by Rie Warren
Mmm, I closed my hand around the ridge below his head, the long shaft throbbing, hardly withheld by his bathing suit.
He halted my hand and jostled me over his shoulder, cave-manning me to the shore. Lowering me to the beach chair, he sprayed me with water as he shook his head. His trunks mesmerized me, wetly outlining every inch of his cock. Thank you, Lord Jesus, for the ocean, this man, and clingy fabric.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he begged.
I licked my lips and stared harder.
“Let’s go for a walk, vixen.”
“What about no long walks on the beach?” I shoveled shells with my toes, looking for that thing more mythical than a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, an unbroken sand dollar.
“Doesn’t matter.” He squinted over the sequined horizon.
“And you introduced me to Whistler. How’s that discreet?”
“Didn’t really have a choice, did I?”
I prickled. “Well now, that’s not very complimentary.”
He kicked a pile of seaweed. “You know that’s not what I meant, Shay.” He enclosed his gold chain in a fist until his knuckles turned as white as a sun-bleached shell. “I’ve never wanted one of my mistresses to meet my friends.”
There, he’d said it, mistress. One of many.
“I’m going to have a bath,” I sniped.
Bastard. Rat Bastard in board shorts riding far too low on his carved hips.
Back at the house–more like a shambling multimillion-dollar mansion–I sloughed off my bikini and topped up the tub, adding candles and bubbles and all the fancy accoutrements I could find.
“Ah,” I sighed, submerging into the deep tub, tugging my hair into an untidy bundle of red. The warm water, the scented bubbles, memories of kissing Reardon... Water broke over the lip of tub as I fingered myself into a slick realm of short breaths, stiff nipples, bursting clit. My labia parted for my smooth caress, my mind cartwheeled with remembrances of Reardon on the beach, his cock against me...ohhh, his cock in me….
A knock at the door at t-minus orgasm interrupted bath time.
“You need anything?”
“Cock!” I came so hard I screamed, smashing a washcloth into my mouth.
Fuck.
Silence.
The door opened on well-oiled hinges, the only sound the water slapping the sides of the tub and Reardon’s husky voice, “Fu–”
About right.
In screw-it-all mode, I went topside, exposing the swollen buds of my nipples.
Lured in, he stared at my breasts.
I covered my cockgasm with, “I meant, maybe you could pop a cork?”
He was about to pop something.
Poor Rat Bastard.
I swirled the water around my mound into a whirlpool.
His gaze roaming from my tits to my mouth, but never quite reaching my eyes, he homed in on the region of my pussy beneath the bubbles. “Huh?”
Flustered Reardon was kinda fun.
“Reardon.” I penned a meandering path through the suds. He angled his head to better see through the ripples in my wake. I raised a knee. His mouth dropped open. “I said you could pop…”
He flickered to my lips with the suggestive sound.
“A cork.”
He about ripped the doorknob off.
Down boy.
“Of course, yeah, drink, wine.”
After a delectable dinner, we tried not to start anything, yet every word was heavy with naughty promise.
He suggested games night.
We made do with touching each other’s pie-pieces through Trivial Pursuit. He won. And creating our own dynasties in Monopoly. I claimed the car first.
Gin rummy, blackjack. Five-card stud. I offered strip poker. He unapologetically left-handed himself into a more comfortable position when the crotch of his faded jeans fit standing room only.
Nearing midnight, Reardon checked the doors, turned off the lights, and gave me his hand. “I’d like to sleep with you again, if that’s permissible.”
“Permissible?” I wrinkled my nose. “Might as well admit you want a bed buddy.”
He made for the other end of the hall until I tugged his elbow. “Just teasin’, baby.”
“I don’t take teasing well.”
“Guess I’ll have to break you of that.”
He marched me into the bedroom, eyes narrowed. “You gonna break me, Miss Greer?”
My back hit the tall, carved bedpost. My pussy was warm, wet with his wicked words.
“If I told you to take off your clothes, would you?” Half a foot from me, he delivered a dominating message, withholding his lips and his fingertips from my beaded breasts.
“Yes.”
His palm sped between my thighs, his thumb curling over my clit. “Very.” He thumped me hard with the heel of his hand, soothing with a pass of his finger. “Good.”
Clasping the wood behind my head, I moaned when he retreated.
“Stay.”
Oh, God.
Shirt off, shorts to the floor, his chest expanded with each breath, and his cock beat against his briefs.
“Take off your clothes, Shay.”
Hurrying to comply, I got wrangled up in bed sheets and tanktops and my bra.
“You need help?”
My face flamed. I was ass-over-end on the foot of the bed with my shorts to my knees, giving an all-access view. I shook my head.
He stepped closer.
In nothing but panties and a bra bursting with my goods, I presented myself.
“Very nice.” He commended me. “When I fuck you, there won’t be any mistake about it.” His words ran from my ear to my cunt. “You won’t break me. But I’ll be so goddamn deep inside you.”
I arched to his fingertip flicking my clit.
He strolled around the bed, pulling the covers aside. “Put on that pretty pink nightie you brought and get in.”
The ruffle of my nightgown caught in his fist when I slid next to him. Twisting the fabric, he hauled me against his chest. The only thing parting us was the Guinness Book of Records’ smallest g-string.
I left the light on.
At home it was always off.
I lay against Reardon, in the middle.
With Palmer, I hugged the left side of the bed.
Warm and strong, he lifted my head to his solid shoulder, his thighs rasping mine. I drifted in and out, running the sole of my foot along his leg when he reached over to switch off the lamp.
“You’re already breaking me, Shay.” His hungry avowal brought a desperate onslaught of lips.
* * * *
We headed back to Charleston early the next morning.
Every mile on the road wore us down. By the end of the drive, we were subdued.
Parking at The Tides, he turned to me with his wrist draped over the wheel. “So, Rat Bastard?”
Oh, shit! I’d said it aloud? “Um, no?” I fiddled with my fingernails.
“You sure? Because I heard you in the bathroom.” His smile was slow and sure. “I’m really not, mostly.”
Our goodbyes turned into a marathon make out session. We took turns kissing and murmuring until he pulled me in tight. “I’m out of town until next week.”
I stroked the curls on the nape of his neck, memorizing the way he felt. “Okay.”
He peered at me, thumbs circling my cheeks. “I usually enjoy my business trips.”
“I see.” I sat back, my hands in my lap.
“I don’t think you do.” He snuck a fingertip to my lips. “I don’t want to leave you.”
Chapter 6
Clocking On
“What time is it?”
Palmer’s question incensed me. The damn clock was right behind him; all he had to do was turn his head. It was the same with the magically appearing clean towels in the bathroom. I swear the man would use the same ragged thing for a decade, just because it was there. Same way he’d stay with me, in spite of everything, because I was stil
l here.
The daily minutiae of marriage used to cement us together. Now it was cracked plaster peeling away from the sorrow between us.
It was Monday morning, that’s what frigging time it was, and I had a week to fill before I saw Reardon again.
“You look brighter.”
First Augie, then Momma, now Palmer? “I must’ve looked like shit before.”
“Shay.”
Right. No talking about before.
I wanted to bolt from the bright kitchen lights highlighting all my sins. Cheat, cheat, never beat my conscience chimed in. Instead I wiped sweat from my forehead–definitely not perspiration this time–and blurted, “Working helps.”
Talking about before had helped. Saying Delilah’s name helped. It hurt like hell, but the pain of remembering was better than the numbness of pretending she’d never happened.
“Well, good. That’s good, Shay.”
Except it really wasn’t. After Reardon’s comfort, kisses, and caresses, I yearned for him. The fact I already missed him scared the crap out of me.
I went through the grueling task of filling my days. Mornings would’ve been busy with other mothers and their babies at the parks and playgroups. Afternoons should have been spent rocking Delilah to sleep, or folding endless loads of laundry, scrapbooking during the few quiet moments, for God’s sake.
All the precious hours I’d never spend.
By Thursday I’d repainted the ugly kitchen cupboards–a mere three years in planning–done the watering, the weeding, and the washing. Just his and hers. I’d chatted with Augie, popped into Addy’s, and deftly–I thought–deflected their probing questions.
Bored with my own morose self and sick of looking at my house, I went out to lunch. Alone. I didn’t hide behind my sweet tea or the menu. I smiled at other patrons. I people-watched. I even invited one young woman to join me when every other table was full.
“Bless you, ma’am,” she thanked me before chomping into her sandwich.
Ma’am? Oh no, I was not returnin’ to The Ma’amdom. I considered kicking her off my table.
Her eyes were soft, a color somewhere between gray and purple, her posture beautifully slouchy. “I only have half an hour left.”
In that case, I’d let her stay. I gave myself points for generosity.
She ruminated over her drink, “I gotta get my baby boy from the church day camp.”
Vicious pain snagged at the hole in my heart.
The young miss was oblivious. “I see all those other moms, hell-bent on takin’ up tennis or volunteerin’ all their free hours away, or cleanin’ carpets or some such shit.” Her hand flew to her mouth, “Sorry, ma’am, I swear a lot.”
“Y’all don’t need to worry ’bout that with me.”
“Thank goodness, because my mom would have a shit-fit over my language talkin’ to such a pretty, collected lady.”
Girl had good recovery. She flattered me, so I liked her, even if she still insisted on callin’ me the m-word. “I’ve got a momma like that too.”
Encouraged, Little Miss continued, “I like to, I don’t know, live a bit for myself while Max is at school.” She bent closer, wrinkling her long nose. “I suppose you think I’m a horrible momma.”
I shredded a handful of napkins. “Not at all.” Shit, now I did sound like a ma’am, a disapprovin’ one at that. I tried again. “I think you’re lucky to have a child.”
“Oh.” Her face fell, and her hand floated over mine before lying lightly across it. “I’m sorry.” She squeezed my fingers, squeezed my heart. “I got no filter at all. I tend to spew whatever’s on my mind. Did you...you can’t have?”
I shook my head.
I’d pined so long for friendship with someone who didn’t know me as the bereaved mother, and now I’d gone and blown it for a second time. “Like I said, don’t worry about it.”
Thinking I was giving her the brush off, she collected her purse.
I leaned in to whisper, “Oh, and by the way? I swear a fuckin’ lot too.”
Her laughter was a great big whooping thing causing heads to turn in our direction. I liked her even better.
In the parking lot we still giggled.
“Jane.” She gave me her hand.
“Shay.” I grinned.
She rushed to her car, hollering back, “Same time next week?”
Who? Me? “Yeah! I’ll be here.”
I’ll be here.
After Jane, things picked up, I perked up. I prepared to put out.
I was seeing to myself the next afternoon when my obnoxious cell cut in.
The bonus part of the mid-masturbation interruption was Reardon on the other end of the line. When he figured out why I was breathing heavy, he pseudo-sixty-nined me over the phone.
He was a million times better than my Rabbit-bullet combo.
I repaid in kind, listening to his rapidly increasing groans and the shuttle of his hand fisting his shaft until he came so wildly his shout concluded with an ear-splitting crash.
There was a scramble, a far off “Fuck!”, then his abashed, “I dropped the phone.”
His shy admittance was adorable. I laughed, and he did too, still catching his breath. “I wanna kiss you silly right now.”
“Me too, Shay, me–”
Our connection was dropped.
The newness of Reardon, and then Jane, didn’t wear off as the days went on. Even with the same-old of Palmer turning me down...turned off, tuned out. I needed to cut him loose; he’d be a better man without me. There was still a chance he could be a father, have a family.
During my next conversation with Reardon, I told him I had a new friend, even though I hadn’t once had the desire to mention Jane to Palmer. Thinking I meant friend in the same way he was my boss, he threatened to catch the next plane back.
I played him along for a while because flustered Reardon was still tons of fun. Relenting right before my Neolithic, pay-as-you-go Nokia ran out of minutes, I set him straight to his deep sigh of relief.
I got paid, and I hadn’t even officially put out per our new terms. Pussy pouted, but my conscience proudly gave me a gold star.
Sunday arrived. The day before. Time was redefined: Before Reardon, After Reardon. The last time I’d seen him, and the next time I would.
Sunday saw Momma and me headed to Sandpiper Villa’s Retirement Homes, visiting Mimi Flossie. On the ride, Momma kept looking at me. At one point she grabbed my hand, smiling. That was the look that said I seemed better. The one I’d been getting from everyone.
From her, it was more poignant. In one night she’d lost her grandbaby and her daughter, because I’d gone AWOL for more months than I cared to count.
“You been talkin’ to someone about Delilah?”
“No one in particular.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
I brought my knees to my chest in the cramped car. “I’m tryin’ not to hurt so much about her.”
As we walked into Mimi’s room, she considered us with blurry blue eyes before remembering who we were. “Uh-huh. Right on time. Mah baby girls.”
Granddaddy had died in the mid-eighties and she’d deteriorated rapidly afterward. She couldn’t understand life without him at her side, no one to escort her or hold her handbag at the shops. Without a husband’s vitamins and heart pills to keep track of, without his newspaper to lay open at the breakfast table. Without someone to steer, she’d become a ghost ship herself. She started wandering off for hours, in her own mind or all around town. After the third call from some kind soul or other from Walgreens or the Piggly Wiggly, Momma confiscated her car and several months later placed her at Sandpiper.
We should’ve moved into her old house on McCants Drive in the Old Village, but the cost of living and keeping her in the Villas was too dear. Not to mention the taxes, and Momma and Daddy had their own home to worry about.
’Course it wasn’t an easy road. Renters came and went with no sale in sight. After Daddy died, the place
turned ramshackle. At times the rental income was the only thing keeping us afloat.
The eighties up-market sailed right past us. Buyers not interested in the old cottage, demolition permits denied. As soon as the rezoning ordinance had been nailed to the majestic live oak outside Mimi’s, a Historic Committee meeting consisting of high and mighty residents was called.
Over two decades ago, I’d listened in on my parents, my ear pressed against my bedroom door.
Momma fumed to my placid daddy, “If my grandpappy, rest his blessed soul, could have heard them tonight, why he’d to turn over in his grave. He built that house back in 1920 with his bare hands, and it cost nine hundred dollars to make...honey, you know that was a lot of money back then.”
The crinkle of his newspaper preceded the whine of his recliner, the tread of his feet, and the sound of ice cracking under the gurgle of bourbon.
I edged the door open.
Momma took a sip and carried on, “Why, that young gal got nothin’ better to do than walk the village with her baby. Oooh, I’m so damn mad, Zanny! She had the gall, the gall I tell you, to testify I don’t have the right to do what I want with Momma’s house because, and I quote, ‘I just love to push my carriage past that quaint old house, it’d be a shame to see it torn down.’
“A shame? I’ll tell her what a shame is. A shame would be I couldn’t pay my bills. A cryin’ shame would be I couldn’t make sure Momma was safely cared for. A damn shame would be I’d have to hold onto that old house because–wait, oh you wait for it, honey–because, ‘It’s harmonious with the neighborhood.’
“I’ll give ’em a shame, yes siree. Histrionic Committee’s what them damn fools should call themselves.” Her footfalls pattered close to my door. “You’d best be asleep now, Shay, you hear?”
I’d squeaked, “Yes, Momma.”
“Them with connections can restore whatever the crap they like.”
I’d bet good money Momma clapped her hand over her mouth, she hardly ever swore.
“But not us Jusselys, not us Mottes.”
Daddy murmured.
Their feet moved together.
“Don’t get rascally on me, mister. I ain’t done.”
Oh! I sidled away from the door, close enough to hear but not enough to hear.