Commitment

by Golland, K. M.

  “Okay, good. I can deal with that. It also means I won’t have to hit him again.” I stood up and made my way to the kitchen.

  Tash followed me. “YOU DID WHAT?”

  “You heard,” I answered, nonchalantly. “I hit him.”

  “But … but why? And where?”

  “Where? Outside his office, or security bat cave, or whatever the fuck it’s called.” I pulled my wallet and phone from out of my pocket and put them on the buffet. “And why? Because he fucking deserved it. End of story, Tash.”

  She went to speak but closed her mouth and hung her head. “Fine. While we’re on the topic of confronting-the-other-person confessions, I rang Hillary.”

  “Taaaaaash,” I said, drawing out her name disappointedly, my headache from earlier that day returning.

  “At least I didn’t slap the bitch.”

  “She’s not a bitch. She was confused.”

  Tash placed her hands on her hips “I beg to differ. She kissed a married man, Dean, a man with kids … a man whose wife she knows! Have you forgotten that minor fact?”

  I hadn’t. And she was right. Hill had stepped over a big line, confused or not. “No, I haven’t forgotten.”

  Her posture relaxed a little.

  “So what did you say to her?”

  “Not a lot. Just that she needed to keep her grubby little lips off of you or the next thing she’d be kissing would be my grubby little arse or grubby little fist.”

  I shook my head and bit the inside of my cheek.

  “And then I said I was sorry that her boyfriend was a jerk and that NO man should ever lay a hand on a woman, and that she should go to the police, because if he’s hitting her, there’s a good chance he’s hit someone else and will continue to do so.”

  “Right.” Why didn’t I think to tell Hillary that? “What did she say?”

  “She said she would. She also said she couldn’t remember kissing you because she’d sustained a head injury.”

  “REALLY?”

  “Yep.”

  “Do you believe her?”

  “No.”

  “No what … no to remembering or no to reporting the fucker?”

  “Both.”

  I nodded then sighed. “Yeah, I agree. I messaged her last night—”

  “You what?” she snapped, cutting me off. “You messaged her but not me? Your wife … the one you let down on her birthday? The one who was worried sick all night and just wanted to sort shit out with the man she loves?” Tash laughed but it wasn’t a happy ha-ha laugh. “Real nice, Dean! Real. Nice!” She turned her back on me and proceeded to open the dishwasher, clanging dishes.

  The constant ting started to drive me nuts.

  “I messaged her and turned my phone on silent before your messages started to come through.”

  “That’s no excuse,” she huffed and clanged a pot.

  “I wasn’t ready to talk to you last night.”

  Pausing, Tash stared at me, a wooden spoon held in her hand. “Are you ready now?”

  “Yep.”

  “Good. ‘Cause we need to clarify a few things. Starting with the fact that yeah, I fucked up. Big time. And I’m so sorry. I should never have let it get to where it did. I see that. And it will never happen again—”

  “Fuckin’ oath it won’t,” I interrupted, making it quite clear her lips would never touch another man’s again.

  She placed the wooden spoon down on the bench. “I know that. But let’s not forget that you fucked up too. You put Hillary before me. And although you had a reason for doing so, that’s not good enough. I’m your number one priority. Not her. Me and our kids are.”

  She had no idea just how right she was. She also had no idea just how bad I felt about that.

  Taking her hands in mine, I manned up and used my words. “And you always will be. Look, I may not show it all the time, but the three of you mean the world to me. You’re what I live and breathe for.”

  She nodded and bit down on her quivering lip.

  “And you’re right,” I continued. “I did fuck up. I should’ve left Hillary’s once she was safe and sleeping. I should’ve tried harder to get to you.”

  “Yeah, you should’ve.”

  “I’m sorry, love. Sometimes I …” I paused, struggling to say what it was I really wanted to say: that deep down I knew I’d let her down in more ways than one, that I was often blind to her expectations of me — legitimate expectations — those that every husband and father owed their wife and kids, and that when I didn’t measure up, it wasn’t because I didn’t want to or was too lazy to put in the effort required. It was because I didn’t realise it was what she wanted.

  I struggled to say I suffered husband idiocy.

  “Sometimes I … I just don’t get it, you know? But I want to. I’m trying to.”

  Tash lifted her hands and placed them on either side of my face. “I know you are. And yeah, you’re an idiot at times, but I couldn’t love you anymore if you weren’t.” She leaned in and quickly pecked my lips before pulling back and continuing to unstack the dishwasher. “So … what did you message her?”

  “Who? Hillary?”

  Her eyebrows rose and she nodded sarcastically. I let her cheeky retort slide.

  “I asked how she was doing and if she’d heard from her scumbag.”

  “And?”

  “And she said no, she hadn’t, but that she was scared and asked if I’d go to her house.”

  Tash’s eyes slowly closed and she exhaled with loudly. I didn’t want her to lose her shit so I continued.

  “I told her that it wasn’t a good idea I go there, and to not answer the door if he came over, instead to call the police straight away.”

  Her eyes reopened, and she continued pulling plates and bowls out of the dishwasher racks without saying a word.

  “Tash, Hillary is not a problem. I promise you.”

  “Ohhhh but she is! Especially if she keeps pursuing you and playing the scared little girl act.”

  “It’s not an act. She is scared. And she is a little girl.”

  “She’s twenty-fucking-six! That’s not little.”

  I bent forward and took hold of her hand, encouraging her to let go of the plate she was about to lift free. Gently guiding her to stand upright, I pulled her closer and wrapped my arms around her. “She’s not a problem. And she won’t be. I’ll talk to her. I’ll tell her that I care for her wellbeing but that if she ever attempts anything remotely romantic with me again, she’ll need to find a new job.”

  “Fuckin’ oath you will,” she replied in the same possessive tone as I’d used earlier on.

  It made me smile.

  “But speaking of problems … I need you to tell me if Dale is one. Is he gonna be a problem, Tash?”

  She shook her head. “No. He’s not. He was the mistake I needed to make for reasons I can’t explain, but a mistake I’ve learned from and one I’ll never make again.”

  Our eyes chased one another’s as they darted back and forth, no further words needed to express how sincere we both were. Regret, remorse, closure, and acceptance although, intangible, swirled around us and in that order.

  “Okay.” I kissed her forehead and pulled back, smiling when I noticed the engraved ring pendant around her neck. “Do you like your birthday present?”

  She smiled and laughed a little, gathering it in her fingers. “It’s a donut that says I love you everyday. How could I not love it?”

  “It’s not a donut, love. It’s just a ring.”

  Tash took a step back, her scrunched face indicating she was offended. “Donuts are rings. It’s a donut.”

  “Okay okay.” I raised my hands in defence and began to retreat. “If you want it to be a donut then it’s a donut.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Shower.”

  Tash smirked. A bit like Bryce.

  It was weird.

  * * *

  When I stepped out of the shower and grabbed my
towel, I was almost positive I could smell bacon, which was unusual considering it was three o’clock in the afternoon. She must be preparing an early dinner. Whatever she was doing, it had all of a sudden made me hungry.

  Quickly drying myself off and securing my white towel at my waist, I opened the door to the bathroom and nearly died in the arse.

  “What are you doing?” I laughed, smiling from ear-to-ear at the sight of Tash lying naked on our bed with a donut placed on each nipple and a rash of bacon draped over her pussy.

  “Food play. Come and eat me. I’m both salty and sweet.” She jiggled her tits and the donuts slid off. “Oops.” She picked them up and before putting them back, took a bite from one.

  “Hey! They’re mine,” I warned, greedily, stalking over to the bed and sitting beside her.

  My dick was already tenting the towel; she looked fucking delicious.

  “Why hello there, Casper,” she giggled, lifting the towel to try and peek underneath. “Are you a friendly ghost?”

  I growled, hungrily, and latched onto one of her donuts, licking the chocolate icing from her breasts and nipples. She gasped, her chest rising, her hands gripping my head. My hand skated up her side and felt for the other donut, picking it up and placing it in her mouth. She hummed, one of her hands releasing my head, my hand massaging her breast. Bits of donut fell down her stomach and onto the sheets as I licked, sucked and kneaded her fucking perfect chest.

  “Dean,” she moaned, writhing beneath me.

  Hearing the desperation of my name on the tip of her tongue drove me wild, and I couldn’t wait for her bacon to be on the tip of mine, so I trailed kisses down the centre of her stomach, around her belly button until the salty, crispy meat met my lips.

  “Be gentle with my bacon,” she pleaded.

  I placed one hand at the top of the rasher and one at the bottom, pressing it firm against her and then licked it in one long swipe.

  She bucked. “Oh God! Do that again.”

  I did, this time swiping twice before removing it all together and placing it in her mouth. Once again, she hummed, but I was more interested in making her hum for a different reason.

  Climbing onto the bed, I lifted her legs and positioned myself in between them, spreading them wide and draping them over my shoulders. Her pussy glistened, greasy from the bacon but also wet with her juices. I wanted to just sit and stare at how fucking beautiful it was, but I was also an impatient bastard with an appetite for my wife. So I slid my hands underneath her arse and tilted her body higher, pressing my lips into her soft, wet skin.

  “Fuck, you smell, feel, and taste good.”

  “I’m your Tashtray,” she murmured.

  I licked from her arsehole to her clit, taking the sensitive skin in my mouth and stretching lightly before letting it go. “My what?”

  “Oh God. Your … your … your Tashtray.”

  I chuckled. “Yes, you are, love. You’re smoking hot.”

  “No. I’m a tray of food called Tash.”

  Pausing, I popped my head up like a fucking meerkat and smiled at how adorable she was.

  “What are you doing? Don’t stop.” She grabbed my head and pushed it back in between her thighs. “Eat. It’s bacon flavoured, goddammit.”

  So I ate; I licked, sucked, massaged and tongue fucked. Her body bucked, her toes and fingers clenched, and she trembled when she came.

  Rising to my knees, my lips were saturated in Tash. I unravelled the towel and palmed my cock, pre-cum dripping from the head and helping my hand slide. “Do you want this now, love?”

  She nodded and raised her hips. “Yes. Fuck me, babe. Fuck me hard. I know you want to.”

  She wasn’t wrong. I wanted to punish her with my cock. Raw. Unbridled. Deep. And when she sat down at work the next day and could still feel me inside her, I wanted arsehole Dale to look through his precious camera and see that look of delightful discomfort on her face.

  A look her husband put there.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Dean

  When I walked into my office the next day, I was surprised to see Hillary placing mail on my desk. “Hey, I didn’t expect you in today. How are you feeling?”

  She nearly jumped out of her skin. “Oh, hi. I’m okay. I’m a little sore, but mostly okay.”

  “You don’t have to be here, Hill. Go home. Rest. I’ll hold the fort.”

  “No. I want to be here. I can’t stand the thought of being home alone all day.”

  I nodded my understanding. I could appreciate that. I’ve also never seen her so frightened. It was another reason why Tash was right and Hill had to report the motherfucker to the police. Not wanting to pressure her about it first thing, though, I moved it to the bring-up-later part of my brain. It was next to the shit-you’re-most-likely-to-forget part, and sometimes the two parts got jumbled.

  “Well, I’ll be in meetings all day, so if you change your mind just let me know before you leave, okay?”

  “I won’t change my mind, Dean. But sure, I’ll let you know.”

  I nodded again and sat down at my desk, very conscious of the awkwardness between the two of us — the spilt second eye-contact and Hill’s rosy cheeks and fidgety disposition a good indication.

  “Err … Dean … ” she called back as she grasped the door handle on her way out of the office.

  I looked up. “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry I kissed you. It won’t happen again. I promise.”

  I offered her a half-smile, still a little saddened she’d crossed the line. “I know it won’t. I’m married. Happily married. And I have kids. I love them very much. You know this, Hill. I get that you were scared and confused, but it can’t ever happen again.”

  “I know that.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

  “Good, because if it does, I’ll have to let you go. And I don’t want to do that.” I offered her a pained expression, one she mirrored as she turned away and left the room.

  * * *

  Several hours later and three back-to-back meetings behind me, I was enjoying a quiet lunch in my office when Rob burst in.

  “I need to get my dick wet. Properly wet. Not lube and hand wet.”

  “Maybe you should try showering it then,” I mumbled around my mouthful of sandwich.

  “You’re a funny fucker, aren’t you?”

  “Try to be.”

  “I’m serious. I’m getting desperate, Deano,” he pleaded. “I need to poke my dick into something real.”

  Scrunching up the plastic my sandwich had been wrapped in and throwing it into the bin, I decided to taunt him more. After the incident with the pussy can in my office, the shithead deserved it. “Your Vulcan Vagina not real enough anymore?”

  “No. I need a real, warm, juicy pussy to give my dick a hug.” He grabbed the air in front of him and thrust toward it, and I had to agree — he did need a real woman. Fast!

  “So find one. You’re not completely bald yet. You’ve got time.”

  “It’s not my shiny head that’s the problem. Women dig bald guys.”

  “You sure ‘bout that?”

  “Fuckin’ oath. Jason Strathan, Captain Jean-Luc Picard, Bruce Willis … that guy in Fast and Furious, they could get any pussy they wanted.”

  I wasn’t about to disagree with him, but Rob was more a Dr Phil, and George Costanza type baldy. “That’s because they’re rich famous actors, you idiot. You’re not. You’re a horny, loud-mouthed, inappropriate middle aged accountant.”

  “Ease up.”

  “Just being honest, mate. And you’re probably too picky.”

  He sat his fat arse on my desk, and I swear there was a permanent indent from all the times he sat it there. “That’s where you’re wrong. I’m not. I just want a living breathing pussy with a woman attached to it. And she doesn’t even have to be that hot.”

  “You’re a disgrace, you know that?”

  “What?” The poor fucker looked confused. “Fine. She does have to be hot then.”
/>
  I closed my eyes and shook my head briefly before lifting the paperwork his arse was raping in order to coax him off my desk.

  He stood.

  It worked.

  “Surely there’s got to be qualities in a woman other than her living breathing pussy that you like?”

  He shrugged. “I like the feisty ones.”

  “God,” I grumbled. “Apart from sex stuff. Do you like sporty types, woman that enjoy cooking, camping, movies … have a sense of humour. That kind of thing.”

  “I meant that kind of thing, but now that you’ve mentioned it … feisty in the bedroom is a must.” He performed an arse-slapping action. “I actually meant a woman who’s not afraid to say like it is, keep me on my toes … shoot a man if need be. That type of feisty.”

  An image of Trixiebell holding her gun popped into my head, and I wondered if she and Rob would fit together. She was a single, cat, dog, bird, plant lady. He was … single.

  “She’s gotta have balls, you know? Without actually havin’ balls.” Rob shuddered. “Bad experience once. Never again.”

  The second image that popped into my head was horrific enough to scar a rock. Jesus Christ! Where’s Hillary? I needed to buzz her with our secret help-me-get-this-person-to-leave sentence.

  Pressing the button on my phone, I spoke into the speaker. “Hill, what time is my phone conference?

  Usually, she’d buzz back “In ten minutes, Mr Jones”, but she didn’t, so I held a finger to Rob and repeated my message. “Hill, what time is my phone conference?” Again she didn’t answer, and I wondered where she was.

  “She wasn’t at her desk when I walked by. And who are you conferencing?”

  An uneasy feeling churned in my gut, and I couldn’t explain why. Hillary wasn’t at her desk many times throughout the day, but today, it just seemed odd. There was no reason for her to leave, and if she had left to go home, she promised she’d tell me first.

  “Never mind,” I answered Rob then stood from my desk and walked out of my office.

  “Where are you going?” he called.

  “To find Hillary.”

  “She’s probably out to lunch.”