Chapter 13 #2
“Keep talking.” His eyes are locked on mine. The intensity in them should terrify me, except I’m pretty sure my eyes look the same.
“It was dark outside, but the curtains were still open, and all the lights were on.”
His finger moves ever so slightly deeper, but I want more.
I try to slide forward onto his hand, but his other one is locked on my thigh, pinning me in place.
The sound of frustration I make is somewhere between a plea and a demand as I continue stroking him.
The first drop of pre-cum is beading at the head of his cock.
It sends elation trilling through me. He’s just as wet for me as I am for him.
I continue speaking without being told this time.
“We were both naked. You were behind me, and you had me pinned against the window. You were buried inside me—screwing me—and I was plastered to the glass. Please,” I gasp. “I need more. Give me more, or I won’t tell you the rest.”
“Keep talking,” Mark says, finally sliding a finger all the way inside me.
“More,” I demand. He slides another finger into me, and the walls of my vagina clench around them as he drives them deeper.
“Yes,” I moan. “You were whispering in my ear as you fucked me, telling me you were going to make me come where everyone could see. That you were going to make sure everyone knew how much I liked it when you came inside me.”
He’s rhythmically sliding his fingers into me, and as good as it feels, I want him to replace them with his dick. “Did you want me to show everyone?” he asks, and his voice has a deep raspy quality I haven’t heard before.
“Yes,” I admit. I’ve never been much of an exhibitionist, but part of what I get off on is him getting off, and in that regard I absolutely want him to fuck me against a window in front of everyone.
“What happened next?”
“I need you,” I whisper raggedly. “I’m so close, I just need—”
“What happened next? Tell me.”
“I woke up orgasming.”
“What did you do then?” he questions as he removes his fingers from my cunt and pulls my hands away from his body, bringing them together behind my back.
My right elbow twinges as he pins my hands in place with one of his before lining up the head of his cock at my opening, but not going any further.
It hurts, but I don’t care. I want him to keep going.
“Please,” I moan.
“Tell me what you did after you woke up.”
“I felt like I’d been robbed because you weren’t there.
So I grabbed my vibrator from my nightstand and fucked myself.
It wasn’t as good as the dream. Or you. Pl—” Mark slams into me, cutting off my plea and turning it into a scream.
“Yes!” I’m stretched so tightly around him, matching his thrusts into me as best I can with my hands pinned behind me. “Harder, Mark! Harder!”
I’m riding the edge—pleasure and pain combining as I get closer and closer.
He pulls my underwear further to the side and presses his thumb against my clit, stroking it like he knows it’s precisely what I need as he drives into me.
All at once, the orgasm rolls over me, and I’m convulsing around him, my cunt squeezing his cock in waves, my nails digging into his hand, which still has both of mine pinned, as I scream his name.
Then he’s coming too, filling me even more deeply, his hips jerking again and again as we ride the wave together.
Eventually, he stills, pulling out of me as he releases my hands.
I flop back onto the island, and he runs his hands gently across my body.
“Come on. Come lie on the couch with me. I’d carry you, but I’m not sure my legs could manage it,” he tells me eventually.
“Did you dream about me?” I ask as I slowly sit up.
“Yes,” he replies softly.
“Do you want French toast or a frittata?” Mark asks as he wipes down the kitchen island.
He put the grey sweatpants back on—for all the good that does—but he’s still shirtless, and I’m obviously admiring the view.
Who knew I wanted a barefoot, half-naked man in the kitchen offering to be my personal chef?
“You can make a frittata?” I question, watching him from the couch where I’m wrapped in a blanket. We spent about forty minutes lying there, entwined in one another’s arms, before he volunteered to cook breakfast.
He shrugs. “It’s not much different than a giant omelet. Easier probably, since you don’t have to fold it. If it were just me, I’d make a protein shake and call it good, but I know you don’t like those,” he teases.
I snort. “Alright. Let’s go with the frittata, then.
You can impress me with your cooking skills.
” I pause a moment before inquiring, “Do you guys have practice before the game tomorrow?” I know Mark will assume I’m asking because it’ll affect the time we can spend together.
In reality, that has nothing to do with it.
I want to know when I should expect Matt Davidson to be out of the house.
Even though I’m dependent on the cleaning crew to get in, it’ll still be useful to have some idea about when he’ll be gone.
“Yes. There’s a morning skate at nine, then warm-ups prior to the game,” he tells me as he puts the rag away and places a cutting board on the counter.
“Why?” I ask. It seems entirely unnecessary to practice that much.
“Why is there a morning skate and warm-ups?” Mark replies, clarifying my question, and I nod.
“The morning skates on game days are optional, but a lot of the players like them. Some of the guys are superstitious, and it puts them at ease. The rest think it gets them more in the zone. Today is a mandatory day off, so I imagine most of them will show up for it.”
Unfortunately, there’s no way for me to inquire whether he believes Matt Davidson will. “What time do you have to be there tomorrow?”
“I’ll be there all day,” he replies, glancing up from the onion he started dicing. “Sorry.”
“No. It’s fine. I’ve got some personal stuff I need to do during the day tomorrow anyway, and then some family stuff during the evening. It actually works out well.”
“What time do we have to be at dinner tonight?”
“Seven. Vaughn lives over near Powell Butte Park, so we’ll need to leave by six-thirty.”
“Earlier,” Mark murmurs. “Do they drink? I should bring something.”
“Are you nervous?”
“No,” he asserts.
“Are you sure, because you sound nervous.” Mark glares at me, and I laugh.
“Vaughn is partial to Old Fashioneds. Marjorie likes Martinis. But we are not showing up with the most expensive bottles of bourbon and gin you can buy,” I warn.
“So don’t even think about it. I’ll never hear the end of it from Vaughn if you do. ”
Vaughn lives in a medium-sized, mid-century modern house. Mark is eyeing it as if he might change careers and go into real estate.
“What would you have done if you weren’t a hockey coach?” I ask as we get out of my car and walk to the front door.
“Gone into architecture or civil engineering, maybe. Why? What would you have done if you weren’t a psychiatrist?”
“Just wondering,” I say, pressing the doorbell. “I’d probably have become a lawyer.” I want to ask how he ended up coaching, but Marjorie opens the door before I can.
“Alyssa!” she greets, grabbing my hands and pulling me into the house. “I love the hair! It’s very chic.”
Vaughn is standing next to Marjorie, and he doesn’t so much as twitch.
I’m sure he mentioned what’s going on, meaning Marjorie’s comment about my hair is intentional, and I know she’s up to something.
I’m sure Mark will ask me about it later.
Oh well. A lot of women dye their hair. It’s not like he knows I dyed it specifically for him.
“Hi Marjorie. Thank you. This is Mark. Mark, this is Marjorie,” I say, inclining my head toward her, “and Vaughn.”
Mark reaches out to shake Marjorie’s hand first. His hand engulfs hers.
Marjorie is a few inches shorter than me with dark skin and a short pixie cut.
I’ve never thought of her as being short, but seeing her standing next to Mark has me reconsidering my perspective.
He releases Marjorie’s hand after a moment and takes Vaughn’s.
“Hi, nice to meet you both,” Mark says. “I’ve heard a lot about you.
” He hasn’t, really. The only thing I’ve told him about Vaughn is that Vaughn is an old family friend.
All he knows about Marjorie is that she and Vaughn are married.
But it’s more than I’ve told him about anyone else in my life save my dad, who he can’t meet unless he wants to make the drive to Walla Walla with me.
It’s not like he’s shared any more than I have, though. I guess we’re kindred spirits in that sense.
“Yes, you as well,” Vaughn replies as Marjorie says, “I can see why Alyssa is smitten with you.”
Marjorie’s gaze darts to me, and I open my mouth to protest, having said no such thing, but Marjorie continues talking. “Anyhow, please come in. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Actually, I didn’t want to show up empty-handed,” Mark says.
“Alyssa mentioned you’re a Martini fan and Vaughn likes Old Fashioneds, so I brought a bottle for each of you.
” He doesn’t mention that he insisted we stop by what appeared to be—at least from the outside—a ridiculously snobby-looking liquor store on the way here.
He didn’t want me to go in with him, so I have no idea if the inside was as pretentious as the outside, and I also have no idea what he purchased.
I just hope it was nothing insanely expensive.
He removes a distinctive green bottle from the paper shopping bag in his hand and passes it to Marjorie.
“Tanqueray Number Ten,” she says as she takes it. “A very good choice. Thank you.”
He pulls a second bottle from the bag, handing it to Vaughn.
It’s a bottle of Glenfiddich Gran Reserva, and I breathe a sigh of relief as I take Mark’s now-free hand and squeeze it.
It’s expensive, but only a couple of hundred dollars expensive.
I won’t have to hear about the time one of my boyfriends showed up with a two-thousand-dollar bottle of bourbon for the rest of my life.
“Here, let me take that,” Marjorie says, snatching the empty paper bag from Mark’s grasp as she and Vaughn lead us to the sunken living room.
“What year was your house built?” Mark asks.
“Fifty-eight. We’ve tried to remain as faithful to the original style as possible while still updating it,” Marjorie supplies.
Mark nods. “You’ve done a wonderful job. My house was built around the same time—sixty-one.”
“Would you like a tour?” Marjorie asks Mark as I take a seat on the couch.
“I’d love one.”
Marjorie leads Mark down the hallway, discussing the finer points of the architectural style as Vaughn sits next to me. I wait until they’re out of earshot, and then hiss, “What is she doing?”
“Playing matchmaker, I assume,” he says with a disinterested shrug.
“What? We’re already here together. She doesn’t need to play matchmaker.”
“Feel free to tell her that.”
“She’s your wife!” I fume.
“Yes. And that’s why I won’t bother. Listen, I told you how we met. She wants that for you and Mark too.”
“First, I know nothing about how you met beyond that your relationship began as part of some con. Second, do you seriously think Mark is going to figure out what I’m doing and forgive me for it?” I scoff.
“You never know. Stranger things have happened.”
“Not that,” I assert. There’s no way he forgives me for any of it.
Least of all, lying to him about, well, everything.
I’m playing with fire, and the part of me that likes Mark is really starting to hate it.
But I wasn’t built to just sit around and let creeps like Matt Davidson and Garret Fischer get away with it.