Chapter 37
Thirty-Seven
B utch and I connect for late-night phone calls and the occasional conversation during working hours. It’s probably a godsend that geography and life’s priorities conspire to keep us apart; when we’re in physical proximity, we wind up in bed.
I’m grateful for the forced “slow but steady” concept we agreed upon to see where our budding relationship—or possibility of one—goes.
We’re getting to know one another.
After ripping each other’s clothes off.
Backwards, and yet…forwards.
I don’t want to lose myself again, and already, the telltale tug veers hard in his direction. He’s likable. Fun. Principled. A gentleman. And yeah, fine…talented in the sack.
It’s strangely intimate conversing into the night. We cover everything from the mundane to our upbringing to confessions. The absence of speaking in person provides a barrier, a false safety net to say…anything.
“Best subjects in school?” Butch asks.
“English, art, and gym. I was terrible at math and science. In eighth grade, we were forced to evacuate the class after I plunged my burning test tube into the wrong beaker and toxic gases filled the room.”
He chuckles. “I can’t write worth a damn, but math, science, and history all come easy. And I excelled in auto shop, of course.”
Duh. “From here on out, I’ll handle the writing, you handle the arithmetic.”
“Deal.”
“It’s like together, we complete the Pi. Get it…Pi?”
“Are you attempting a math joke?” he says.
“ Attempting may be the operative word.”
“At least you know your jokes suck.”
“At least you know my mouth can.”
“That day we met? I thought— knew —you were the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever laid eyes on,” Butch admits.
I smile, remembering the scene. “I’ve never done anything as impulsive as I did that day...asking a stranger to sleep with me.” With whiplash force, the salacious threesome on Seas the Day blazes into my memory. Guess we can file that under impulsive too.
“A handsome stranger?” he teases.
“A deliciously tall, dark, mildly grumpy, and fine as hell lumberjack.”
“Grumpy?”
“You were a little irritable,” I amend.
“Any regrets?”
I swear, his voice is even lower on the phone, and it shoots straight between my legs. “Zero. If I think too long about it, I get turned on.” My hand runs along the top of the comforter, smoothing the ripples. “And…” My throat tightens. Shit.
“And what?”
I pause.
“Sundance? You okay?”
I clear my throat, swallow the damn lump. “It gave me hope I could enjoy intimacy with someone again.”
“You’re giving me that hope too, baby.”
The full moon glows through the window, casting its light across my comforter as I let another truth fly.
Talking to Butch in the dark, right before I go to sleep, is fast becoming one of my favorite things.
“I didn’t go to my senior prom. My boyfriend and I broke up a few weeks beforehand.
It still bugs me to this day—missing something I wanted to attend so badly. ”
“Your ex was obviously a schmuck,” Butch says.
That elicits as smile. “It gets worse. He asked another girl to go the week before. So even though he pitched a bitch about going when it was on our docket, he was apparently not too depressed over our demise to ask some other chick in the eleventh hour.”
“What a dick.”
“Not even good dick.”
“Ouch. If it makes you feel any better, I wore the ugliest tuxedo ever created to my prom. It was purple. Purple , Jacqui.”
A chuckle bubbles out picturing 70s-style formalwear. “I’ll bet you had the big, ruffled shirt to go with it too, huh?”
He groans. “Sure did...with purple accents. I looked like a jolly pirate.”
“Doubtful, Lumberjack. ”
“I took solace in knowing I never had to step foot in one of those stupid dances again.”
“I’m going to need photographic evidence of prom night. And I know just who I can ask...” I’m down for any family photo albums showing cute little Butch at all stages of life.
“You’re never invited back. My mom already said she could tell you were bad news.”
“Liar.”
He chuckles. “You’re my kind of bad news, Sundance.”
“I never expected to stay so close to home,” Butch admits. “Sometimes I wonder how my life would be different if certain dominos hadn’t fallen.”
I pause. “Do you want to talk more about what dominos?”
“Not yet,” he answers gently.
“I never planned to leave California, but now that I have, I realize how cool it is to live somewhere so vastly dissimilar and unfamiliar. Geographically, culturally, visually, all of it.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Yes and no. It will always be home, I think. I miss my friends. And the cars. And sourdough bread. And what’s a girl gotta do to get a turkey on whole wheat with avocado and sprouts around here?”
“I’ll be honest. Never seen that on one menu. But you’ll find creamed chipped beef on toast all day long. It’s a southern staple.”
Sounds disgusting. “I’m scared to ask.”
There’s a pause, almost as if we’re both pondering where we hail from—two states, two coasts, three thousand miles apart.
“I’ve always wanted to visit the Sunshine State,” Butch says. His tone seems wistful, making me wonder about his secrets, those dominos.
“Yeah? I know a girl who could show you around…”
“Tell me one of your fantasies,” Butch coaxes.
I freeze.
“Sundance…you can tell me. Especially if you want it to come true.”
“Uhhh…”
“Okay then, tell me something you like.” His voice is warm, deep.
“Mint chocolate chip ice cream.”
He growls. “Something sex related.”
I stifle my laugh. “I think I may favor the taboo, kinky…uh, less traditional.”
“Now we’re talking. Like…?”
Way to put my foot so far into my mouth that I can’t speak. I don’t even know how to define taboo , aside from a threesome.
Except…maybe I do.
“Did you see the movie 9 ⒈／⒉ Weeks ? With Mickey Rourke and Kim Basinger?”
“I heard about it but haven’t seen it.”
“It was very…erotic. Bizarre. An interesting power dynamic.”
“Rourke’s got the power?”
“Basically. He made her crawl across the floor to him, and even though part of me was shocked by that, and more that she obeyed…”
“It made you wet?”
Then and now. “Yes,” I admit, despite my discomfort.
“What else?” His tone is thicker, deeper.
“He blindfolded her and fed her different foods, but it was sexy. And in another scene, she’s so stirred up just thinking about him, she masturbates in her office chair.
” This scenes pops into my mind with regularity.
“I’ve never seen anything like that on screen before…
and oh my god, there’s another scene where he takes her into a store and tests out a whip right in front of her, then buys it.
She’s alarmed, maybe aroused…I don’t know, but it was all so provocative. Very master-slave stuff.”
“And you’d like this, baby?” His low voice—and the desire oozing from it—steals my breath.
“I don’t know, but the movie turned me on.” At a time when almost nothing could.
“ You turn me on.”
I smile. “Back atcha, Lumberjack.”
He snorts.
“What’s your fantasy?”
“I’m dying to play with your ass.”
As in…the inner sanctum? “Ummm.”
“That a yes?”
I cough. “Could you be more specific?”
“I want to lick, finger, and fuck that beautiful hole. I dream about it.”
Oh. A little spike of panic rushes through me. “No one’s ever gone there, uh, before.” My mind instantly calls up the line from Star Trek’s opening credits : To boldly go where no man has gone before. Now I’m on the verge of cackling.
“Even better. It’ll be all mine.”
Something about that wiggles right between my thighs. Is it weird how much I like his possessiveness? And him saying all mine ? I shake my head…I literally just told him my fantasy is to be his slave. “Does it hurt?”
“Not if you do it properly.”
It bothers me that he’s experienced at this, which is absurd. “So, you’re an ass man?”
“It’s one of my favorite things. But I’m an equal opportunity kind of guy…I will lavish attention on all your gorgeous parts.”
“This is going to sound so stupid,” I say. And immature.
“Tell me,” Butch urges.
“I resigned myself to becoming a spinster on the move to Virginia.”
He barks out a laugh and I can’t help laughing at myself. “Aren’t you a little young for such a radical determination?”
“That, and decidedly melodramatic.”
“How’s spinsterhood going for you?”
“Not well. All I can think about is having sex with you again,” I admit.
The words roll off his tongue slow and intentional. “I’m going to fuck any thoughts about spinsterhood right out of you.”
Oh my.
“You said something last night, and it made me think about my own situation.”
Butch steals my full attention with that statement. I’m so eager for any tidbits about him. I make a little humming noise for him to continue.
“I haven’t had a relationship with a woman for over six years.”
He’s only thirty, so this strikes me as odd. “Why?”
“I haven’t wanted or needed to.”
Cryptic. “But you’ve had sex?” I mean, obviously. I’m living proof.
He coughs. “Yes. ”
“I’ll bet when I said no strings attached, you jumped for joy inside, didn’t you?”
“Are you kidding? I felt like I’d hit the million-dollar jackpot.”
I laugh, even though nothing could convince me I’m a million dollar lay. “Maybe you did. Our one-night stand was incredibly impulsive on my part.”
“You aren’t into casual sex?” Does he seem hopeful?
“Nope. I’m monogamous by nature.” Unless, well…is being with two guys monogamous? Mono equals one. Technicalities be damned—we were committed to each other. Until we weren’t. “I prefer commitment.”
“I don’t know if this makes me a caveman or male chauvinist or what, but I really fucking like hearing that for some reason.”
I’m silent, working myself into a tizzy. What would Butch think of my threesome activities? Would he judge me? Reject me? Scorn me? Will my past forever haunt my future?
“You still with me, beautiful?” His voice forces my thoughts from their spiral.
“Mm-hmm.”
“I know we’re taking things slow, and haven’t even broached this subject, but does that mean you want to be exclusive?”
A caught breath escapes. “Yes,” I answer honestly. “Do you?”
“Fuck, Jacqui. I can’t stand the thought of another man’s hands on you…I absolutely want you all to myself.”
My heart leaps even as my mind lobbies to stay grounded, reminding me not to get swept away or read too much into it. Killjoy. “Not into sharing then?”
“No fucking way,” he practically growls, his timbre dipping lower, almost menacing. “And any man who’d agree to that is not only a fool but fails to understand your worth.”
Well. His words swim in my brain, trapped in an eddy .
“I’m a possessive motherfucker. I protect what’s mine—and will go any lengths to ensure you are safe, loved, and properly fucked.”
My pulse hammers. I gulp down his intense promise like a shot of tequila. “I don’t want to share, either,” I say quietly.
“Good,” he mutters.
There’s a pause—as if we’re both shell-shocked by our mutual revelations.
“What are you doing to me?” His agony is palpable.
“The same thing you’re doing to me,” I admit. The flutters amplify, taking flight once more. I’m falling for him, and it sure as hell sounds like he’s getting feelings for me too. For two people determined to avoid a relationship, our trains are headed off the rails.
Maybe they’ve already derailed.