Chapter 23
Despite Athena’s weird homemade Pictionary clues—“Express Yourself” and “The Importance of Being Earnest” had proven particularly
difficult to illustrate—Molly genuinely enjoyed the evening at Karl’s friends’ home. Upon receiving “Tell It to My Heart”
as her next clue, though, her patience finally ran out.
Tugging Karl closer, she whispered in his ear. “Let’s stay at the Spite House tonight.”
“Why?” His body tensed. “Something bothering you at my house?”
He didn’t sound defensive or angry. Just worried.
“Not at all. The Spite House is just considerably closer.” Her lips brushed his ear as she leaned in and spoke as quietly
as humanly possible. “It’s also where I’m storing all the toys I purchased today.”
Since the nice blouse and flowing cuffed trousers she’d intended to wear to the reunion clearly wouldn’t suit Karl’s bizarre
She’s All That–inflected vision for the event, she’d set out with Lise to do a little shopping of her own that afternoon—only to find that
Harlot’s Bay’s stores didn’t stock her preferred type of formal wear. Not in her size, anyway. In the end, she and Lise had
parked themselves at the Doxy Diner, eaten tuna melts while they located better outfit options online, paid for rushed shipping . . .
and then found themselves with time to kill and nowhere in particular to be.
Naturally, they’d visited the rival sex shops. Molly needed to know what was earning the stores so much custom-cake money, all right?
Also, she’d wanted a vibrator. Make that three vibrators, because while the first shop had carried an array of gorgeous, high-end
toys, the second included shapes and functionalities she’d never even imagined before. Including a dildo with strategically
placed fins and another with pulsing bulb-type things, which—as Lise had confirmed—Sadie Brazen’s books had directly inspired.
Molly had felt obliged to pick up one of those clit-sucker toys at the first store too, because those were freaking incredible,
and she deserved choices in her adult-toys arsenal.
“Toys?” When she nodded, Karl’s brows rose. “Assume you don’t mean goddamn LEGO.”
“Nope.” This time, she lowered her voice until she could barely even hear herself. “Not unless the LEGO manufacturer has begun
dabbling in Sadie Brazen-inspired guppy-dick vibrators.”
For a moment, he simply stared at her.
Then he grabbed her hand, hauled her up with him as he stood, and turned to Matthew and Athena. “Appreciate the food and your
weird-ass busybody version of Pictionary, but we gotta go.”
And that was the end of their evening with friends. She barely had time to wave goodbye before they were out the couple’s
door and inside her own. Once there, they stumbled up the stairs to her narrow bedroom, making out all the while. Within minutes,
they were both naked and surrounded by a panoply of delightfully odd toys, and Karl was inside her.
As he would definitely put it: halle-fucking-lujah.
Molly was maybe ten seconds away from her third orgasm of the night—on her back at the edge of the mattress, hips propped on a pillow, feet braced high on the nearby wall as Karl stood between her legs, gripped her hips in his big hands, and fucked her hard and deep—when he paused, panting.
“You . . .” He sucked in a breath. Rubbed a thumb over the rise of her belly and stared at the spot where his dick stretched
her open, his cheeks flushed a deep pink. “You keeping your clit-Roomba in place? Can change positions, if that helps.”
He might not be moving anymore, but he was buried to the root inside her while the toy continued sucking away, building the
pressure between her legs until sparks flew behind her eyelids. Pretty soon, it wouldn’t matter whether he kept thrusting
or not, because she’d come either way.
“I’m keeping it in place.” With difficulty, since the impact of each penetration and her own arching and grinding had made
holding the oval-shaped aperture directly over her clit tricky, but— “Keep going. I’m so close. Please.”
She squeezed her eyes shut and mindlessly rocked back and forth, chasing more friction.
Before she tipped over the edge, though, she had to—had to—
“A Roomba moves . . .” She was gasping in between words. “It moves without the need for immediate human guidance. This is
more of a . . . a clit-Hoover. It’ll stay in . . . in one spot and suck until you . . . until you move it. Just . . . just
saying.”
Karl’s laughter echoed off the bare walls of the tiny bedroom. “Only you, Dearborn. Only you would nitpick shit while getting
full-on railed.”
After pressing an affectionate kiss to her inner knee, he began fucking her again. With an appreciative moan, she slapped a protective palm over the clit-Hoover still working between her legs and clutched the pillow beside her head with her free hand.
Only moments later, her orgasm lit her like the dawn. Electrified, jubilant, she cried out and let the toy coax every twitch
from her tingling flesh as Karl clutched her thigh, shoved as deep inside her as he could, and came with shaking legs and
a long, loud groan.
Seeing his pleasure only prolonged hers, and she clenched around him as hard as she could. His hips jerked, and his inhalation
hissed through his teeth.
“Holy shit, Molly. Yes.” When she opened her eyes, his face was taut in teeth-gritted ecstasy, his body gleaming with sweat in the low light. “Yes.”
When she got too sensitive, she removed the toy from her clit, turned it off, and tossed it aside. And when he collapsed into
her open arms, she wrapped them around his torso and held him close despite their mutual stickiness.
“Jesus,” he eventually mutter-shouted, and brushed a kiss over the shell of her ringing ear. “Never used sex toys on anyone
before. That was incredible.”
“There’s a reason they’re called toys.” She stroked a hand over his still-heaving flank. “They’re fun.”
As he laughed again, his face buried in the crook of her neck, the vibration prickled the skin there. “Molly fucking Dearborn.
Hottest pedant on the whole damn planet.”
She tickled his ribs, and he squirmed and snorted adorably. “How’s your back?”
Earlier that evening, her scrutiny had detected an unfamiliar wince on his face whenever he had to twist to reach something. Even now, the muscles along his spine were far too bunched under her skimming palm, when they should be supple in post-orgasmic relaxation.
“I know you were hurting tonight,” she added. “Don’t bother denying it.”
He made a rumbly, dismissive sound in his chest. “It’ll be fine. Just standing a lot lately.”
In other words, he’d been working extraordinarily long hours to make time for her. Which was his choice, but she hated that
he was suffering for it.
“While you deal with the condom, I’ll get the massage oil I bought today. I can give you a good rubdown.” When he began to
object, she cupped his skull and shoved his face harder into her neck, until his protests became indecipherable. “What, you
thought you were the only one who liked taking care of your, uh . . .”—what were they, anyway?—“your lover? Wrong, Dean. One
hundred percent wrong. As per usual.”
Nudging him until he rolled off her and to the side, she smothered his continued bitching with a lingering kiss, then got
up, put on his tee, and took care of her post-sex bathroom visit. By the time she got back with the bottle of sweet almond
oil in hand, he’d disposed of the condom but not done much else.
Sprawled facedown across the bed, the poor guy looked exhausted.
Since her return to Harlot’s Bay, he’d been trying so damn hard.
Staying late at the bakery, so they had more hours to spend together on the weekends.
Dealing with nosy customers and neighbors and friends and family and protecting her from their scrutiny.
Cooking for her. Planning exercises and outings.
Catering to her preferences whenever possible.
Making her come at least twice as often as he did.
Somehow, even amidst all that effort, he’d still found the time and energy to listen to his family’s excited chatter every
night, give Charlotte and her kids a ride whenever her parents needed the family car, unofficially cater an erotic book club,
and mow his elderly neighbor’s lawn at the crack of dawn on Sundays.
He was such a good man, and he would make an excellent life partner. That much she now knew, despite all her hard-won cynicism.
At tonight’s weird Pictionary game, each clue had felt like a neon sign pointing toward the obvious: She was a goner for Karl
Andrew Dean. And because earnestness was in fact very important, she’d had to admit the anxiety-inducing truth, if only to
herself: If he asked her for a long-term commitment, she trusted him—trusted them—enough to express herself and say yes.
Hopefully he’d give her the opportunity to tell it to his heart. Sooner rather than later, because her time in Maryland was
running out far too quickly. Yesterday, an email from her usual airline had reminded her to reserve her preferred meals on
her upcoming flight. She hadn’t responded. Kept hoping she wouldn’t need to.
Kept hoping he’d talk about a real future together.
But that was a problem for another time. Not now. After all his hard work, Karl deserved her full attention, and she’d give
it to him.
Pouring her affection into each stroke of her hands, she took her time with his massage.
Rubbed his shoulders and arms and back and thighs, and everywhere else he seemed tense.
When he didn’t object to oil in his hair, only rumbled in happy-sounding approval, she gave him a scalp rub too, alternating between gentle pressure and firm strokes.
At which point he started snoring, exactly as she’d planned.
Doing her best not to jostle him, she settled more comfortably beside his sleeping form and kept kneading until her hands
cramped. As soon as she lifted them, though, he woke with a snort.