His gaze flits from his erection to me. “Come here, sweetheart.”
My hands fall to my sides, and I approach him. He knows how to get me off better than sometimes I even do. Swiftly, he uses both of his hands to clutch my hips and he lifts me to the table. I’m standing. He pushes on the small of my back until I’m in line with his head. While he’s sitting at a slight angle, he has the perfect height to kiss me between the legs.
The sensation nearly buckles my knees. I clutch his hair, and he clutches my ass, his tongue doing wonders to me. I cry, open-mouthed and out of breath. I watch how his right hand returns to his cock. Oh God.
His tongue does something—I cry so loud that I cover my mouth with my hand. Holy shit.
“I can’t…” I’m blinded. Ahhhh…oh my God!!
One of the faster times that I’ve come, he effortlessly changes positions, transitioning me to my back on the table. Before I even blink. Before I’ve even descended from this mountain. His fingers stroke my heat, building me. Building me.
I buck up, legs wrestling beneath him. He has one knee on the table, hovered above me, and he jacks off. Oh… I can’t close my mouth.
I stare him up and down, dying in pleasure. “Ryke,” I cry. His masculinity thunders above me, and I’d watch this beautiful storm morning, noon, and night.
Dear God, give him to me always.
I ache for him to fill me, and my back keeps arching to reciprocate all the nerve-splitting sensations. I rake my nails down his arms. He teases my clit.
I light up, eyes rolling back. Fuck. Fuck.
“Dais,” he groans, his ass flexing as he rocks forward, craving to be inside me. He spits in his palm again, no lube. We didn’t bring out lube.
“Am I wet?” I ask in a short breath, practically panting. I can’t catch my breath like him. My shoulders grind into the stiff wooden table.
“Yeah. Don’t fucking worry about that, Dais.” I see his glistening fingers, even though he never put them inside of me. He rubs his erection only two times more, not coming yet. Then he lifts me in his arms, setting me on the deck, and he kisses me with such hunger that my body pulls into his. I walk backwards while he walks forwards.
My spine hits the railing.
He hikes one of my legs around his waist, his cock pressed against me. I dizzy, and he pauses for a moment so I can take a few strong inhales. He watches me closely, his brows rising at me, my own eyes glazed.
“Holy…” shit. I pant.
Rain pelts his shoulders and soaks his hair. “How do those fucking orgasms feel, Calloway?”
I smile. “Very, very euphoric.” He’s still the only one who can make me come, and I’d never try with anyone else. “Tell my husband thanks?”
His body up against mine, he says, “I’d rather give you another one and push my fucking cock inside of you.”
Oh my God.
I pulse, but my gaze drifts towards the window. If Sulli wakes up, she’d see his ass and one of my legs wrapped around him.
“Hey,” Ryke says lowly, his hand suddenly on my cheek. His brows furrow. “What’s fucking wrong?”
I hold onto his waist. “Sulli…windows…”
“Don’t fucking think about it.”
I hope that his body will distract me, but not even the constant sight of his erection keeps me from peeking over his shoulder. Towards the window.
Ryke spins me around, and I clutch the railing while he stands behind me. He spreads my legs open a little wider with his foot. We don’t fuck in this position often, so he has to help angle me. Pulling my hips backwards, stretching out my torso so I’m not standing straight up.
I crane my neck over my shoulder, but only to look at him. Ryke pushes his erection right up against my opening, and I tighten in expectancy, body thrumming.
He’s about to fuck me from behind, not in the ass. A moan catches my throat even before he pushes in, our gazes locking. I find the breath to say, “What an animal, that Ryke Meadows.”
Ryke literally has my hips in his grasp, his expression just a thousand times I’m going to fuck you, sweetheart.
This primal position builds heat all around us, though I have a difficult time watching us unless he videotapes the act. Which we don’t do anymore.
I strain my neck as much as possible, wanting to see. He slowly, inch-by-inch, fills me with his cock. I gasp, a cry stuck. I grip the railing harder, and my head falls. He thrusts against my ass, the friction wild. I tremble, and not long, he brings me up, clasping my face. He kisses me while he fucks me from behind.
I can barely stand straight, light bursting in my brain.
Fifteen minutes in, the fullness brushes against every nerve. I’m melted in his arms, and he holds me against his chest and drives deeper. I cry and cry, all sounds of pleasure, and he grunts into my neck, “Fuck…Dais. Fuck.”
And then…
Knock. Knock.
“Daddy! Mommy!”
Knock Knock.
I freeze, just hitting a climax that sputters out faster than the other two. I glance over my shoulder, our three-year-old at the door with her stuffed starfish, lightly rapping the door. She stares right at us.
“Ryke…” I have no clue what to do. Sulli can see his naked body up against mine like we’re two animals mating on National Geographic.
Ryke is already looking over his shoulder, then back to me. “Hey, she won’t remember any of this, Calloway. Fucking relax.”
I must look horrified.
He tries to cheer me up by messing my hair, but it’s too damp to ruffle. I just fixate on his words: she won’t remember any of this. She’s too young. It eases my shoulders. Ryke gently pulls out of me, and I relocate the rest of my senses.
“I’ll see what she wants.”
Before I go, Ryke kisses my lips and asks, “You feel okay?”
He means physically after sex. “I just had five million orgasms. I think I’m better than okay.”
“Five fucking million?”
“I know you’re jealous of my husband, but he’s just that good at sex.” I wag my brows, migrating away from him, and he looks like all he wants is to pull me back into his arms.
I slip into the house and crouch down to Sulli, Ryke pulling on his boxer-briefs much farther away from us. “Hey there. Why aren’t you in bed?”
She rubs her tired eyes with a fist. “I saw that you were gone, and…and I got scared.” She peeks curiously behind me. “What were you and Daddy…” She yawns and forgets that question. I could find a way to answer, but I’m glad I don’t have to.
I nudge her arm with mine. “You know who will always protect you, even while you’re sleeping, even when Daddy and I aren’t around?”
“Who?” she asks.
“Coconut.”
Sulli spins around and stands on her tiptoes, peering up at the white husky. She lies content at the foot of the bed, observing us, constantly alert, a smile in her big blue eyes as though to say I love you all too.
Without another word, Sulli braves this foreign place and crawls back into bed, hanging onto the familiar animal. Coconut welcomes her with a lick to the cheek.
I know life is different with a baby. The little things and the bigger things, but I smile at every new moment, every crazy second. I wouldn’t trade a thing.
{ 24 }
October 2021
Dalton Elementary
Philadelphia
LOREN HALE
Career Day.
Moffy needed to bring one of us to school, just to speak about our job field in front of his classmates and other parents. In prep school, I plagiarized papers, refused to do presentations (even if they were worth half of my grade), and I cheated on exams by slipping answers up the sleeve of my shirt.
I’m not exactly the person you want to show off to your teacher or the person you want speaking in a room full of children. Lily and public speaking—they don’t go well together either. She trips over her words and starts sweating.
To see who’d attend Career Day, we did the mature thing and played rock-paper-scissors.
I lost.
So I’m sitting in the tiniest plastic chair, a line of them pushed against the wall for parents. We all wait our turn.
If you told me at twenty—ten goddamn years ago—that I’d be here, today, giving a speech to my six-year-old’s kindergarten class, I’d have laughed at you. Then I would’ve reminded you that I’d never have a child and subject them to a life of pain and misery.
To a life with me.
My old self is sitting apathetically in the back of the classroom, wishing this day would end. While I sit up at the front and wish today would last just a little longer.
Paper ghosts dangle from the ceiling. Painted pumpkins taped to the windows. A bowl of candy corn sits on the teacher’s desk. It just reminds me that my thirtieth birthday and Halloween will be here soon.
I’m sandwiched between a doctor in blue scrubs and a stockbroker in a suit. I wear jeans and a black V-neck shirt. This might be a private school, all the parents upper-class, but it’s clear that I’m the odd one out.
It has nothing to do with my goddamn clothes and everything to do with being famous. They’ve seen my face on magazines, television, and the internet.
I hold onto the fact that the children might not recognize me. Unless their parents let them on the internet without parental controls. Or watch reality TV—which would be doubtful. Our docu-series is uncensored on cable.
Ryke is no longer bleeped every four words.
I scan the desks. Two kids stare at me hardcore. Either they haven’t been taught it’s rude or they don’t give a shit. Maybe their parents subscribe to tabloids and they’ve seen my face in the pages.
I flash the driest half-smile, my features cutting like blades with that one action.
Their eyes bulge and they sink lower in their chairs.
Don’t pick on my kid, I’m thinking. He has to deal with enough, and I know what it feels like to have guys running after you in the hallways.
I feel the heat of a parent’s glare beside me. They’ve all been sizing me up and down since I walked in the goddamn room. For Christ’s sake, they’ve been watching me instead of the parent who speaks. I’m more uncomfortable because these aren’t strangers.
They’re the parents of Moffy’s peers, maybe even his friends.
I’ll never say this to Rose…but I wish she could be here. She’s stuck in another room down the hall. There are only four kindergarten classes at Dalton, and Jane and Moffy were unluckily split up.
“So when you’re older and you need your teeth nice and straight,” an orthodontist explains, “you’ll come to me.” He smiles wide, showing off his pearly whites. Everyone claps, and my nerves shift.
“Thank you, Dr. Ellis. That was very informative.” The teacher checks her list.
I fear mostly that I’ll do or say something to worsen Moffy’s situation. With Jonathan Hale as my dad, I learned to antagonize the people that hurt me, some that even tried to help me. Cut them up. Spit them out. I’d rather Moffy try to make friends than enemies, and I’m an influence on which way he goes.
I get it.
I crack some of my knuckles, and my nervous energy piles up at the teacher’s incoming words.
“Next is Maximoff’s father. Everyone give Mr. Hale a nice welcome.” She claps and the kindergarteners follow suit.
I slowly rise.
Moffy is already out of his chair before the teacher even says, “Maximoff, come and introduce your father to the class.” He wears a charcoal gray Sorin-X shirt and a Rylin Water’s wristband, all superheroes from The Fourth Degree.
As soon as he stops by my side, his bright face smothers every dark emotion inside of me. He has the biggest overpowering smile, three of his top teeth missing, and his eyes shine with some sort of pride. Of me. Jesus. My son is proud of me.
I’m not sure what for, but it almost rocks me back.
“This is my daddy.” Moffy motions to me with his thumb. “He’s got two jobs.” He holds up two fingers. “He owns Hale Co. and Halway Comics. The baby stuff is alright but the comics are soooo cool, and my mommy owns this café and comic book store where all the comics go. She’s awesome.”
Lily is going to freak out when I tell her this. That just made today worth every goddamn thing.
Moffy tilts his head up to me. “Alright, Daddy, it’s your turn.”
He hugs my side, I squeeze back, and then he returns to his seat.
Tone down your voice. It’s all I think right now.
Tone down my edged, I’m-going-to-kill-you voice. So I clear my throat once before I smile—a half-smile. Great.
I look to Moffy, and his lively smile never vanishes.
I can do this.
“Like Moffy said,” I tell the class, “the baby stuff is alright. The really neat thing is working with comics for a living.” My voice is harsh but not terrible. I can do this. “For my job, artists and writers submit comics they want to see in print. I have to choose which ones my publishing company will pick up. From there, I have a team that specializes in marketing, editing, design and merchandise. Like making action figures and posters.”
A little girl with brown pigtails raises her hand.
I point at her. “What’s up?”
“Do you have any girl superheroes?” she wonders.
“We do.” I nod. “In The Fourth Degree comics, there’s Tilly Stayzor, a fan favorite, but my personal favorite is Rylin Waters. She has the power of—”
“Electricity!” a little redheaded boy exclaims. He leans towards the girl. “Ohmygosh, it’s so cool. You need to see it, Mindy. She’s on The Fourth Degree: You and Me cartoon!”
The first season just aired.
“He’s right,” I say. “Rylin Waters can manipulate electricity, but if she pushes her powers too far, she can also short-circuit and lose her memory.” I gesture to Moffy who has the bag of action figures.
He climbs out of his chair and sets Rylin Waters on Mindy’s desk.
“We brought some action figures for everyone from the line. That’s Rylin,” I tell the little girl. She’s awed for a moment, and then I help Moffy pass out the rest.
“So that’s about it,” I tell the class. “I get to play with toys all day.”
Another hand in the air. I hold my breath for a second, always expecting a bomb to drop, but I nod for them to speak.
“What about your other job?” the redhead asks. “Hale Co.? What’s that?”
“It’s a company that produces baby products. If you have baby oil or diapers or pacifiers in your home and notice an HC on the label, that’s Hale Co.”
Another hand. Christ. “What do you do there?”
“I’m the CEO,” I say. “Which means, I run the entire company.”
Lots of child-like ooohs while the parent section is far from impressed. I’m not looking for their approval, but the guy that I’d been sitting next to—the stockbroker—yeah, he rolls his eyes.
“Like I said,” I proclaim, “the comics are more fun.”
“Aren’t you an actor?” a blonde girl asks. “I’ve seen you on my TV.”
“It’s not acting,” Moffy cuts in. “It’s real.”
“What Moffy said.” I turn to the teacher, hoping she’ll end this now. Princesses of Philly was so fucking long ago, and to this day, networks still air reruns, which blows my mind. We didn’t even make it to the end of the season. I can name a hundred better television shows to play on loop.
The teacher must take note of my sharpened glare. “Class, let’s give Mr. Hale a round of applause.” She thanks me while the kindergarteners clap again.
I return to my seat, my heart thrashing in my ribcage. My nerves just catch back up with me, even though it ended.
The stockbroker leans in towards me and whispers, “You did a great job. Didn’t look conceited or anything.”
His sarcasm is too thick to ignore.
But I almost laugh. Not dryly. A real fucking laugh. Because I’ve never been called conceited. Not one day in my life. Entitled, yeah. Arrogant, pompous—no.
This might be one of the few times I don’t seek out the last word. I don’t even want it. Moffy chats softly with a girl beside him. Still talking about my presentation, he points towards me and grins from ear-to-ear.
I smile back.
He’s the only one I ever needed to impress.
[ 25 ]
November 2021
Madame Daphne’s School of Ballet
New York City
CONNOR COBALT
“Now for the butterfly,” the ballet teacher says, seated on the floor among the circle of young children.
They try to imitate Madame Daphne: feet together, heel-to-heel. The six-year-olds have an easier time, but the five and four-year-olds seem to struggle.
I’ve already watched them do the leapfrog and spread peanut butter and jelly with their feet. Metaphorical peanut butter and jelly, obviously. The childish names for these moves grate on me. I understand that it’s pre-ballet, but I’d rather Madame Daphne use the correct terminology: dégagé, tendu, rond de jambe.
It might take them longer to comprehend the action with the word, but it’s better than teaching them how to do the peanut butter and jelly.
Jane is the only six-year-old with her feet not pressed together. She spreads out her legs, her pastel turquoise tutu less dainty than the other girls. Jane picked it out, content with her lack of conformity. Much more than Beckett.
Just four, he tries to be precise in his foot placement, fixated on the instructor and her movements.
Jane has already attempted two somersaults of her own fruition. Beckett shrunk when the instructor scolded her the second time, as though he was in trouble by extension of his sister. He wasn’t, but each sibling affects the other in varying degrees.
“She’s going to get in trouble again,” Charlie tells me, his words very clear for four, but his tone is clipped. Almost deadpanned. He’s seated beside me on the long row of chairs, mostly filled with mothers.
I study Charlie and his frustrated but concentrated gaze. I shared that familiar look as a child. Maddened. I was maddened with, at, and by the world. His IQ is just shy of mine, and the more acutely aware he becomes of his surroundings, of people, of intentions and meanings and humanity, I draw closer to him.
Some Kind of Perfect (Calloway Sisters #4.5) Page 30