Chapter 2 #2
We eat at the kitchen table. We talk idly about things going on. Noah and Peyton are planning the triplets’ birthday. It’s hard to believe they’ll be one next month. Peyton wants to do a whole production with three cakes—one for each of them—decorations, bouncy castles, and pony rides.
“Shouldn’t that be like birthday number three, so they remember it?”
“Yes, but they’re not our babies.”
I nod, pour us more wine, and eat the meal my wife has made for me.
Mostly, I listen. She runs through the rest. Trudy wants to add a second bread delivery because the deli sold out of turkey clubs before noon three days in a row.
Another building, on the side of town that needs a lot of help, is going to come up for auction.
“What are you thinking?”
Josie shrugs. “My first thought is apartments. Something for single parents.”
I lean back in my chair and nod. “Okay. Make an offer.”
She smiles even though she already knew I’d be on board. For three years she was a single mom until the frenemy came along. Sure, she had Katelyn and Mason, but Nick . . . I shudder at the thought.
After dinner, I push my plate back. Josie reaches across the table to stack it on hers, and I catch her wrist.
She looks at me. She knows that look. She’s known it for most of her life.
“What time is Paige due home?”
“Not for another hour or so.”
I pull her toward me by the wrist. She comes around the table, and I push my chair back to make room.
I run my hands up the backs of her thighs, slow, and she tips her head back as I pull her to my lap.
I press my mouth to her throat, to the soft skin above her collarbone, and taste the salt on her.
She makes a sound. Quiet, private, the one she only makes when we’re alone.
Her hands grip my shoulders and those delicate fingers of hers push into my knotted muscles.
“Here?” she asks.
“Here.”
I stand and lift her onto the edge of the table.
The plates slide. She doesn’t care. I don’t care.
Her legs wrap around me, pulling me in, and I feel her heels dig into the back of my thighs.
She pulls my shirt over my head. Her hands move across my chest, my ribs, the tattoo of her name.
Her fingers trace the letters the way they have since she first saw her name inked on my skin, long before we returned to each other.
I unbutton her blouse one button at a time while she watches me.
Her breath changes when I reach the third one.
By the last one I’m not thinking about the tour or the empty seats or the word legacy.
I’m not thinking about anything except her skin under my hands and the way her hips rock against mine when I press into her.
“I missed you,” she whispers. She says it into my mouth. Her fingers dig into the muscles along my spine. “I missed you so much.”
I don’t answer with words. I answer with my hands and my mouth and every part of me that belongs to her, which is all of it. Every single part.
We knock a wine glass off the table. Neither of us stops.
I pull her jeans down over her hips. She lifts to help, and I drag them the rest of the way off, one leg at a time, my mouth following the inside of her thigh.
She gasps, the sound sharp and needy in the quiet of the room.
Her hand finds the back of my head, fingers twisting in my hair, guiding me where she wants me.
I take my time. I’ve been on a bus, away from her, for too long, and the hunger I feel isn’t just for her body but for the total surrender I know I can evoke from her. I’m not rushing this.
I linger on the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, my tongue tracing slow, wet circles that make her legs tremble.
I can feel her muscles twitching, her hips beginning to tilt upward instinctively, searching for the friction she craves.
I ignore the urgency in her movements, choosing instead to kiss my way upward with agonizing slowness.
I want her desperate. I want her to feel every single second of the anticipation until she’s practically begging.
As I reach the edge of her lace panties, I don’t move them immediately.
Instead, I press my face against the fabric, inhaling the scent of her arousal.
She lets out a whimpering moan, her fingers tightening in my hair, pulling me closer.
I let her think she’s in control for a moment, then I shift.
I reach up, my hand sliding from her hip to the back of her head, my fingers weaving firmly into the thick locks of her hair.
With a sudden, deliberate motion, I grip her hair and pull back gently but firmly.
Her head tilts back, exposing the long line of her throat, and a soft, broken cry escapes her lips.
The shift in power is instantaneous. The desperation in her eyes changes from a request to submission.
She knows this grip; she knows that, when I hold her like this, her only job is to feel and obey.
“Stay still,” I murmur against her skin, my voice a low growl that vibrates through her.
I slide the lace aside, exposing her glistening pussy to the cool air.
She shudders, her breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches.
I don’t dive in. I start by teasing the outer lips with the tip of my tongue, flicking lightly, barely touching her, just enough to make her writhe beneath me.
She tries to arch her back, to push herself against my mouth, but I tighten my grip on her hair, anchoring her in place.
“I told you to stay still,” I whisper, though my tone is thick with desire.
I watch her face—the way her eyelids flutter, the way her lips part.
She is completely undone, trembling under the weight of my control.
Finally, I let my tongue slide upward, swirling firmly around her clit.
She lets out a loud, uncontrolled moan, her fingers clawing at the sheets.
I begin to suck, a slow, rhythmic draw that pulls the sensation deep into her core.
I can feel her pulsing against my tongue, the heat of her radiating upward.
I alternate between long, sweeping licks and sharp, insistent suctions, savoring the taste of her and the sound of her breaking.
Every time she tries to move, to chase the pleasure, I give her hair a small, corrective tug, reminding her who is directing this dance.
She is a mess of shivering nerves and wet heat, her breath hitching in a rhythmic cadence that matches my tongue.
I move lower, teasing the entrance of her pussy with the tip of my tongue, dipping inside just far enough to make her gasp before retreating.
I want her on the very edge, hovering in that space where the pleasure becomes almost unbearable.
I can feel the tension building in her thighs, the way she’s beginning to shake uncontrollably. I increase the pressure, my tongue working with a focused, dominant intensity, driving her closer and closer to the brink while maintaining that firm, controlling hold on her hair.
When I stand, she’s already pulling at my belt.
Her hands are shaking. Mine aren’t steady either.
I push inside her and her whole body tightens around me, her heels locked behind my back, her nails cutting into my shoulders.
I hold still for a second. Just one. Just to feel her.
She bites my lower lip and pulls, and that’s the end of holding still.
The table scrapes against the floor. Her hand knocks a fork off the edge.
I grip her hip with one hand and brace the table with the other, and she meets every thrust with her own rhythm, the one we’ve built over decades.
She pulls me closer by the back of the neck, breathes hard against my ear, and tells me not to stop.
She doesn’t realize I never want to stop.
She finishes first. I feel it run through her whole body.
The clench, the shudder, her breath catching high in her throat.
She holds my face and watches me with half-closed eyes while I follow her, and when I do, she pulls me down against her and wraps both arms around my head and holds me there while my breathing comes apart.
We stay like that. Her heartbeat against my cheek. My weight half on her, half on the table. The grandfather clock in the living room ticking, reminding us that time is never on our side anymore.
She’s leaning back on her palms, still on the table, her blouse open, her hair falling out of the clip. I’m standing between her knees with my forehead against hers, both of us breathing hard. Her cheeks are flushed. Her lips are swollen. She looks wrecked in the best possible way.
“Welcome home,” she says.
I laugh against her mouth. Kiss her once more, soft this time. Brush her hair back behind her ear.
“I’ll clean up the glass.”
“You’d better. I’m not moving.”
I pick the broken stem off the floor and wipe the wine from the tile while she watches me from the table, still half-dressed, legs swinging off the edge. She looks twenty years younger in this light, exactly how I see her.
An hour later, I drive to Ralph’s at Josie’s urging. She had a few things from a PTA meeting to take care of and wanted to do it dressed and without me disturbing her. My feelings were hurt, but I understand.
We bought Ralph’s a few years ago when Ralph’s son, Charlie, wanted to retire. He took my beloved bar—the one that knowingly served me as a minor—and gave me an offer I couldn’t refuse. As a teen, I loved Ralph’s and wanted to make sure Beaumont didn’t lose a once-thriving bar.
The restoration lasted four months. I had a solid crew working to bring Ralph’s back to life. The sign out front is the same one that hung there when I was in high school, only better. The light isn’t dim and it doesn’t blink anymore.
The bartender on shift, Gina, is behind the counter. Three regulars sit at the far end nursing drafts and watching a ballgame on the screen above the top shelf. The jukebox is off. The kitchen closed an hour ago, and the fryer smell is fading.