Chapter 7 Elaine
Chapter seven
Elaine
When Wingman showed up for dinner the following evening, I was sick to my stomach with nerves.
For the first time in years, I unearthed my little black dress from the back of my closet and curled my hair, with a touch of lipstick and blush.
Examining my reflection in the mirror, I felt…
pretty. I hadn’t felt that since before my pregnancy.
And tonight, I was having dinner with a man I was attracted to. A man who loved me.
A man who wanted to stay.
This aspect of my life—romance, desire, intimacy—had been buried as a single mom. I simply didn’t have the time or energy for it. Now that I had a chance to experience it again, I found myself desperately hoping that it didn’t slip through my fingers.
“Hey, I brought—whoa,” Wingman said when I answered the door. “Wow.”
Warmth flooded my cheeks and my lower belly clenched at the rasp in his voice.
His gaze slowly panned over me from head to toe.
I didn’t miss the darkening of his pupils or the way his eyes snagged on my V-neckline.
I wasn’t showing a scandalous amount of cleavage, but the suggestion was clearly enough to get Wingman’s imagination revved up.
“You are gorgeous,” he said, stepping closer to curve his palm around my hip.
My nerves eased slightly at his compliment.
As much as I longed to kiss him, to slip my hands under his shirt, mapping warm skin and tattoos, I knew Mikey was in the living room.
Only a few steps away. He could interrupt us at any moment and I didn’t want him seeing that. Not yet. We had to talk first.
Instead, I took Wingman’s hand, interlacing our fingers together. He looked sinfully good in a snug blue henley and a new pair of jeans that molded to his muscular thighs. Tucked in the crook of his other arm was a bulging brown bag from the Old Spruce Pub. It smelled delicious.
“You better hurry up and get in here,” I said. “Mikey is about to start a one-man revolt if he doesn’t get something to eat soon. If you thought he was scary before, you don’t want to see him when he’s hangry.”
“Then I’m glad I ordered double portions for the little mobster,” Wingman replied.
We spent fifteen minutes on the phone together, going over the pub’s menu. At first, he wanted to surprise us. But when I pointed out that Mikey tended to be a picky eater, Wingman seamlessly switched gears and altered his plan, making sure he got exactly what Mikey liked.
Together, we unloaded the takeout containers on the kitchen table and deposited portions onto our plates.
“Mikey, dinner time!” I called. “Wingman brought you macaroni and cheese with chicken nuggets. Your favorite.”
A clatter of toy cars emanated from the living room, followed by the rhythm of small feet on the hardwood floor.
Mikey entered the kitchen, surveying his plate and the layout of food on the table—steak, roasted vegetables, and yeasty golden brown bread rolls.
Mikey’s plate had creamy mac and cheese, with crispy chicken nuggets.
He peered up at Wingman with a suspicious squint.
“Do you like my mom?”
“Yes, sir,” Wingman replied. “And I think you’re a pretty cool kid, too.”
Mikey weighed that revelation for a moment before he finally nodded and climbed into his chair. I gripped Wingman’s arm and gave it a squeeze
This was the moment of truth. It was time for that talk.
The three of us settled around our little kitchen table, slightly cramped, but still cozy, with the glow of Christmas lights radiating from the living room. For Mikey’s entire life, it had been just the two of us at this table.
But now, Wingman’s leg bumped against mine. And Mikey’s elbow kept knocking into me when he dug into his mac and cheese or stabbed at his chicken nuggets.
If we were going to do this—if our duo was going to become a trio in the future—we would need to expand and spread out. We would need more space.
“Mikey,” I ventured at last, gripping my fork like my life depended on it. “Wingman and I would like to tell you something.”
Mikey’s gaze shifted back and forth between us. Wingman reached under the table and took my hand for support.
“How would you feel if I started spending more time with you and your mom?” Wingman asked.
Mikey shrugged but he said nothing.
“It’s just a test,” I added. “Maybe one day he can become part of our family. Wouldn’t you like that?”
Mikey poked at his food with a frown.
“Do I have to call him Dad?”
“Not if you don’t want to, kiddo,” Wingman said.
Mikey fixed him with an unwavering stare.
“Will you be nice to my mom?”
“Every day, cross my heart,” Wingman replied. “And if I don’t keep my promise, you better kick my ass. You hear me? That’s what bikers do. They protect the people they love. And you’re a biker now, Mikey. You’ve got the guardian bell to prove it.”
I propped my chin in my hand with concern, watching Mikey’s expression as he processed this new piece of information.
“Do you wanna see the race track I built in the living room, Mr. Wingman?” he asked at last.
“Hell yeah, let’s go,” Wingman replied.
They scrambled out of their chairs together, racing each other to the living room.
“Wait a minute—you didn’t finish your dinner!” I called after them.
My protest fell on deaf ears. Mikey and Wingman were too busy making zooming noises with their toy cars as they circled the Christmas tree.
Then Mikey’s laughter peeled through the house, clear and beautiful and full of joy.
Wingman let out a whistle.
“You laugh just like your mama.”
I stifled a yawn as I dumped the last of dinner’s dishes in the sink, too tired to bother washing them tonight.
Wingman came up behind me, sliding his arms around my waist. With his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his tattooed forearm was on display.
I couldn’t resist tracing the inked lines, savoring the flex and shift of tendons and muscle under my touch.
“Mikey’s asleep,” he murmured, kissing my neck. “The poor kid is worn out. He’s on the couch for now.”
“You two played for hours,” I said, leaning back into Wingman’s arms.
It felt so good to lean on someone for a change. To let go. To close my eyes and know that I didn’t have to do everything on my own.
“Couldn’t get enough of his race track,” Wingman replied. “I wish I had built something that awesome when I was a kid. I noticed he doesn’t have a toy motorcycle in his collection though.”
“God, no,” I said. “I don’t need to be giving him any ideas that he’ll grow into when he’s older.”
Wingman chuckled.
“If you’re shacking up with a biker, I’m bound to rub off on him. Are you sure you want that bad influence around your kid?”
I smiled softly, stroking his arm absently, tracing the ridges and valleys of his knuckles.
“You’ve shown him more love, attention, and respect than his own father ever did. You’re not a bad influence, Wingman.”
“Reese,” he whispered, slipping his hand under my dress. Following the lacy edge of my underwear. “If I’m going to be getting in your pants on a regular basis, you should probably call me Reese.”
I rolled my eyes.
“You’re cheapening the moment again.”
He huffed a laugh and playfully bit my neck. A moan escaped me and my knees wobbled. Wingman shifted his weight forward, pinning me against the sink with his hips. I pressed my ass to his groin, grinding and teasing until the bulge of his hard-on was unmistakable.
“If I didn’t know any better,” he murmured, sliding my dress off one shoulder to expose my skin.
“I’d say you’re the one cheapening the moment, baby.
I came here to have a heart-to-heart with you and your son over dinner about our relationship.
I’m being a gentleman, but you’re tempting me in this little black dress. ”
I grabbed his wrist and guided his hand between my thighs.
“Dinner is over. You don’t have to be a gentleman anymore. I want my biker.”
His fingertips on my hip tightened to a bruising pressure. Working my panties off, he let them drop to the floor around my ankles.
“What about Mikey?” Wingman asked.
My heart warmed at his thoughtfulness, even when he was faced with the promise of sex in the kitchen.
“He sleeps like the dead,” I replied. “We won’t wake him.”
Wingman flipped my skirt up around my hips, smoothing his palms over my ass with an appreciative squeeze. Sliding one hand between my thighs, he caressed and stroked my clit until I squirmed. He mouthed at my neck, pinching with his teeth then soothing the burn with his tongue.
I closed my eyes, soaking up every sensation like a sponge. A protective, cautious part of me was terrified that we were moving too fast. It was tempting to think about a future with Wingman—with Reese.
But I should have eased myself into this. I should have taken it slow.
Instead, Wingman and I were hitting full throttle.
The clank of his belt and the grit of his zipper echoed in the quiet kitchen. A gust of wind rattled the window pane, but we were warm and safe together from winter’s onslaught. After he rolled his condom on, I felt Wingman guide his cock to my entrance, coaxing the tip inside.
A deep moan rumbled in his chest with his first slow thrust. I sighed at that hot glide, every inch pressing against my walls with a blissful throb. I pulled Wingman’s arms around me again, nestling into his embrace as we moved together.
Maybe I was being naive.
Maybe this would blow up in my face and Wingman would never surrender his freedom and the open road after all.
Maybe I would end up heartbroken and shattered for a second time.
A quiet little tug in my gut told me otherwise. This man was different. This man came back for me and my boy.
Wingman slipped his hand into the collar of my dress, cupping my breast. Tugging my bra cup down, he toyed with my nipple, making my walls flutter around his cock. He swore under his breath, burying his face in my shoulder.
“Fuck, you have to come soon, baby,” he said. “I can’t hold out much longer. Not when you squeeze me like that—”
I grinned and clenched hard. Wingman sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth and rammed deep, circling his hips. A wave of pleasure coursed through me. My toes curled and the muscles in my body strained, tighter and tighter.
But I wasn’t close. Not yet. It felt incredible—the drag of his cock, the way our bodies slotted together, his wandering hands grasping and touching and caressing every inch of me that he could reach.
My orgasm remained out of reach though. And I didn’t even care. I got to watch and feel Wingman fall apart. Because of me. I was the hot single mom that made this biker blow his load in two minutes flat.
“Shit,” he hissed. “You didn’t finish—”
When Wingman reached for my clit, I caught his wrist to stop him. Turning my head, I kissed him, threading my fingers up into his hair with a tug.
“Stay,” I said. “I want you here. With me. With Mikey. I want you to have breakfast with us. And I want you in my bed. To make me come. To sleep by my side, so I don’t wake up alone.”
Wingman held my gaze and gave a solemn nod.
After we adjusted our clothes, I tucked Mikey into bed.
Then I took Wingman by the hand and led him into my bedroom.
Within the span of thirty seconds, he had me on my back, with my legs over his shoulders and his head buried between my thighs.
The skill of his tongue took me to soaring new heights, trembling, gasping for air as I came so hard that I saw stars.