His turn to issue a challenge. He looks at me for a beat, eyes flashing.
“Knees,” he repeats, taking a step back. Dick still in his hand.
I sit up. Look at him. Letting my legs fall open. Part of me wants to ask him to fuck me.
But part of me wants to bring him to his knees by sucking his dick just the way he likes it. Ford liked giving head, and he loved getting it, too.
Granted, what guy doesn’t?
That being said, Ford’s oral kink was nothing to scoff at. He loved to draw our encounters out. We had lots of time back then.
Eyes locked on his—pussy still throbbing—I do what he asks. I climb off the platform and fall to one knee, then the other, so that I’m kneeling in front of him. The rough carpet biting into my knees.
He lets his dick go, and I reach for it, wrapping my fingers around him.
I draw my hand up his length, my grip firm.
“Can’t—” he says, ducking down. “Eva, my God.”
He’s losing his shit, and I can’t help but smile.
A smile he covers with his mouth while he takes my tit in his hand and rolls my nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Drawing me up to him. Growling when my tongue meets his.
I pull back, putting a hand on his belly. The hair of his happy trail feels wiry and warm against my palm.
“You said you wanted to learn.” I lean in and take the head of his cock into my mouth. Slowly, using my tongue and lips to get it nice and wet. Then I release it. “Take notes.”
Keeping my eyes on his, I take him into my mouth again. He tastes like salt and skin. Ocean, clean air. Him.
My mouth fills with saliva the deeper I take him. I work the base of his shaft with my hand as I swallow him. Curling my lips over my teeth to keep them from nicking his skin.
Inhaling, I duck my head, swallowing him further until he hits the back of my throat. He grunts; my eyes water. His hand goes to my hair, fingers tangling in it.
“Can I?” he breathes. “Go deeper?”
This was a fun game we’d play. One of the parts of edging I liked so much—exploring my limits. I liked to push the envelope. See how lewd and intense I could make it before I hit a threshold. The game worked because I could trust Ford.
I know I can trust him now.
Eyes on his, I nod.
Firming his grip in my hair—just a little frisson of pain, I like it—he flexes his hips, going even deeper.
I gag, making a tiny sucking noise, and a tear slips out of my eye. He’s deep.
Immediately Ford pulls back, but I grab his ass cheeks and guide him back in.
This is lust.
This I can do.
I am determined to do it well.
“Eva, Eva, fuck,” he says. “Baby, yes.”
I bob my head, making him glide in and out. He starts to circle his hips, tiny little movements that coincide with mine. We settle into a rhythm, his cock sliding down my throat, back up, down again. Saliva and precum everywhere, on my lips and chin.
The ocean sighs around us. My pussy throbs, orgasm nearing. Nipples scream as they scrape against Ford’s thighs. He’s big and strong and he is at my mercy.
I give him slow, messy head.
It’s so hot—Ford is breathing in hot spurts, brow furrowed, his fingers tangled in my hair, gripping me possessively—
“Fuck me,” he groans. He pulls out of my mouth, groaning again. Nods at the platform. “Hands and knees, baby. I’m gonna finish you off.”
“You really like to look at pussy.”
“Yours. Only yours. Do as I say. I’m—Christ, Eva, I’m dying here.”
I climb onto the platform facing away from him, spreading my legs. He doesn’t hesitate.
Glancing over my shoulder, I watch him put his mouth on me, wild and hot and impatient.
He is wild. Out in the open for all to see.
His forearm moves against the back of my thigh as he jacks himself off while keeping his mouth on my pussy. I’m moaning now. What he’s doing is so lewd. So hot. So him.
Need spirals low in my core. Twisting tighter and tighter, the pain edged with sweetness.
“Ford,” I breathe. “I’m—”
But I come too hard, too fast to finish my sentence. My orgasm pounds through me, making me cry out. My legs tremble against the force of it. I feel weak and wanton, totally at this man’s mercy.
Two heartbeats later, Ford comes with a roar—so loud it echoes—all over my back, collapsing on top of me. I love the feel of his body tucked around mine. The strong planes of his chest pressed to my back, enormous arms wrapped around my middle as we struggle to catch our breath.
My pussy is still pulsing with the aftershocks of my orgasm when Ford presses a kiss to the back of my shoulder. My heart goes soft.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say.
But really, I’m not. Safe to say this is so much more than lust. There are a lot of great reasons why I shouldn’t be falling for Ford—he broke my heart once, we lead totally different lives—but it’s happening anyway.
I don’t know what to do.
“Let’s get back in the water,” Ford murmurs against my skin. “Get you cleaned up. Maybe open a few more beers and hang out on those floaties I was talking about. I have a unicorn, a flamingo, and a donut with sprinkles. Which one do you want?”
My lips curl into a smile, even as my eyes burn. Just the sunscreen. Although, please. That’s not at all true.
“In keeping with today’s food theme, I’ll go with the donut,” I manage.
“Solid choice.” He kisses my neck, and I shiver at the feel of his scruff against my skin. “Also. I can’t properly clean you up if you have your bathing suit on, so…”
I straighten, falling back on my haunches. “If yours stays off, mine will, too.”
“Deal.”
He helps me to my feet. Naked as the day he was born. Cock hanging innocently between his strong, solid thighs.
He’s gorgeous.
This day is gorgeous. Even if it makes me a masochist, I never want it to end.
Chapter Fifteen
Eva
We float for hours. Drinking beers. Ogling each other. Groping each other. The late afternoon sun coating everything in shimmering layers of gold and copper. I am definitely getting sunburned, but I don’t care.
After Ford gives me my second orgasm in as many hours—he uses his fingers this time, one hand on my tits, the other on my pussy—I fall back onto my donut inner tube with a contented sigh.
“You make the best sounds,” he says.
“You give me the best orgasms.” I grab the neck of the unicorn floatie—Ford’s pick—and pull him closer so that I can kiss him. “Thank you. For the orgasms. And the encouragement. And all the great ideas. Today has been the best day I’ve had in a long, long time.”
“Me too,” he says. Eyes serious as they search mine. “Remember back at the shower? When I told you that you can trust your process?”
My lips twitch. “Don’t forget the universe. You told me I could trust the universe, too.”
“Well?” He brushes a wet strand of hair out of my face. “Isn’t it delivering? We just spun a simple lunch of fish tacos into a whole new concept for your cookbook.”
I look at him. My God, my entire being is smiling. My chest filling with so much light and hope and happiness that it’s squeezing my lungs. My heart.
I want to believe him. Maybe I really can trust fate. The universe. Whatever you want to call it.
Maybe Ford is right, and I can stop stressing so much about everything going wrong and start believing that whether it goes wrong or right, it’ll all be okay, and I’ll be able to handle what’s thrown my way. What a lovely concept, that the world is a place of enough. That you’re strong enough. That you’ll get enough.
That you aren’t doomed to repeat past mistakes or circle the same ruts inside your head forever.
Still. I have my dou
bts.
“It’s a beautiful idea,” I say. “But you know I’m a skeptic at heart. As simple as that lunch was, I worked my ass off on it. I also got lucky. Lucky that I had brunch with Mom and Alex yesterday, and that together we came up with the idea to make the tacos in the first place. I got lucky that I have a mom who just so happens to make the best tortillas, like, ever. And I got lucky that I had a chance to share them with you.”
“I’m not saying you didn’t work hard. But even if the universe isn’t trustworthy—even if life really does just come down to chance and luck—what’s wrong with believing that fate is a benevolent force?”
“What’s wrong with lying to yourself? Jesus, Ford. How very Heart of Darkness of you.”
One side of Ford’s mouth curls into a grin at the reference. “Hey. Just stay on the boat and you’ll be fine. I thought you felt very fine on my boat, no?”
Joseph Conrad’s famous novel, on which the infamous Apocalypse Now movie is based, was one of the books we read in the first English class Ford and I took together as sophomores. In the book, when characters stay on a boat cruising down a river, they stay sane, and stay alive. But when they get off the boat, shit hits the fan. It’s this elaborate metaphor Conrad uses to basically say we need to lie to ourselves—we need to stay on the boat—to survive, or else we’ll go crazy.
“You told me you’ve been reading a lot of romance lately,” Ford continues. “I admit I haven’t read romance myself, but is there anything more hopeful—more optimistic—than a love story? Aren’t, say, meet cutes a testament to the benevolent power of fate to bring two people together so they can find their happily ever after?”
I blink. “I feel like I keep saying this with you. But I haven’t thought about it like that. Thought about romance in those terms. Yeah. Yeah, I guess you’re right. Maybe I—I mean, maybe romance novels are comfort reads in the same way my mom’s cooking is comfort food.”
“So what’s wrong with letting yourself be happy, then? If you’re seeking out all this comfort, this sense of connection—makes me feel like you’ve been missing those things in your life. Makes me feel like you haven’t been all that happy lately, Eva. Why?”
The answer pops into my head. Unbidden. Making my smile disappear.
Because I can’t make my mother happy.
I am trying my best to be there for her, and fix things between her and my dad, and keep our family together. But no matter what I do, I still can’t seem to stop things from getting worse. And what right do I have to be happy if they’re not?
How can I feel good about myself when I’m failing the people I love most in this world—people who have worked their asses off and made heart-wrenching sacrifices so that I could pursue my dreams—over and over again?
I look down at my lap, swallowing. My throat and shoulders feel tight all of a sudden. I don’t want to talk about this right now. Not during the amazing, sexy, carefree day I’m having with this delicious man.
But if anyone will understand, it’s Ford. He was always such a great listener. Never judged, at least not until our breakup. Never interrupted. He just paid attention, offering a tissue, a beer, a perfectly timed joke to make me laugh right when I needed it.
Yeah, we’ve only been on two dates. I’m not even sure if I want to call them dates. But I really do feel safe with him. Safe to be myself.
Safe to confide. To be real, even when it’s not pretty.
“It’s my family,” I start.
“All not well in paradise?”
“Not by a long shot.”
I tell him everything. How I came home not only to seek out inspiration for my cookbook, but also because I knew my mom and dad weren’t doing well. How being home has been wonderful and awful, all at once. How unhappy my parents seem, and how badly they treat each other.
How the atmosphere in their house is oppressive and fraught.
It comes out in a tearful rush. A levee that breaks, like I’ve had all this… this really painful stuff building up inside me. Drowning out everything else.
Talking about it doesn’t feel good. But when it’s out, I do feel…lighter.
I needed a friend, someone to confide in, more than I realized.
“So, yeah,” I say, taking a deep breath. “I’ve basically been trying to simultaneously save my family and save my career, all at once.”
“Christ, Eva, no wonder you’re feeling overwhelmed. I’m really sorry. I love your parents. Always have. It bums me out to hear they aren’t okay. Bums me out even more to hear how much you’re hurting, and how much you’re taking on.”
I shrug. “What am I supposed to do? I can’t not help them.”
“Why do you feel like you need to save them? Your parents? Sounds like you’re especially preoccupied with saving your mom.”
“Because if I didn’t, then it’d be like…leaving her out at sea. Like, seeing her in the water, seeing her flailing, and not throwing out a life preserver.”
Ford glances at me. “She can swim, you know. She’s been doing it for decades now. She’s an adult who is perfectly capable of saving herself if she chooses. Might be messy, and she might need some help along the way. But it’s not up to you to keep her afloat forever and ever.”
“Why not?”
“Because you have to keep yourself afloat. You have your own battles to fight, Eva. And fighting hers is taking you away from your life.”
“On a rational level, what you’re saying makes sense.” My eyes are stinging. “But emotionally, I just can’t…I mean, isn’t that selfish? To just think of your own shit all the time?”
He glances at me again. “What about your sister? Does she spend any of her time fighting your parents’ battles for them?”
I blink for what feels like the hundredth time. “No. She doesn’t.”
“Because she’s too busy living her own life to try and fix someone else’s?”
“When you put it like that, it makes me sound like an asshole. Also makes me sound pathetic.”
“You’re not an asshole, and you’re definitely not pathetic. You just care. A lot.”
I nod, my throat too clogged with emotion to reply.
“You have a big heart, Eva. That’s a good thing. But it can also hold you back. Your parents are two adults who have the resources to seek out help if they need it. And as much as I hate to say it, whether or not they’re happy isn’t up to you. It’s up to them. You can work as much as you want—be as close to perfect as you think you need to be—but if they’re unhappy, nothing you do is going to change that.”
A tear slips down my cheek. I wipe at it with the flat of my fingers.
Fingers Ford grabs, twining them through his own. My heart flutters.
Shit. Shit I’m getting in deep here. Sliding down this hill faster and faster. I should dig in my heels before it’s too late to stop. I should pull away and keep my hands in my lap. I’m a mess. My world is a mess. I don’t have time for this right now.
I don’t want what Ford wants.
I don’t want to hurt him.
And yet I still give his palm a squeeze. Like I have nothing to lose. His hand just feels so warm and big and real. A reminder that an entire world exists outside the one in my head.
My family.
“You’re right,” I manage. “I try and I try, and I worry, and I try some more. But nothing changes.”
“What if you just let go?” Ford says softly. “I think deep down, you’re realizing the result is going to be the same whether you keep trying or you don’t. You’re strangling yourself, Eva. I think you’re also angry.”
“Oh yeah,” I say with a mirthless laugh. “I’m angry at my parents for not being more functional the way yours are. I know, I know, your parents’ relationship isn’t perfect, but you can’t deny that they’re happy together. They don’t resent each other the way my parents do. I’m—I guess I’m also angry at myself.”
“For?”
“For not being able to make ev
eryone happy, obviously.” Another awful laugh. “And now that I’m thinking about it, I’m angry at myself for taking on this, like, ridiculously sexist female martyr role. Because I always swore I would never, ever end up trapped by sacrifice or obligation. Yet here I am, drowning in my parents’ issues, trying to fix them. I’m scared, Ford. Of ending up unhappy, too.”
I haven’t told anyone that.
I don’t even think I’ve told myself that until now.
“So stop. Being the martyr. You’re made for better things. More fulfilling roles. We all are.”
Can I? Just stop? Easy enough for this ridiculously privileged, ridiculously intelligent man to live life on his own terms and chase his own fulfillment. The whole martyr thing is all that I’ve ever seen in my own family. My mother. My aunts. Even my cousins.
Then again, there are plenty of other women I know who have chosen to live their lives differently. Women who don’t take it upon themselves to fall on that sword on behalf of everyone else, who don’t end up bitter and resentful. Women like Ford’s mom, Eliza, and my friend Julia. Gracie, too.
All of my girlfriends, now that I think about it. I’ve surrounded myself with a bunch of badass women who are striving to make their dreams come true, whether those dreams are growing a family or starting a business.
Women who work hard and view happiness as their right.
Who refuse to be trapped by convention or their pasts.
“You’re right,” I say. And I say it again, hoping it will catch inside my head and stay there. “You’re right, Ford. You’re right.”
Ford squeezes my hand. “You’re gonna be just fine, E. I said it before, and I’ll say it again. Trust yourself.”
“Trust the universe.” I grin.
He called me E. The nickname he had for me in college.
Makes me wanna kiss him, same as it did back then. So I do.
“What is it about you that makes me feel like I can do anything?” I ask.
“My tongue,” he replies easily, cutting me a saucy look from the corner of his eye. “I know how to use it.”
I feel a hit of heat between my legs at the memory of him licking me there. Eyes locked on mine, my nipple held captive between his thumb and forefinger as he ate me out with patience and skill and creativity.
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