Chapter Twenty-One
In my early twenties, before I thought I was settling down to become a family man, I used to do so many impulsive, borderline reckless, things in my life without giving it too much thought other than just how many endorphins I was getting during the time of the activity.
Now that I am in my thirties, a different kind of family man, I am realizing just how much those activities have evolved—still rather impulsive though. That much has not changed.
For example, I am literally in the most cramped dressing room I’ve ever laid eyes on, with a man who easily eclipses me when I’m behind him…
like I am now, as he admires himself in front of the full-length mirror.
He has got on a form-fitted stretch-knit, halter-top dress in the most ravishing shade of royal purple.
The hem of the pencil skirt lands just below the globes of his bubble butt, and I’m sure—if there were room to bend—the view from behind would be downright scandalous.
It’d go great if we ever went out clubbing or something, which is one thing we did once, you know, before. That was an absolute blast of a night. I’m glad he kept the videos of it for all these years.
Anyway, back to the present. He looks absolutely stunning in this dress, and I managed to sneak in undetected, under the guise that I had found some matching boots that I needed to deliver, for a very up-close seat for the fashion show.
So up close, in fact, that I am the seat.
I peer around his body and catch the reflection of him admiring the way his brand new nipple piercings stand out behind the fabric.
I reach around his waist so I can sign to him. “The boots actually fit?”
He scoffs. “Not even close. The shoe part fits, but there’s no way I’m zipping them up any further than mid-calf, much less up to my thigh.”
Pity. They would have looked so fuckin’ good. “Do you suppose, if we get you this dress, we could find some online in your size?”
“Oh”—he blinks at the mirror—“I’m not actually buying this dress.”
“Of course you’re not,” I agree. “Because I am.”
His head whips around to look at me, rather than my reflection. “You’re not buying me this dress,” he says matter-of-factly.
I bring my hands up between us. “I certainly am.”
He stands up, smoothing his hands down the fabric on his hips.
“Turn around and look at yourself, Marcus,” I go on. “You look radiant in it. Gorgeous. Stunning.”
He bites his lip and slowly turns to face the mirror again. He turns one way, looking back over his shoulder at his ass, and then repeats the process from the other side. “It’s not too short?”
“I mean, not unless you bend over. Quite frankly, I don’t want you bending over for anyone other than me or Lauren anyway.”
He clicks his tongue with an eyeroll directed at me. “Possessive much?”
I chuckle. “You know Lauren would absolutely flip if I said something like that regarding her. She definitely doesn’t jive with the whole ‘mine’ thing. You, on the other hand...” I trail off.
He grins at me. “Love the hell out of it.”
“Just as much as you secretively like being called a 'good boy.'”
He presses his lips together, but there’s a hint of playfulness behind them.
“You want to be my good boy right now, don’t you?”
He looks around the dressing room. “In here? In a space that makes a phone booth feel like a penthouse?
“We both fit on the bench, when you were on top of my lap, did we not?” I arch a brow up at him.
He sucks his bottom lip in between his teeth, sucking in a breath. He acts like he doesn’t want this, like what I’m proposing is way too risky. The very noticeable bulge in the dress speaks volumes otherwise, however…
“Sugar, come here and give your man a little lap-dance, won’t you?” I ask, licking my lips.
“You’re ballsy.” He points a finger at me. “You’re real, real ballsy.”
“Turned all the way the fuck on too.” I stand up, yank my billfold from my back pocket, and tug out a packet of lube.
“My god,” he huffs with a chuckle, “do you and Lauren have to always be prepared for anything?”
“I don’t see why it hurts.” I shrug, feigning arrogance.
He clears his throat, tugging his fingers through his curls. “We have to be quiet,” he finally rasps.
I point at my scar and bug out my eyes dramatically. “Done.”
“You know what I mean!” he balks in a semi-hushed hiss. “We can’t be all thumping around in here.”
“I suppose you want me to perform at a half-assed level too, so that you don’t end up whining on my cock like you always do.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “I don’t whine,” he says petulantly.
I huff out a breath. “Just like you don’t snore…”
He glowers. “Do you want a lap dance or not? ‘Cuz I don’t have to sit on your dick if you’re going to be one.”
I smirk, observing the way I just reverse psychology-ed his ass into getting him out of his wary indecision over getting fucked in a department store dressing room. “I’ll behave,” I promise him.
He huffs, facing away and peeling the skirt up over his ass. Ah, so that’s why he had no pantylines—he’s wearing a thong. I reach over and hook my finger under the waistband, tugging them down. He peers over his shoulder at me, biting his lip.
“Did you already rip the price tag off?” I ask him.
“What, the underwear? No, the thong is my own. Lo got mad at me once about wearing hers, so I have a whole bunch of them.”
I run my palms up the backs of his thighs, giving his cheeks a firm squeeze when I get to them. I massage them a bit before spreading them apart and spitting directly onto his hole. I watch as it puckers when he moans quietly. Such a phenomenal ass, every bit of it.
I soak my fingers until they're so wet they’re sloppy and make quick work of trying to prep him. He’s practically fucking himself on three of my fingers by the time he signs to me that he’s ready. I stand up so I can yank my pants and briefs down, and then I tear into the packet of lube.
I coat myself in it, and then smear the leftovers down his crease, fingering some in just beyond his tight ring of muscle.
Then, I wrap my arms around his thighs and tug him back into me, urging him to sit on my lap.
Holding his hips, I guide him down until he’s hovering right above my straining cock.
“I’m not messing around by taking this slow, baby,” he whispers, and that’s all the warning I get before he sinks down onto me in one hot, slick glide.
God, fuck—I don’t know how he doesn’t need a minute to adjust before he starts bouncing up and down, because I sure as hell could have. I’m torn between wanting to allow my head to loll back until it thumps on the wall and being transfixed by the sight of his ass swallowing me whole.
He wasn’t understating the fact that he wasn’t going to take it slow either. He’s crouched over my lap, trying to keep things as quiet as humanly possible, while he rides my dick—down and dirty. All I can do is hold onto his hips to keep him guided in place. No place for dirty talk this time.
“Oooh, fuck. I’m gonna come, Caleb,” he frantically whispers. “I don’t wanna come on this fuckin’ carpeted floor, b-babe.”
I grab the wastebasket and pass it around him.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuuuuuck,” he hisses quietly, his entire body quivering and his thighs trembling.
As he spurts into the wastebasket, I haul him back onto my lap, rocking my hips up into him to take the load of his legs. I’m not far from reaching my orgasm myself, so the slapping of skin really shouldn’t be too noticeable. After just a couple more hard thrusts, I’m fuckin’ toast.
Not wanting to make a mess on what will soon be his new dress, I yank the wastebasket from him and urge him to sit up so I can pull out. He’s no sooner out of the way before I start jetting into the wastebasket, adding to what he’s already left in there.
He gapes at me while I stroke myself to completion, then he smirks. “You really are a gentleman, you know that?”
I raise a singular brow at him.
“There’s no way I would have been comfortable with your load dripping out of my ass for the rest of the day, especially in that thong.”
I chuckle, standing to pull up my pants and underwear. “A true gentleman, indeed. Now, let’s get you out of this dress so I can go buy it for you.”
[Incoming call from Cam Dupris]
I prop my phone up on the kitchen island and answer the video call. “Hey, kiddo.”
“Hey, Dad.” Cam beams for the camera, waving both hands, so he must have it on a tripod or something. “Guess who I’m with?” He pans the phone over so I can see Aaron.
“Papa,” he says softly. “I’ve got Dad on the phone.”
He speaks to him as if he’s conscious enough to comprehend everything. The nurses in the ICU, right after the accident, encouraged us to do so. I guess it’s in case patients like him can understand us.
I blink back tears at the sight of him for the first time in over a year.
My husband’s physical form there, for sure, but not really him.
The man in the bed right now has tubes and monitors that he’s hooked up to.
His eyes are open and he’s blinking, but his expression is blank—empty—so devoid of the spark of light he once was.
Aaron’s name passes my lips as if instinctually, though now it comes out soundlessly.
I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I peer up to find Lauren standing behind me, a small, sullen smile on her lips. She bends a little so she is in the frame. Then, she sees Aaron for the first time. I watch as she bites her lip, studying the screen.
“Hey, Lauren,” Cameron says, interrupting her visual appraisal of my husband. Well, my ex-husband. Saying that, even in my own head, doesn’t sit well with me, because I had little choice in the matter of our divorce. Nor did he, really.
“Cam!” Lauren chirps. “How is everything going, hun? Did you set those boundaries we talked about?”