Chapter 39
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I knew Nia was different the day that she walked into my office, with her dress stuck to her ass and an unbuckled high heel strapped to her foot.
I knew she would challenge me when she dropped to her knees in my office and insisted that I teach her.
I knew that I loved her when she called to tell me she’d stood up to her mother-in-law, and I’d smiled all night over how proud I was of her
I knew that I’d do anything in the world for her when I was ready to launch myself across the table to stab my father for disrespecting her tonight.
I don’t want her to have to be around him again.
I don’t want her to feel the same anxiousness that I do every time I feel a new and unfamiliar ache or pain.
She may not need me to, but that doesn’t keep me from wanting to protect her from the ugly things that exist in the world that I live in.
She’s had enough ugly.
I carry her to my bed, only moving a hand from her body for as long as it takes me to pull back the plush comforter on top of it. She holds tight to my body, offering the occasional muffled sniffle from the side of my neck as the two of us lie together.
Because I know the statistics of recurrence and because I’ve known my plan since the moment that I turned eighteen and had any choice in the matter, I’ve kept myself at a distance from other people. It never mattered how long or short term my relationships were, it didn’t matter how much I valued my friendships. As far as I saw it, I had an expiration date.
Letting my ex-wife get as close to me as she did felt like staring down the barrel of a loaded gun, waiting for it to go off and destroy us both.
Nia feels like oxygen.
She’s like turning on a light in a room that I never knew existed. She’s hope that I never knew I’d been living without.
When she finally pulls her face away from my neck, her lips meet mine, letting my tongue into her mouth to deepen our kiss. The usually-sweet taste of her lip balm is tinged with salt from tears that have made their way down her face.
“Are you still angry?” She breathes.
“No,” I assure her with a shake of my head, pushing her hair behind her ear before I take her mouth once more with my own.
As a quiet moan slips from her lips to mine, I grab her by the back of the head, pulling it backward in one harsh motion. She stares at me with caramel-colored eyes, lit up with the dreamy haze which tells me she’s already on her way into subspace.
Keeping my eyes locked onto hers, I slide my hand into her lace panties and slip a finger between her lips, gently stroking back and forth as moisture pools between her legs.
“I want you to use my name when you come tonight,” I tell her, keeping my voice low, “do you understand?”
“Yes,” she whispers.
As a reward for her answer, I slowly dip my finger inside of her, earning a whine that sends heat and pressure flooding directly to my cock. My mouth hovers near hers, her hands seeking purchase at the back of my head as the pad of my finger works against her most sensitive spot.
“Do you want to make your Dom happy?” I ask her.
A moan slips out of her as she tells me, “More than anything.”
Using my free hand to grip her face, I dive into her mouth with my own, swallowing the delicious sounds that she feeds me before pressing a kiss to the tip of her nose.
“Then be a good whore for me and sit on my face.”
She quickly works off her panties, kicking them off as I withdraw from her, now using my thumb to draw lazy circles around her clit.
As she settles over my face with that pretty pink pussy just inches from my mouth, she hesitates. My hands move to bite into her hips with a harsh warning grip.
“I didn’t tell you to hover,” I growl. “I told you fucking sit on it.”
She lets out a sharp gasp as I pull her onto my mouth, forcing her into position as my tongue begins its trail of long, deliberate strokes through her slit.
I moan against the taste of her, against the feel of her arousal spreading across my skin as her hips roll against my face. My legs are forced to shift as the pressure in my cock becomes nearly unbearable, and as I adjust my body, I pick up the speed of my movements until I’m lapping and sucking hungrily at her pussy as if she’s the last meal I’ll ever eat.
Her body shifts above mine, giving my hands the opportunity to roam upward, beneath the t-shirt she’s wearing, to knead the flesh of her breasts as she quickly reaches behind her to work open my slacks and move them out of her way.
My desperate groan is muffled as she takes hold of my cock and offers it long strokes that could almost drive me insane.
“ Brody ,” she whines as her body tenses, firming her grip as she reaches the head.
She is mine .
My incredible, beautiful whore who loves being dirty for me and only me.
Who tastes like Heaven and takes a punishment like a fucking dream.
Her body, her mind, and her heart belong to me; and in spite of every instinct telling me to keep a wall between us, she has all of mine, in return.
With a grunt as pleasure rockets through my bloodstream, my hips drive into her, fucking her fist while she rides my face, each of us teetering closer to the edge with every stroke of her hand and pass of my tongue.
As her thighs tremor against my ears, I use every ounce of willpower I have to hold myself at bay. It isn’t until her body stills and the sweet sound of her orgasm fills the room that I allow myself to join her, pulsing in her grip until I’m spent.
Her body slackens as she comes down, sliding off of me and onto the space left next to me on the bed.
“What are you expected to do when you make a mess?” I ask her, angling my chin toward my lap, wiping her arousal from my chin to suck it free from my fingers.
“I’m supposed to clean it up, Sir,” she tells me as she pivots her body and drops to all fours.
My hand meets the curve of her ass, kneading into her soft flesh as she takes hold of the base of my cock. Her tongue darts out to lick me from base to tip, lapping up every drop of spilled cum left behind.
“You like having my cum in your mouth, don’t you, you sweet, filthy girl?” I tease.
“Yes, Sir, I do,” she tells me as she straddles my waist, bracing her palms against my chest.
The corner of her mouth ticks into a coy smile as my fingers push through her hair, her teeth grazing her lower lip. I smile proudly at her, stroking a thumb across her cheek before I pull her toward me, meeting her in a kiss.
“We taste so good together,” she whispers against my lips.
I pull her into me again, letting my tongue slide against hers. She’s right; we do taste good.
Her nose and forehead press against mine as we part, her hand reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear as she swallows down the evidence of our shared pleasure and a smile spreads across her face.
“You love me,” she says, as if she’s only now heard what I told her as we stood in my closet. I press my lips to hers, then to the tip of her nose in response. “Does that scare you?”
“A little, yes,” I admit.
It terrifies me.
My hands trail up her body, letting my fingertips massage into her skin as they work their way up her back and arms, then back down again toward her ass.
“Me too,” she tells me. Her thumbs stroke either side of my jaw, pushing through my facial hair as my eyes swallow hers. “But you still don’t look worried.”
“I’ve been told that I never do,” I tease.
I’m not sure how long it is that we lie in my bed together before finally deciding to get up and shower – long enough for the rest of the house to have gone dark, save the small light above the stove.
Nia’s life will return to normal tomorrow; long hours and double shifts that I can’t save her from by calling her in for a meeting. More attempts to find normalcy and maintain civility with her custody arrangement.
My day-to-day life will ultimately remain unchanged, yet something will feel missing, no longer seeing her name written into my schedule.
She’s become a regular fixture in my life.
She’s become a part of me.
“This is my nightmare,” Isla grumbles beside me as the too-thin heels of her shoes pierce the ground beneath her with each step. “I hate nature.”
“I would hardly call this nature, dear,” I chuckle.
Rows of vendors line the park, most of them carrying various food items, but a few are littered with handmade crafts. Anything from crocheted pickles holding supportive messages to wrapped wire jewelry and tapestries.
Isla’s lip curls as we reach a butcher’s table and I reach for a decent-sized cut of beef, dropping it into my basket before handing the vendor some cash. She manages to correct her facial expression as we step away, heading for the table of a produce vendor, instead.
We make our way through the stalls and I tune out ninety-five percent of her complaints, which only seem to stop on the occasion of which she finds something shiny. While my bag is filled with meats, cheeses, and produce, Isla’s is littered with jewelry and decorative pieces which are no doubt going to wind up collecting dust in her storage room.
I pause near a table lined with delicate and colorful jewelry, picking up a set of earrings adorned with pale yellow flowers.
“Those are cute,” Isla comments. With a quirk of her brow, she adds, “Does Nia have pierced ears?”
“Her daughter does,” I answer.
“I’ll be fucked,” she says with a smug grin spreading across her face. “You love that little girl.”
“No,” I argue. “Nia and I are going to talk to her tonight and I want to win her approval.”
“You love her,” she taunts, jabbing me in the chest with her long, pointed fingernail.
I let out an annoyed huff with a shake of my head as I pay for the pair of earrings and a small bracelet that matches them. Isla hurries to keep up with me as we finish our shopping, making our way back to my SUV waiting parked near the sidewalk.
As we – well, I – work to load up the trunk, I can’t shake the sudden weight on my chest.
It’s a nagging guilt, tugging at a feeling that I’ve been trying to leave behind since I talked to Nia about my marriages and their endings.
I didn’t want children; I don’t want children.
Yet, Isla is right. I care deeply about Nia’s daughter. I care that she’s happy, I care that she’s safe, and as much as I’d rather not admit it out loud or to myself, I care whether or not she wants me in their lives.
When I sat at that dinner table with my family, I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that I would never want her near one of those gatherings. I would keep her far away from my parents and from the toxic air that crops up when we’re near each other; I wouldn’t let her breathe that in.
I couldn’t give April children, and I didn’t want to; but here I am, now driving to my sister’s house to pick up a tray of macaroni and cheese that I asked her to make in case Katie doesn’t like steak.
I’m used to being in control.
Now, with anxiousness flooding my veins, I feel so far out of it.
The last time that I cooked a meal for more than just myself was two summers ago. Clare and Edie had gotten into a fight and Clare had shown up at my door after having used her mother’s phone to order a rideshare to my house.
After an hour-long lecture about the dangers of the internet and getting into the car of a stranger, especially as a twelve-year-old girl, I agreed to let her stay with me for a few days.
Our meals during her stay weren’t nearly as nice as the one that I’m making tonight, and the conversation was just as enthralling as would be expected between a grown man and a pre-teen girl.
Tonight, I have a cast iron skillet waiting on the stove, a selection of fresh herbs just waiting to be used, and a beautiful tenderloin ready to be seared to perfection. I try not to pay too much attention to the way that the macaroni and cheese warming in the oven might contrast to the rest of the meal.
Nia stands beside me while I work, having been instructed to relax and enjoy herself. Katie sits at the kitchen table, surrounded by crayons, markers, and pencils as she fills in a page from a coloring book.
“Nia, you don’t—” I hesitate, flicking my gaze toward Katie, lost in her artwork.
“No,” she answers my unasked question with a shake of her head. Keeping her voice low so that her daughter won’t hear her, she tells me, “I wanted to get my tubes tied after Katie. If we’d had to go through that again…I couldn’t do it. Dan wouldn’t sign off on it, though. He might have wanted more kids.”
My blade pulls more harshly through the cut of beef than I intend it to, and I look at her with a furrowed brow.
“Is that still something that you want?” I ask her. “I have a list of doctors who don’t have ridiculous, arbitrary requirements.”
She considers for a moment as she pulls the cork from her wine bottle and splashes a finger of it into her glass. I wait for her to have a sip of it, watching her eyes as they shine at her daughter.
“If there’s no chance…”
“Completely impossible,” I assure her. “I have double and triple checked.”
Her gaze is far away, and as her eyes glaze over, I’m not entirely sure that she’s still in the room with me. I’ve seen it hundreds of times, and I’m sure I’ve done it a hundred more.
A bad memory scratching at the surface, an ache in the chest. Almost enough to knock one off their feet, but not quite.
“I never realized how controlling he’d been,” she whispers into the wine glass still held at her lips.
Wiping my hands on a kitchen towel, I reach for her free hand. “Sweet girl,” I say as I press my lips to the back of it, “that part of your life is over. You make your own decisions, now.”
Her eyes drift closed with a sigh and she leans to press her body against mine, letting the two of us melt together for a brief moment before remembering that we aren’t alone, here. That two small, unaware eyes might turn toward us at any given second.
Excusing herself, she turns to leave the kitchen, and I take a pinch at the curve of her ass as she walks away.
I return to my task, letting my eyes flit toward the two of them while I finish getting our dinner prepared. Nia picks up a crayon and helps Katie to fill in some spaces on the coloring sheet in front of them, the two of them giggling and smiling as they work together.
“Mommy,” Katie says as I reach for a stack of plates, “is Brody your boyfriend?”
I nearly drop the plates in my hands.
Nia’s eyes shoot in my direction and we offer each other an uncertain shrug. We were planning to test the waters tonight, regardless, but I’m not sure that either of us were planning for this.
Do children this young even understand the concept of a relationship? I can’t remember my niece talking about boyfriends until she was…well, maybe she was just about this age. It was a kindergarten ‘boyfriend’ I’d made a note to keep an eye on, but I suppose that the concept was the same, wasn’t it?
“Would it be okay with you if he was?”
Her daughter offers a shrug filled with indifference. “I like Brody.”
Nia chuckles, pressing her nose into Katie’s cheek before kissing it. “I like him, too,” she tells her.
I refill the girls’ drinks while we wait for our dinner to finish cooking: Nia, a glass of white wine, and Katie, a matching wine glass, but hers is filled with grape juice. The glass is simply because she wanted to feel ‘fancy.’
I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t worried about it being dropped onto the floor at some point in the evening.
She lets me place a few pieces of the steak onto her plate, even though I’m almost certain that she won’t eat it because she says that it looks ‘yucky,’ but her eyes light up when I reach for the casserole dish filled to the top with golden brown macaroni and cheese.
“This is very special, extra -tasty macaroni and cheese,” I tell her, scooping a portion of it from the tray to set onto her plate. “My older brother and I used to sneak big bowls of this at night and eat it until we made ourselves sick on it.”
“You have a big brother?” She asks with wide eyes as she reaches for her spoon and takes a scoop far too big for her to actually eat.
“Yes, I do,” I tell her. For a brief moment, my eyes flick to Nia. Concern and confusion carve themselves into her features. “I haven’t seen him in a very, very long time.”
“D’you miss him?”
“Katie-cat,” Nia cuts in, “maybe we should—”
Holding up a hand to stop her, I say, “I miss him very much. He was my best friend.”
“I want a big brother,” she sighs. Suddenly perking up, she says, “I gotta go potty.”
After directing her to nearest, most child-friendly restroom in the house, I rejoin Nia, dropping back into the seat next to hers.
“I’m sorry,” she says with her hand resting gently on my shoulder.
“It’s fine,” I assure her. “I don’t get to talk about him often.”
“Can I ask what happened to him?”
A long silence falls between us as I consider my answer carefully. Finally meeting her gaze, I tell her, “Montgomery children are expected to be perfect. Nash wasn’t perfect.”
“I think you should let Isla meet your parents,” she grumbles into her wine glass, and I let out a loud belly laugh.
“ You can pick her up from holding and listen to her whine the entire ride home about the dirty floors and the boring décor,” I tease.
As her hand drops to rest on my thigh and her head leans against my shoulder, I wrap an arm around her and press a kiss to the top of her head.
I always had nice meals with April, but they never felt like family meals. Especially toward the end, we were both staying busier to distract ourselves and we’d become detached. It was more of a routine than something that we enjoyed doing together.
As Katie rejoins us, it feels like having a family dinner; not the toxic kind of dinners that I have with my family, the kind that feel like a slow poisoning death, but a real family dinner. The way I’d imagined they were supposed to feel. Conversation is light and silly and we laugh .
I don’t know that my family has ever truly laughed when we’ve sat around the table together.
After dinner, I work to get a spare bedroom set up for Katie: a small lamp plugged in to act as a night light, an extra blanket in case she gets a chill, and I check the locks on her window at least four times to be sure that they’re secure.
I can’t help but to let myself imagine what this room may look like a year from now. No longer a spare bedroom, but one that she sleeps in in every weeknight, her mother in bed beside me.
Tripp sleeping in the spare room downstairs during his visits, and being happy about that because it would put him on the ground floor and allow him to make a clean exit without me noticing or insisting on taking him to the airport.
A voice screams at me in the back of my mind, telling me to stop this now, because I’m only going to wind up hurting them both.
That one way or another, it’s inevitable.
Unavoidable.
For the first time in years, I stuff that voice into a box and tuck it back into the dark corner of my mind that it crawled out from.