57. Elouise
Elouise
When I finally blink my eyes open, the need to pee is so strong I know I’ve slept past my usual wake up time.
My first attempt to move out of bed has every muscle in my body singing. The delicious ache is mostly focused between my legs, but every part of me is some level of sore. I had no idea sex could leave you feeling like you did a bootcamp style workout.
I take my time getting to my feet and shuffling to the bathroom, and when I finally lower myself, my ass cheeks give a sting of protest. But I find myself smiling through the discomfort, because last night was a series of new experiences for me, and if the heat simmering under my skin at the memory is any indication, they were all experiences I’d like to do again.
Finishing my morning routine, I pull on a comfy pair of leggings and a sweater and head downstairs. Beckett said he’d be by sometime today to fix my door, but he didn’t say when.
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I glance towards the couch then turn towards the kitchen.
My cheeks are heating all over again at the memory of wiping our mess off the floor and I find myself laughing. I feel almost proud of what happened. Maybe it should’ve felt degrading to be left like that, but it didn’t. It was kinda hot.
The cum-soaked underwear however, was not as hot. By the time I got upstairs it was cold and sticky and I threw them in the garbage as I stripped down on my way to the shower.
I cover another yawn, as my coffee maker signals that it’s done brewing. I’m pouring out my first cupful when I hear Beckett’s truck rumble up the driveway.
Mug in hand, I open the front door and am surprised to see the passenger side open, followed by Beckett’s nephew doing a boneless slide out of the pickup.
It’s before 10:00 am on a Sunday so I understand the feeling.
Beckett smiles at me, as he comes around to close the kid’s door. “Morning, Smoky.”
“Good morning,” with my slippered feet, I take the few steps down from the porch to the front walk.
“You remember Clint?” Beckett asks, using a hand to ruffle the kid’s hair.
“I do,” my heart warms seeing the two of them together. “Morning, Clint.”
He mumbles something like good mornin’, giving me the quickest glance before looking back at the ground.
“Mind opening the garage door for us? Clint’s gonna help me fix your door today, and we need to measure a few things.” Beckett settles his hand on the kid's shoulder.
“I can do that,” I lift my mug to my lips in an attempt to cover my face.
Just seeing him standing there is making me blush. But his smirk is the only confirmation I need that he knows exactly what I’m thinking about.
Walking through the house, I open the garage door and wait for them to join me. In the time it takes to open, a notebook and pencil have appeared in Clint’s hands and Beckett is holding a tape measure.
“Thank you for doing this,” I tell them both, meaning it. I hadn’t really thought about that stupid door, since it’s been that way for as long as I can remember, but once Beckett pointed out – rather drastically – how unsafe it was, I realized how stupid I’d been to leave it.
Beckett nudges Clint .
“You’re welcome,” the kid says, scuffing his shoe on the concrete floor.
Beckett rolls his eyes at Clint’s shyness. He wasn’t this shy when we met at the Science Fair, and I’ve seen him in the hallways at school a few times since then, but I’m thinking that being at my house is making him feel uncertain.
“I don’t know how long it takes to fix a door, but I’d be happy to make you boys lunch.” Clint’s eyes dart up to me then over to Beckett. “Or something else…” I tack on.
“I promised Little Man we could do fast-food for lunch,” Beckett says with a shake of his head, “but this will probably take a while. His mom is on a 12-hour shift, so if you want to make dinner we can stick around for that.”
“I can do that.” I think for a moment, before I ask, “Clint, what’s your favorite dessert?”
“Brownies!” his exclamation is out before I even finish the question.
“Okay,” I laugh, “I can make some brownies. Any requests on the entrée?”
Clint shrugs, then seems to consider it, “Pasta?”
I nod, “Pasta is good. Any preference on sauce?”
He looks up at Beckett, “What’s that white stuff called?”
Beckett clears his throat before answering, and I have to bite my lips to keep from laughing. “Alfredo.”
The boys have been at it for hours.
True to his word, the two of them left for a bit around lunchtime coming back with to-go drinks and white paper bags. Beckett offered to pick me up something, but I passed, opting to make a quick sandwich before heading to the grocery store to get stuff to make dinner.
The timer alerting me to strain the noodles sounds just as the door to the house opens then closes.
At first, I was surprised when I saw that Beckett bought a whole new door to replace the faulty one, but then when I thought about it, I realized I wasn’t surprised at all.
Just like I wasn’t really surprised that he bought a wireless keypad to install for my garage door and a new deadbolt with a keypad for the front door.
Ensuring I’ll never be locked out even with every door firmly secured.
“Smells delicious!” Beckett herds Clint into the kitchen ahead of him.
“Hopefully it tastes good too,” hoisting the strained noodles up, I dump them into the pot with the alfredo sauce. Carefully stirring it all together.
After insisting I don’t need any help, the boys wash their hands at the sink, then take their seats at the table.
I plate up broccoli and roasted chicken on the side but am happily surprised when they both mix it all together and begin eating with vigor.
I ask questions about other projects they’ve done together, and they both answer while clearing their plates in record time. Whatever awkwardness Clint had been feeling earlier seems to have been shattered by a pile of pasta.
He’s barely finished his last bite when he turns to face me, “Can I have more?”
Beckett snorts, “This kid can eat as much as I do.”
I smile, “Would you like more, too?”
“You know I do.”
I purposefully don’t look at him as I refill their plates. I don’t know if it’s just me, but I swear I’m hearing an innuendo in everything he says.
Feeling chattier, Clint tells me all about his current teacher, the kids in his class, and why he thinks math is the worst subject ever. Outwardly I tell him why math is important, but inwardly I completely agree.
With a mouth still full of noodles, Clint asks, “Did you really make brownies, too?”
“Good god,” Beckett laughs, “can you at least finish swallowing before you ask for more. ”
My eyes snap over to Beckett’s and just when I think I’m the only one with my mind in the gutter, Beckett looks up and winks.
This bastard.
Clint finishes his food, sticking his tongue out as proof, “There. Now can I have a brownie?”
Beckett sighs, “Dude, don’t ask me.”
Clint turns those puppy dog eyes on me.
“Yes, but we have to cook them first.”
His jaw drops open, “What?!”
“I could’ve baked them earlier, but then you wouldn’t be eating them right from the oven. And is there really anything better than a warm brownie… with ice cream?”
Clint’s lips press together, then gives in, “I guess not.”
After we start the oven, Beckett makes Clint help him clean up dinner, insisting that I go sit down.
When the oven chimes that it’s preheated, I start to rise but Clint calls out that he’ll put the pan in.
He’d been skeptical when I showed him the pan ready to bake resting in the fridge, but I’m confident I’ll win him over. It’s a trick I learned from Maddie after all, and she’s a whizz in the kitchen.
While they bake, Clint tells me about the time he was making cupcakes with his grandma and they set the oven on fire. Beckett clarifies that his mom had forgotten to set a timer, and that it was just really smoky, but Clint ignores him, going back into elaborate details.
Thankfully we don’t set my oven on fire, and a few minutes later we are loaded up with bowls of ice cream and warm chocolate brownies, and headed into the living room.
Clint claims one of the overstuffed reading chairs, and I’m silently grateful he didn’t sit on the couch with us. Nothing untoward actually got on the couch, but it just feels wrong to have anyone other than Beckett or I near the now infamous arm rest.
I let Clint pick what we watch, and he lands on some animated superhero movie. I’m not familiar, but then again, I’m not really paying attention. I give up on my dessert after a few minutes, hitting my limit, and Beckett gladly finishes what I have left in a matter of bites .
Setting our bowls on the coffee table, Beckett leans back, pulling me into his side. His warmth and strength becoming my new version of a security blanket.
He’s shown me so many sides of himself. The survivalist and teacher. The carpenter and uncle. The dirty, dirty man capable of bringing me to a level of bliss I wasn’t even aware of and the laid back guy who wants to eat ice cream and cuddle on the couch.
He’s so easy to be around. And equally easy to love.
Laying my head on his chest, his arm tightens around my shoulders, and feeling safer than I’ve ever felt before, I let my eyes drift close.