by Penny Reid
“Oh no.” I stopped her. “Please don’t tell me what you hoped. Please don’t.”
She giggled, sounding pleased by my discomfort. “Fine. I won’t. You can pretend we’re very upset and disapprove if it means we’ll be seeing you both for Christmas. Your grandfather’s birthday is next month. It would be just terrible if you brought Roscoe. Please don’t bring him. Please tell him not to bring his cornbread for the barbecue.”
My grin widened uncontrollably. “I’ll let him know and ask about Grandpa’s birthday. But let’s see what happens before we make plans for Christmas.”
“Fine, fine.” She sounded unconcerned, giving me the impression she’d already—mentally—added a plate for him to the Christmas table.
Her reaction filled me with a bizarre kind of giddiness. Making my parents proud had always made any success sweeter, but being with Roscoe wasn’t a goal I’d tackled or a blue ribbon I’d won. We’d fallen in love. It wasn’t an achievement, it was a fact. Being with Roscoe, loving Roscoe, looking forward to our future was awesome. But having my mother excited for us was indescribably awesome.
My mom sighed wistfully. “I am so happy for you. I was worried for a while there, but I knew, eventually, it would happen.”
Scoffing, I wrinkled my nose, even though she couldn’t see me. “You’re telling me you always knew Roscoe and I would end up together?”
“No. I didn’t dare count on that. What I meant was, I always knew eventually you’d find someone—someone good and kind and honorable—to love you like you deserve. I’ve always wanted love for you.”
My throat felt scratchy, but I spoke anyway. “You’ve always wanted me to find someone? But you told me that looking for happiness inside a relationship was a road to disaster.”
She barked a laugh. “Oh, my baby, I think you misunderstood your mother.”
“No. You said, building your whole world around another person is like building a skyscraper on sand.”
“And so it is.” She chuckled. “But living a life without love is like living alone in a skyscraper. What good does a solid foundation do if the building is empty?”
I frowned. “You’re confusing me, Mother.”
She laughed again. “You’re smart, Simone. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“If only there could be an invention that bottled up a memory, like scent. And it never faded, and it never got stale. And then, when one wanted it, the bottle could be uncorked, and it would be like living the moment all over again.”
Daphne du Maurier, Rebecca
*Roscoe*
Simone didn’t stay stay another night. I understood why she had to go, but I missed her like crazy as soon as she drove away.
Knowing she was across the state, that I wouldn’t see her for days, amplified an aching emptiness I hadn’t acknowledged in years. But since I trusted last night was just the beginning for us, I could admit the emptiness had always been a Simone-shaped space.
She’d texted me when she arrived home, and I texted her when I was finished at the animal shelter I typically visited on Tuesdays. The messages were mostly benign, quick status updates. Even so, I spent an inordinate amount of time staring at the typed I love you she’d sent. I remembered her saying it early this morning, recalled the moment, and knew I’d revisit that memory more often than most others.
Nine thirty rolled around and I went through the motions of my routine, going for my run, showering, trying to read before bed. I couldn’t read. I couldn’t concentrate. Heck, I couldn’t breathe, not normally in any case.
My heart kept wanting to race, my skin was overly sensitive, my body restless. The memory of her and me, of us from the night before, held a unique sharpness in my mind. The specter of Simone lingered. I half expected her to walk into the room, or find her trying to hide in the corner, wearing only her birthday suit.
Shutting my book, I clicked off the light and lay back in my bed, trying to catch my breath. Minutes ticked by and I kept chasing it. When I turned on my side, the soft cotton sheets against the bare skin of my legs and chest, paired with the smell of her everywhere, meant I was now painfully hard.
Chuckling at my predicament, I sat up, stood up, and stripped, intent on a cold shower. Sooner rather than later, Simone and I were going to have to live in the same city. This, remembering her here but being without her, was the kind of torture that led to madness.
But then, I stopped on the precipice to the bathroom. Half-turning, my gaze searched for and found my phone.
She wasn’t here here, yet she was with me. We were together. I wondered if she was up.
Sitting on the edge of my bed, I picked up my cell and stared at the screen for a half second. Navigating to our earlier texts, I scanned them.
Simone: I made it home in record time! Going to drop Pavlov off to Cletus Maximus and Jennifer Bakeasaurus, and then head to the diner for a dinner shift. I love you.
Roscoe: I love you too. Thanks for letting me know you made it. Just got home from the animal shelter, but you probably knew that since I still can’t find the tracker you put on my truck.
Reading the exchange three times, I decided to send a new message.
Roscoe: Are you home yet? How was work?
To my surprise, the three dancing dots appeared almost instantly, indicating that she was already typing a response.
Simone: Made it home twenty minutes ago, about to take a shower. Can you talk in ten?
About to take a shower . . . it was my sincerest regret that I hadn’t joined Simone last night in the shower. My cock throbbed at the thought and I gripped it, gritting my teeth and swallowing thickly, a shock of aching longing stealing my breath again. Before I could think better of it, I typed out a quick response.
Roscoe: Wish I was there.
Simone: I promise you, the diner was not someplace you wanted to be tonight. We wouldn’t have been able to talk. Everyone in town seemed to want pie on a *Tuesday* but they were just using pie as an excuse to come in and ask me about Strickland. Let me call you after my shower.
I frowned, rereading her message, a twinge of guilt cooling some of the heat in my veins. I hadn’t forgotten about her trouble with Officer Strickland, but it hadn’t occurred to me that she’d be dealing with a gambit of gossipmongers at the diner. Now I wished I’d been there for completely different reasons. Namely, to run interference.
Plus, while I’d been getting hot and bothered, missing her, she’d been dealing with serious shit at home. I shouldn’t have been texting, hoping for some sweetness and relief. I should have been texting, looking to provide support.
Lying back against my pillows in the dark, I decided to wait for her call, and then I’d take a cold shower, or take care of business for myself. Lord knows, I had enough practice.
True to her promise, Simone called ten minutes later. I’d been trying to concentrate on unsexy memories of my bedroom, like the time I had the stomach flu and threw up all over the carpet on my way to the bathroom. Since I was still holding my phone, I answered almost immediately.
“Simone?”
“Roscoe,” she said on a sigh. “It is so great to hear your voice.”
“You, too.” I grinned, because it was. I’d always appreciated her voice, it was smooth and deep, reminding me of the velvety texture of rose petals. Red rose petals.
My body tightened in response to the sound of her, but I shoved its carnal intentions away. She’d had a bad day. A long day. I would provide support. I would be a perfect gentleman.
“Tell me about your day.” I threw a pillow over my erection so I wouldn’t have to see it.
I felt it of course, but somehow seeing it in the bed where we’d been together last night while listening to her talk in my ear was too much.
“I don’t want to talk about that right now. Maybe tomorrow. I mean, what I said in my text summarized the situation, and there’s really nothing else to say other than the next few weeks are goi
ng to be busier than usual at the diner.”
“That’s terrible,” I said, wincing and closing my eyes at the pithy response. So I quickly added, “I could take some time off work for a few days, if you want, keep folks from bothering you.”
I heard her laugh lightly and could picture her face, her nose wrinkled slightly, her eyes bright with amusement, her gorgeous mouth curved in an alluring smile. “What’s your plan? You’re going to sit in the diner and scare people away?”
I didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”
She laughed harder and the sound of it sent a new kind of warmth along my nerves. Not the scorching fervor of desire, more like a languid heat. No less intense, just less urgent.
“I can be scary,” I said, hoping to prolong her laughter.
It worked. “Yeah. Uh-huh. Okay.”
I imagined she was rolling her eyes.
“My junior year of college, I won an award for scariest Halloween costume.”
“What were you?”
“Organic Chemistry final.”
She barked another laugh, and so I laughed, too. I rested my arm against my forehead, my palm turned, and stared at the dark ceiling, enjoying the moment.
“Thanks.” She sniffed, and I imagined she was wiping her eyes. “I really needed that.”
“I have jokes, whenever you need them.”
“Tell me, what’s your favorite joke these days?”
Oh man, I had so many. One of my patient’s owners told me I’d make a great dad because I already had so many dad jokes.
“Okay, you asked for it. Prepare yourself.”
“Consider my loins girded.”
That made me laugh, which made her laugh again, and I shook my head at us. We’d always shared the same humor, but she was much funnier than me. I’d missed laughing with Simone.
“Roscoe! Tell me your joke.”
“Fine, fine. Here it is.” I cleared my throat unnecessarily. “What’s the best thing about being from Switzerland?”
“What?”
“I don’t know, but the flag is a big plus.”
“Oh no!” She laughed again, but it sounded like a pity laugh.
“Hey. That joke is funny.” I’d thought it was hilarious the first time I heard it from Beau.
“You poor, sad, little man.”
I gasped dramatically, and that made her laugh again.
Eventually, our laughter tapered, and she sighed. “Roscoe . . .” Simone paused, I heard her breathe in and say on a rush, “I feel I should tell you that I’m naked.”
My eyes flew open and I groaned before I could stop myself, my dick waking, pressing against the pillow.
She laughed again, but it sounded breathier this time, a little nervous. “So . . . maybe, if you want, you should change so we’re wearing matching outfits.”
The nervousness seeped into her words and piqued some new instinct in me. The urge to assure her that I did want, I wanted very much, for us to wear matching outfits.
So I said, “Done.”
She hesitated, and I could tell she was surprised. “That didn’t take long.”
“Since we’re being honest.” My voice deepened because it felt right. “I should tell you I was already naked.”
“Oh my!” Her excitement and pleasure were obvious. I heard the springs of her bed depress, the click of a lamp. “That is fantastic news. Are you in bed?”
“I’m lying in my bed, yes.”
“And you’re naked.”
“Very.”
“Are you . . .” More nervousness, but this time it was laced with anticipation. “Are you comfortable?”
Uh, what?
Was I comfortable?
No. Not even a little.
But I wasn’t telling her that.
So I took over, because lying here in the dark with her scent all around put me in a bold frame of mind. “I have some questions.”
“Hey. That’s my line.” I could hear the smile in her voice.
“And since we’re wearing matching outfits, now seems like a good time to ask them.”
“What kind of questions?” Her voice was quieter, interested.
“Do you have any fantasies?”
She gathered an audible breath while I held mine.
“Yes,” she said softly, using a voice I didn’t have a lot of experience with. “I have fantasies.”
Vulnerability.
That’s what it was.
Protectiveness flared, an imperative to put her mind at ease. “Will you tell me one?” I asked gently.
“Why?” She sounded wary.
“I’d like to know what you think about when you touch yourself.”
Simone made a soft sound, like her breath caught. “You’ve done this before.”
I shook my head even though she couldn’t see me. “I haven’t.”
Simone seemed to hesitate before saying, “Then how are you so good at it?”
“Maybe because I’m honest?”
“You honestly want to know what I think about when I touch myself?” Her voice was thicker, huskier.
“Don’t you want to know the same about me?” I wrapped my fingers around my cock. I didn’t need to close my eyes to imagine her here, whispering in my ear.
“Maybe.” Another soft sound. “As long as it involves me.”
That made me chuckle, because how could she doubt it?
“You’re here,” I began, giving myself a stroke, and she was here. “And you’re wearing something that’s see-through.”
“What color is it?” The question was more breath than voice.
“Red.” Rose red. “And you come into the bedroom while I’m reading. You grab the book and toss it somewhere—to the floor or table, whatever—and take my hands, put them on your ass.” I had to stop here to swallow, my throat tight. “You’re not wearing any underwear and you ask me if I want dessert.”
“Uh, what? I’m baking in this fantasy?”
I ignored her question, lost to my own imagination. “I nod, because I really do. So I lie back and you sit on my face—”
“Oh . . . oh!”
“—and I—” I groaned, licking my lips, wishing they were hers. “You taste so fucking good. My hands move up your stomach to your breasts while you rock your hips, grinding against my mouth and tongue.” I had to swallow again.
She was breathing heavier now, and I could almost feel her racing heart through the phone.
“Okay, okay. Wait,” she said, using that new soft tone. “I do have this one- I’ve had this fantasy for a while. But it’s- it’s cliché and stupid.”
I had to blink several times to focus on her words, to pull myself out of my own fantasy. “Does it get you hot?”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s not stupid.”
Her laugh sounded sincere, but still nervous. “We’re in high school,” she started, and a shock of white-hot longing speared me. I stilled, every muscle in my body tense.
I remembered her in high school.
I remembered wanting her in high school.
I remembered losing sleep over it.
“You know how you played football and I played soccer, and we used to practice on the fields at the same time once in a while?”
“Yes,” I said immediately, my eyes wide and staring at a memory of her running after a soccer ball, dressed only in shorts, cleats, shin guards, socks, and a sports bra. It had only happened once, during an unseasonably hot day in the middle of January, but it had made an impression.
“So it goes like this.” She cleared her throat. “The boys’ locker room is closed. You guys have to use the girls’. Our teams take turns, whatever. But, for some reason, I’m there late, taking a shower. . .”
“Yeah?” I prompted, anxious to know everything. Fucking hell, I was on the edge of my seat.
“Hearing you guys come in, I start rushing through, trying to finish. But then you’re there, pulling back the curtain.”
All the air left
my lungs in a rush and I felt the telltale signs of my orgasm build. I’d barely moved my hand.
“I try to cover myself as your eyes roam over me. You’re wearing only a towel.”
I groaned, closing my eyes, my hand moving faster.
“You put a finger to your lips, telling me to be quiet, and hang the towel on one of the hooks.” Simone’s voice had grown dreamy, like she wasn’t really talking to me. “We’re naked, and you reach for me, kissing me, the hot water between us. You bend to tongue my breast, your hand slipping between my legs.”
“Fuck.” I was chasing my breath again, my chest too tight, fire in my veins.
“Not yet. That part comes later. First you touch me with your fingers and you tell me you miss me, that I’m all you can think about.”
“You were all I could think about.”
Now she moaned. I listened as she panted. “Roscoe.”
“Simone.” I growled her name. “I thought about you every day. I wanted you so fucking badly.”
“You make me come with your- your fingers.” She sounded out of breath. “And you bring them to your mouth and suck them. You bend to my ear and say all these dirty things. Like, you tell me you’re going to- to—”
“What? What do I say?”
“You’re going to come to my bedroom that night and- and fuck me, but then I have to suck your—”
The rest of her words were lost. I pressed my head back against my bed, my hips jutting forward, and I came. A patchwork of visions flashing through my mind. Simone on her knees, her mouth around me, her eyes on mine. Me waking her, in her bedroom, the middle of the night, her body ready, pulling her shorts down her legs.
“Roscoe,” she panted, pleaded. “I’m so close. What would you do to me if you were here?”
“Uh.” I shook my head, trying to clear it, but then ultimately decided to tell her my lingering thoughts. “After the shower, I keep my promise.”
She moaned.
Her ragged breathing was the sexiest sound in the world.