by Casey Winter
Luke waits for me at the door, his fists clenched as though he can barely contain himself any longer. I drop down on the floor and tug one shoe off. Luke jumps forward, pulling at the other shoe.
“My leg,” I yell, laughing. “Are you trying to snap me in half, bad boy?”
He laughs. “Not yet, Hannah. But I’m thinking about it.”
“Niño malo,” I cry, barely able to control my voice. “Sé paciente.”
He makes growling, moaning sounds, his eyes fixated on me like they’ve never been before. It’s like a new window has opened up onto our lust. As I tighten the buckles on my skates, he reaches down and starts stroking himself.
Tingles attack me.
I can’t wait any longer.
Eventually, the skates are on. Luke leans down and picks me up, carrying me into the kitchen and then placing me down on the hardwood floor as though I weigh nothing. I slip, catch myself, sliding easily on my skates.
Then I do a neat spin and he grabs me.
We kiss keenly, our hands gliding over each other. He grabs my hair in a tight ball and angles my head back, watching me gasp in pleasure. I rub my hand up and down his crotch, feeling his throbbing hardness, but then we can’t wait anymore.
We’re too horny. We need each other too badly.
He spins me around and yanks my pants down around my knees. The elastic of my waistband brings my legs close together, the sensation tickling my pussy, driving my anticipation into overdrive. I grip the counter and look at him over my shoulder, glad the blinds are closed, both because we have privacy and also because he looks dark and romantic in the half-light.
He pulls his throbbing, wet cock out of his pants, all ten-some inches of it. Usually, he teases me a little, strokes it up and down my lips. Sometimes he’ll rub the end of himself against my clit, even making me come just like that, and then sliding his cock in so that my orgiastic juices make me slick.
But now, he just slides right inside of me. He pushes deep, burying himself, and the wheels make me slide even deeper.
“Oh, God,” I whisper. “Just stay like that, Luke. Let me bounce.”
“Do it,” he roars. “Now, Hannah. Now. And moan for me. Moan in Spanish.”
It feels incredible to do as he says, to know that with each Spanish word, with each scrape of my skate wheels I’m bringing us both closer to our shared crescendo.
I push against the counter, sliding even quicker on the skates. It’s crazy how fast I’m able to pump my hips on his rock-hard cock with the wheels to help me, his balls slapping my clit so fast it’s like a vibrator pressed against it.
Luke fists my hair and tugs me back, fusing his rhythm with mine, thrusting into me so hard the wheels send me surging forward. But then he catches me, tugging me back.
Luke picks up the pace, leaning over me so that his sweaty belly grinds against my ass, sliding solidly. I lean up with him, loving the feeling of his toned body against my back, feeling each line of muscle.
“I can feel how close you are,” he whispers carnally in my ear. “I can feel your pussy getting tighter, wetter. I can feel you coming, Hannah. Right now—I can feel it.”
“I am,” I scream.
Then I start yelling loudly in Spanish, not even sure of what I’m saying. But I know that it’s making Luke insane with lust. Both of us are pumping our hips like if we stop the world will end. He finds a tingling spot deep instead of me and attacks it, over and over.
He reaches down and grabs my tangled underwear, using them as a lever to pull me even closer. I pivot on my skates, keeping my balance, and then both of us let out moans that are like two sides of the same coin. His deep, mine high-pitched and choked, we collapse into each other.
I feel everything in me quiver and somehow the air seems even spicier. We’re inside an oven, baking, the heat perfect, my world shattering into a million pieces and putting itself back together just as quickly.
It’s like the orgasm tosses me up in the air, flips me around, and then slams me back to the floor.
“Oh, Luke,” I say, turning my body, my ass still pressed against his sheet-rock abs, reaching up for his face.
He’s close to me, kissing, biting. “That was the best we’ve ever had,” he groans. “Hell, Hannah. You were so sexy. You were perfect. You are perfect.”
“That’s funny,” I whisper. “I was just thinking the same thing. About you, I mean.”
Finally, he slides out of me. I turn to find him removing a condom, reaching for some kitchen towel to wrap it in.
“Oh, thank God,” I whisper. “I didn’t even think about it. I was just so fricking horny.”
He winks. “So was I. But don’t forget who you’re talking to. I’m Mr. Prepared, remember?”
—
“I love this drive,” Luke says as he steers us through the forest toward Coach’s house, which is a big estate on the outskirts of town. “We used to come here for light practice sometimes during the summer, or to pig out after a big competition. Do you know the story about Coach’s house?”
“No,” I reply. “I didn’t even know there was a story.”
He nods. “Apparently—and Coach used to take a twisted pleasure in telling his students tall tales, so take this with a grain of salt—but apparently, Coach’s great-great-great-grandfather won it in a bet when some asshole disrespected his wife. Coach’s ancestor bet him he could beat this bastard and all his buddies, one after the other, in a boxing match, and they agreed. If Coach’s grandfather won, he got the house.”
“And if he lost?”
“Something bad,” Luke mutters. “Something disgusting. But he won, as Coach tells it, and the estate has stayed with them ever since. Could be a tall tale, but that’s Coach for you.”
“You love him,” I note.
Luke draws a breath. “I don’t use that word too often,” he says. “If ever, really. Maybe about Mom.”
“But you do. You’re just too macho to admit it.”
He lifts his arm, tensing his bicep as he steers with his other hand. “With pythons like these, how couldn’t I be?”
I reach out, give them a squeeze. “Very impressive,” I say, sort of sarcastic, but not really. It’s like they’re carved of marble. I snatch my hand away, before I’m tempted to squeeze more. “Are you excited for the fight?”
“Hell yeah,” Luke grins. “These two match up well, a wrestler against a kickboxer-slash-Jujitsu guy. It should be good.”
I shiver, thinking about it. “I’m not exactly soft, but sometimes it gets a bit brutal for my tastes.”
“That’s understandable,” Luke says. “But the art part of martial arts is important. When somebody’s flat-lined, cold, with a head-kick, for example … sure, the general public might just see bloody violence. But me, since I’ve trained, I see the feints that led up to it, the way he was kicking the body first, so that when the head-kick did finally come, he was covering his body instead of his head. That stuff’s like Picasso to people with eyes to see it.”
“Wow,” I say. “You know your stuff.”
“Yeah,” Luke replies, turning into the open gate of Coach’s house, which I’ve only ever been to for one of Queenie Fuller’s famous barbeques.
“I wrestled from twelve until … well, until recently, when I came here. And pretty soon I’ll have to find a place to start training again. But since then, I’ve been hitting Jujitsu and Muay Thai pretty hard, too, as well as Western boxing. A man in my business has to how to take care of himself.” He smiles in that way that tells me he’s thinking of the SEALs. “We used to roll in the teams.”
“Roll?” I ask.
“It’s what you call sparring in Jujitsu, and sparring is basically just fighting, but holding back a little, practicing … wait, what the hell?”
“What?” I ask, but then I turn to the big Colonial house and see that there are at least a dozen cars parked out front, with more snaking around the side. “Um, I thought this was supposed to be quiet thing?”
“So did I,” Luke mutters.
Queenie Fuller strides across the lawn in her flowery dress, her hair a long braid draped proudly over her shoulder, tied at the end with a yellow ribbon. “What a beautiful evening, isn’t it?” she cries. “Come on, don’t just sit there. We’ve got half the town out back. Since it’s so godly today, I thought I’d throw one of my famous cook-outs, and have ourselves a little shindig.”
She’s breathless, endearingly excited. I’ve always liked Queenie.
“I just walked right into The Jukebox and I told them, ‘Come on over to the Fuller residence for cold beer and a full belly.’ I even called up some folks in Lorham.”
“The Jukebox,” I whisper. “Does that mean my mom is here?”
“Lorham,” Luke echoes. “Does that mean my old man is here?”
“Well, yeah.” Queenie exclaims, glancing between us. “They’re both inside.”
Frick.
Luke looks at me questioningly. I know that if I told him to back the car out now, he’d leave. But I also know that it would be rude, especially since Queenie’s standing right there, and she’s been nothing but hospitable over the years. Queenie’s very proud of her famous barbeques. She’d be offended if we just left without an explanation.
“Come on,” I say, touching Luke’s hand. “We don’t want to miss the fight.”
—
Fifteen minutes later, I’m with Mom and Bella Hanlon, sipping a soda as Mom sits near the buffet table, stewing silently. Alejandra left The Jukebox and Queenie gave Mom a ride here, so it’s not like she even has her friend to fall back on. The men are inside—and, if this wasn’t awkward enough, Jock and Will Hanlon are here, in addition to Luke’s dad—watching the first of tonight’s fights.
Bella sings softly under her breath as she carries the plate over. She sets it down on the sleek hardwood table, glancing in through the kitchen window where Queenie and Sheriff Fuller are currently entangled in a loving kiss.
“They are so in love,” she smiles.
“You’re a little romantic, Bella,” Mom says, taking her burger. “Love is not always like that. Be careful.”
Bella pouts. “I know, Miss Ortiz, but it does exist, doesn’t it?”
Mom glances at me bitterly, as though wanting to get my opinion of love. Maybe she expects me to scream, Yeah, Mom, me and Luke are in love. And I’m not ashamed of it, either. Not that I think we’re in love … or do I?
“Maybe in storybooks,” Mom grumbles, in sour spirits. “But this is real life, girl. And in real life, a man runs off to Florida to be with his little plaything. Cerdo.”
I give Bella an apologetic look. “Mom, if you want to go—”
“Me?” Mom snaps. “Why would I want to go? I’m having a very good time.”
I sigh. “Okay, whatever you want.”
Bella keeps singing softly as she sits down, her voice rising like vapor in the summer-bright air.
“You’re amazing,” I tell her, sincerely. She really is. “Have you ever thought about, I dunno, America’s Got Talent or something?”
She blushes. “Oh, jeez,” she says. “No, I don’t think so. I get terrible stage fright. And by terrible, I mean: I’m the fly, and the stage is the spider’s web, and the crowd, well, I guess they’re the spider.”
From the house, yells and cheers erupt in equal measure. “What a fight. What a goddamn fight.”
Bella waves a hand. “Men and their blood sport.”
“There are women in there, too, girly,” Mom says. “It’s not only men who know how to cause pain, let me tell you.”
It’s pretty obvious she’s talking about me. Her face dropped just as severely as Russel Nelson’s when Luke and I entered the house together. It was so obvious, Queenie even pulled me aside afterward and said she was sorry if she’d somehow embarrassed us. I told her not to be silly. It’s not her fault.
“What about singing at The Jukebox one day?” I ask Bella, mostly just to avoid Mom’s seething. “With a small audience?”
Bella shrugs. “Maybe. I don’t know. If I had a partner, like a singing partner, someone up there with me …”
“What about that wild man in the forest?” I joke. “We were down there the other week—Luke took me there—and he was singing and …”
I cringe.
Luke took me there.
Now, why the hell would I say a thing like that? But Mom just fumes silently, not even looking at me. Bella’s blue and green-brown eyes—each one a different color—flit between us. She can sense the tension, I notice.
“Zak Clinton?” Bella says. “He sings? I didn’t know that.”
“Quite well,” I say, winking. “You never know, you might become more than singing partners.”
She shakes her head. “I doubt it. I’m pretty sure Jock thinks I’m going to grow old and become a spinster in Daddy’s house.”
“Well, you’re not,” I say. “So you can tell Jock to shove that ridiculous notion where the sun doesn’t shine.”
Bella laughs. Even Mom smiles.
Then, suddenly, there’s a ruckus in the house. Luke’s voice is raised, as well as Jock Hanlon’s. Both of them are yelling, but their voices are cancelling each other out, impossible to make out anything clearly. We all run into the house.
We find Luke on one side of the room, standing behind Sheriff Fuller looking like he’s ready to snap the world in half. His hair is a mess and his emerald eyes are alert and violent. On the other side of the room, Bruce Hanlon, Jock’s father, has his arm wrapped around his oldest son’s torso. Scattered chips lie on the floor and everybody is leaning back, as though they might get caught up in it. In the background, the fighting event continues to play, a fighter being interviewed about his victory.
“What the hell’s going on?” I snap.
Jock glances at me, a wicked gleam to his eyes. “Ah, speak of the devil.”
“Quiet, son,” Bruce snarls, a solid tree of a man. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”
“Don’t you even look at her, Hanlon,” Luke growls. “I’ll put you through that window.”
I go to him, forgetting Mom and Russel and everybody else for a moment. Putting my hand on his arm, I whisper, “Luke, baby, what happened?”
“Baby,” Jock goads. “Ah, how cute.”
“Luke,” I say firmly.
“He disrespected you,” Luke mutters.
“Fancy way to put it,” Jock rages. He sounds like he’s very drunk. He slurs and stumbles over his words. “I said that when you got done with her, I’d have my go. That tight ass from all that skating—it gives a man ideas.”
“Coach,” Luke snaps, looking at Sheriff Fuller. “You need to get out of my way right now. You need to move.”
“He’s just trying to rile you, Luke,” Sheriff Fuller says reasonably.
“Yeah, and it’s working,” Luke grunts.
“One hell of a way to respect your brother’s memory, Lukey boy.” Jock cackles.
“Luke, I’m sorry about this,” Bruce Hanlon says, sighing. “My son clearly doesn’t know how to handle his drink.”
“You’re right about that, sir,” Luke says. “But there’s an easy way to sort this.”
“Come on, then,” Jock yells. “You think I’m scared of you, Luke?”
“No,” Luke says. “I don’t. But I think you will be when I’m done.”
“Luke, it’s fine,” I hiss. “I’m a big girl. You really think some childish comment like that’s going to ruin my night?
Now Will Hanlon steps forward, his soft words in stark contrast to his tattoo-covered body and the hard look in his eyes. “Jock, man, you’ve had a lot to drink. Let’s just try and calm down, eh?”
“Listen to your brother,” Bruce snaps. “You’re making a goddamn fool of yourself.”
Jock glares at his younger brother. “You on that prick’s side now?”
“No,” Will says slowly. “But … well, I respect Luke Nelson, Jock. You saw how he
fought in the park.”
“Yeah, he beat your ass,” Jock snorts.
“No, he won in a fair fight, and then that was the end of it. That’s how men handle their business.”
“So now I’ve gotta hear this Buddha stuff from you, too?” Jock yells. “Let me go, Dad. I’m gonna break his goddamn skull.” He starts shouting, sneering at Luke. “Noah’s turning in his grave, Lukey boy. Let me have a go on her next, Lukey boy. What, you don’t like that? Then do something about it.”
“You disgusting dog,” Mom suddenly explodes, her voice so unexpected right beside me that I flinch. “How dare you talk about my daughter like that?”
“Now listen here, you little b—”
Bruce Hanlon’s hand lashes out like a whip, catching his son across the jaw. “You insult Teresa and there’ll be another one in it for you,” he snarls. “She’s a good woman and she’s been through a lot.”
Jock puffs his chest up, sneering at his dad. “What, now Mom’s gone you want a piece of—”
Thwack.
Another one and Jock stumbles back, clutching his face. “I’m sorry about this, everyone,” Bruce says. “We’re leaving. Will, you make sure your sister gets home safe.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Dad, I’m not ten,” Bella protests.
Bruce grabs Jock by the arm and drags him to the door, cursing all the way. For a second we all just stand there, crammed into Queenie’s living room, dumbfounded. Luke’s chest heaves and Mom’s face is red with rage. Will retreats silently into the background, the young man easily the calmest in the room, like a young wolf slinking into shadow.
“Okay, folks,” Sheriff Fuller says, grimacing. “The show’s over. Let’s all try and enjoy the rest of our evening.”
“Luke,” I whisper, touching his hand. “It’s over, okay?”
Luke lets out a breath, grinning like the alpha wolf through his temper. “Yeah, I know,” he mutters. “I didn’t mean to get like that, but damn, Hannah, hearing him talk like that about you …”
He trails off, realizing the whole room is listening. Then Russel Nelson, who so far has been sitting quietly in the corner of the room, stands up. From the way he wavers on the spot, I’m guessing he’s been drinking all day. His red eyes move over me like I’m dirt. “Well, isn’t this just a sight to see, eh? First your mother kills Evelyn, and now you’re gonna mess with my oldest son’s head, too, just like you did with Noah’s.”