—friends, plural, I realize.

“I have to do this in bullet points and just fill in the blanks later, okay?” he says, and I nod. “Well, she—my mother—was dying. Ovarian cancer. And her caregiver, Gretchen, decided to track me down. Gretchen and I became close. She’d had a hard life, had grown up in foster care. She basically lived a parallel life to mine, but more the cautionary tale of what mine could have been if not for your family. Mom and Gretchen moved into that—your—place, but then we all started getting close, and Gretchen was staying here so much that we just decided it would be easier to spend the rest of Mom’s remaining time together here. So that’s when I set up that room. Remodeled so that her view was of the mountains. And my time with my mom… Our time was so short, I still am angry at myself. The first half of it I wasted, still resenting the hell out of her for leaving in the first place. And Gretchen… Gretchen bridged that gap. By the time my mom passed, seven months later, Gretchen and I were… engaged. I asked Charlie to find her somewhere on the ranch to work then, and he did for me. And… well, she… God, she fucking stole a ton of money from them, Tait. And, I should have picked up on it. I think she tried to tell me what she was doing, talking to me about where we could move, always talking about travelling—because she knew that was something I wanted to do, too—but she wanted to actually live abroad, move to another country, at least another state—someday.”

“You do?” I ask, sad that I didn’t realize this.

He frowns, confused. “Do what?”

“You want to travel?” I ask, sheepishly.

He sighs, running a palm over his face. “I’d love to see new places, but this is home for me, Tait. I need that to be clear. I… I love this place.” He searches my eyes, waiting, so I nod my acceptance.

“And yeah, then she left. She either was setting up for the long con the whole time, or building her own parachute, knowing she wouldn’t get me to leave. Charlie and Grace and the family wouldn’t press charges or go after her without me, and I fucking couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to drag that shit out for a moment longer, and it was honestly fucking embarrassing. I’ll never know if any of it was real, but I do know she helped me get that time with my mom.

“The only thing I was hung up on was that I wanted to make sure she wasn’t some grifter trying to take advantage of other families with ill relatives. I hired a PI a few years back to make sure, and no, I guess she’s part owner of a diner out in Rhode Island and used the money to set herself up with a hunky-dory life,” he finishes.

“Henry…” Jesus, I really don’t know what to say. I feel indignant for him. How could someone do this? Especially to someone with more loyalty and generosity in his pinky finger than five average adults put together.

“Sometimes when you ask things, I can see you pitying me, or thinking that I am oversimplifying my life by doing what I do here, Tait. The truth is, I’ve done my penance to myself for my choices, and while it’s simple work and a simple life, I love it here. I love doing work with my hands, in beautiful country, and I love my family and friends. I love that it’s not always the same.

“It’s not experiencing an ancient culture, a castle in Scotland or the Dolomites. But it’s my home, and I see you falling in love with it, too, Tait. Someone who’s seen so much—even you can still appreciate it here. You might not be ready to admit that, but I’ll be here when you are.”

It’s not this place I’m falling for, I want to tell him.

“I’m sorry that happened to you, Henry. I’m sorry that people can be so shitty,” I say, instead .

“Do you think I’m pathetic for not pressing charges?” he asks after a pause, eyes searching again.

“I doubt I could ever find anything about you pathetic, Henry. But no, I definitely get it. I… I gave my ex our house because I wanted to flee the scene,” I admit bitterly.

He smirks. “I guess you got taken for way more than I did, then.” He chuckles, and I move to slap his chest. His hand closes over mine, holding it there. He takes a deep breath before continuing.

“I wish you could see how you glow. How you brighten a room every time you enter it. I can’t imagine anyone, ever, losing sight of that with you. And I’m glad you’re here, and that you’re not wasting your time with anyone like I did. I hope… I hope you’ll continue to.”

And with that, I decide to waste no more time. I move in to kiss him, but he blows out a frustrated breath against my lips, cutting the kiss short. He plays with the ends of my hair as he stands, then walks to the other side of the table, smiling in the face of my frown.

At my puzzled expression, he says, “I think we both need to go ahead and eat and finish our drinks before we continue.” And it’s now that I can see the tension in his shoulders, his hands opening and closing on either side of his plate when he sits.

“We can eat and still sit by each other,” I say, and I wish I could take back the needy tone to it.

He smiles, taking a massive bite of a taco. He chews methodically, and when he swallows I wonder if anyone else has ever found an Adam’s apple so fucking sexy before. “You smell better than dinner, and I’d rather have you, Tait. So if you want to eat, I think it’s best if I stay over here.”

And there it is. Because who are we fooling at this point but ourselves? I want him, and I plan to have him.

The New Basement Tapes are playing now, singing about when I get my hands on you… The rhythm plucks in time with the building, nervous desire pumping in my belly.

I breathe in through my nose and out, slowly picking up my drink, finishing it in three gulps before setting it down thoughtfully.

“I think we might need to take the edge off first, Henry.”

At that, he bolts up and kicks his chair back, and I follow a half second after. He stalks around the table, a predator covering the distance in three of his large strides, before we collide.

His hands grip under each of my ass cheeks and he lifts me, my legs wrapping around his hips at the same time that my hands fly to his hair, yanking his face to mine.

His lips and tongue crash into mine and it feels like I can finally breathe, despite him stealing my air. He makes a sound of relief when my hands fist against his scalp. When he separates an inch I bite his lower lip in protest. He hisses, then drags a ridiculously large palm up my side, sliding his thumb over my nipple through my dress, then into my hair to move my head and give him access to my neck. I catch his gaze when he looks down, falling forward a step. The slit in my dress has given way to one whole leg, up to one whole needy part of me crudely exposed, and pressed to him.

“Tait, are you not wearing underwear?” His dilated pupils fly to mine, black.

“What does it look like?” I say, not recognizing my own voice.

A deep, choked sound—maybe a growl—falls from him.

“Fuck. I want to see you.” He swipes the vase off the table behind me and sends it flying, shattering against the nearby wall. I think I hear a small sound of alarm from Belle and hear her pad away as he leans us over, disentangling my limbs from him as he lays me on the table, and stands.

He looms over me, hair jutting out in different directions, lips swollen and wet, and I feel practically feral taking him in. I make no attempt to adjust my dress, knowing there’s no turning back now, especially as I notice the wet spot on his shirt.

No more thinking. No games right now. I part my knees and let him look his fill. His grip on my thighs tightens unbearably for a moment before his eyes find mine.

“God, look at you.”

“It’s Tait, actually, but feel free to worship all you’d like.” I gesture down the length of me, because I’m apparently incapable of not injecting humor at the worst times. He smiles, though, and I might just become his zealot in that moment instead.

“This dress makes you look like a present just for me, honey.” He slides his hands slowly up my thighs, up my ribcage, palming my breasts appreciatively once before meeting in between. He slides his splayed fingertips under the edges of the fabric, eyes still locked with mine. “Can I unwrap you?”

“Yes, please.”

He slides the sides apart, those rough fingertips just barely grazing the tops of my breasts as he reveals them. He groans painfully, then floats that same light touch over my nipples. I’m panting at this point and biting my lip with the effort not to squirm.

The cadence of my breathing should feel embarrassing, but Henry unwrapping me peels away the veil on my desire, on his, every warm moment between us stoking this heat that’s broken loose.

“Now, ladies. You’ll have my attention again soon enough, but I have been thinking about this pussy for far too long, now,” he says to my chest, staring at me like I’m something miraculous.

Wait—“Are you talking to my tits?”

“Shhhh, we’re in the middle of something,” he admonishes, placing a finger over my lips.

I bark out a giddy laugh, the motion making me bounce, and his playfulness disappears. He swallows once. Twice. Then clenches his jaw and closes his eyes.

“Fuck. I am overstimulated.”

“I’d like to be,” I tease, and it has the intended effect. He smiles again and huffs a laugh. I feel the warmth of it in my very bones .

“I got you, honey.” He slides his palms over my tips one more time, making them impossibly harder, tighter, causing me to groan once before he quickly plants a sucking kiss on both. He then drags me down the table, kisses the inside of my knee, and hooks my booted foot over his shoulder, exposing me entirely.

“Fuck, Tait. This pussy is so pretty.” He runs the backs of two fingers up my seam, and I whimper, wondering how long he plans to make me wait until he touches me where I need it most. The answer is not long. He splays his palm across my pubic bone and thumbs my clit lovingly.

The way he watches, studies, and marvels as he touches me is filthy, perverse… like he is getting as much out of it as I am. He dips his thumb and drags more wetness up, circling, moving back and forth lightly across the tip, my nerves flooding with sensation at every swipe.

He twists his hand then and slides a finger into me slowly as he tears his gaze back to my eyes. His stubble scratches the inside of my knee. He shakes his head ruefully even as he gives me another crooked smile. “Ah, honey. This is gonna be a tight fit.”

I feel heat surge to my face and gather, then ripple out through my core. Oh, God, I fucking hope. “Yes.”

My eyes roll back in my head as he puts my foot back down on the table and hooks a second finger into me, thumbing my clit all the while, kneading my thigh with his free palm. My many daydreams of his massive hands pale in comparison to this.

“I can’t count how many times I’ve thought about this, Tait. Is this really happening?” he says, echoing my thoughts. His free hand squeezes my knee and I realize he wants me to respond .

“Fuck, if it’s not then it’s the best dream I’ve ever had.” I moan, long and hoarse as he drags his fingers down my inner wall along a sensitive spot.

“Good girl, there it is.” Shit, that mouth on him sends a fresh wave of lust over me, and then that same mouth licks my clit as his fingers continue to pump and drag.

My back arches off the table and I prop up onto one elbow so I can watch what he does to me, winding my fingers in his hair with my other hand and grinding against his face shamelessly. That feeling begins to build, each lap of his tongue in time with that drag against that inner sensitive spot, piling on one another until I’m gyrating and trembling with need to come.

I register his arm at the corner of my vision, forearm muscles working as he adjusts himself then, absent-mindedly rubbing himself to what he’s doing to me, and my blood sings, rushing.

I whimper, cresting that edge but not falling time and time again. “I’m sorry, this—this is taking too long.”

He doesn’t chuckle, just meets my gaze with his hazy one, and says, “Baby, I’m determined to finish a meal once tonight, I don’t care how fucking long it takes.” My eyes shutter, but fly back open to his impaling gold ones as he sucks the whole bud of me into his mouth, the effect like pulling loose a lever that frees my orgasm.

The wave crashes over me, sensation exploding down my limbs, and then thumping back up and through me. When I try to pull away, over-sensitized, he places a perfectly pressured kiss to my apex while pushing that button from the inside again, and it crashes anew.

I scream out as the second orgasm pumps out of me brutally .

I come back down to earth to find Henry cradling the back of my head, planting tender kisses to the corners of my panting mouth, to the tears that have leaked out of the corners of my eyes to slide down my temples.

“God. Oh… Oh my god,” I whisper.

“It’s Henry, actually, but feel free to worship all you’d like.” And his smile is everything, all dimples and stubble and wet beard, swollen lips and flushed cheeks.

I laugh like a cartoon mental patient again, sated beyond sanity. “I might have to,” I say, and I might mean it. It’s the reverence on his face that ignites me again, though, so I drag his face back to mine and kiss him deeply. “Take me to bed?” I ask.

“You don’t want me to feed you first?”

“No, Henry, I want to you fuck me.”

I swear I see his pupils dilate again. He drags my body off of the table and tosses me over his shoulder, my dress barely hanging on to any part of me, and I can’t stifle a giggle as he runs us up the stairs.