The Walsh Brothers

by Kate Canterbary

  "Let me tell you what I heard just now: your brothers are manically protective of you and they have guns."

  It was a reminder that, in everything we shared over the weekend, Lauren told me hardly anything about herself. I knew her body—every last inch of it—and her specifications for Trench Mills, and some other offhand personal details, but I never stopped to ask whether her brothers were going to pull a black hood over my head, hogtie me, and toss me in the ocean after finding out what I did to their baby sister.

  These seemed like important questions.

  "So yeah, Riley's even more of a creeper than you, but when you think about these things, these little annoying things, they don't matter because they're the people we have, and we don't get them for very long. We need to take them as they come and accept the crazy ways they show their love."

  My brows lifted and I trailed my fingers up and down her thigh. "You're not scarred for life because Riley watched me grope you, and he heard me narrate the whole thing? Twice?"

  "Not scarred for life," she laughed. "And Sam is comedy, right down to the weird socks that don't really go with the look, but work because they're weird."

  The wine was obscuring her words. Had to be. That was the only way she'd say she was good with Sam skeeving all over her. "Just to be clear, you tear into me when I text you to make sure you're alive but you have no problem with my douche canoe brother staring at your tits for five solid minutes? You're okay with that?"

  "It's good for my ego for beautiful boys like Sam to stare at my tits, but if you want to talk about this for even one more minute," she stood, inching her camisole up her torso and over her head, "you have to talk about it while I sit here naked."

  Her shirt sailed to the floor, and though I wanted to ask about all these velvet pillows and the girly, feel-good determination quotes plastered on her fridge, and the probability of her brothers snapping off my testicles and feeding them to sea otters, it could wait.

  It was time for me to lick my naughty schoolteacher until she screamed.

  I backed Lauren into her bedroom, my hands on her waist and my mouth on her neck, and we tumbled onto the bed, sprawling over each other and laughing. The wine was saturating my brain, and it didn't matter whether I brought any finesse to this moment. I had my filthy girl and I was going to do terrible things to her.

  "Get undressed and get over here," she said.

  After toeing off my shoes and leaving my unbuttoned shirt hanging from my shoulders, my hand settled on my belt buckle while Lauren's tongue darted out to lick her lips.

  "Keep looking at me like that, Lauren," I said, fully aware of my sharp, stern tone. "And we might not get very far."

  "I don't even know what that means."

  "How can you not know?" I froze in place, exasperated that she still didn't recognize what she did to me, that we still didn't understand each other. Or I'd forgotten about her inexperience again.

  Lauren crawled to the edge of the bed and reached out to grasp my belt, looking up at me with a virginal smile. "I need you to explain it to me." Sitting back on her heels, she unlatched the buckle and drew my zipper down. She jerked my shirt from my shoulders and pushed my trousers over my hips, leaving them pooled at my feet.

  "It means I know you've been thinking about me fucking you all day. It means I can't wait to hear the filthy things you want. It means you have me so worked up right now, and all I need is one of your hot little looks and I'll be coming all over you."

  Pushing her to the bed, I leaned down, my eyes fixed on her while my mouth covered her nipple, and she responded with a low whisper of approval. Smiling, I kissed and licked my way down her body until my lips traced the flesh between her hips.

  "Tell me what you want," I growled into her skin.

  "Lick my pussy. I want to know how good it tastes."

  Her words—those dirty, electric words—were everything I needed and they did something to me I couldn't explain. And I didn't want to waste a minute on explanations when I could have my mouth on her clit.

  My fingers brushed over her folds while I kissed from one hip bone to the other, and then down, lower, to where her arousal perfumed the air. I parted her, holding her open to feather my tongue over her, then dipping inside to taste her.

  Pushing up on her elbows, Lauren gazed at me between her thighs while my lips fastened around her throbbing nub. She allowed an occasional moan or hum of satisfaction, but said nothing else while I drew her clit between my teeth, sucking and teasing, and filling her with my fingers.

  She drove a hand through my hair and shifted my head to hit a different angle. "I want to hear it," she said, her tone domineering. I fucking loved it. "I want to hear how good it tastes."

  I shifted my hand, pressing my thumb to her ass and adoring the flood of arousal it triggered. She didn't know how to ask for it yet, but she liked it.

  "You are fucking delicious. Sweet and salty and perfect," I said against her mound, and I meant it. Not all pussy was created equal, and though I rarely made enough oral offerings to the beasts for adequate points of comparison, Lauren was my favorite. "I don't know what I'm going to do without this pussy for three whole weeks."

  I looked up, following that golden skin over her belly, past those full, beautiful breasts, and up to her mouth. Our eyes met and my thumb pressed harder, and I saw the tremor move through her body as she came apart. Her head fell back, calling out for there, there, right there, and oh, yes, don't stop, and her thighs tensed around my head. She held me in place while she rode through her spasms, and I kept my tongue fixed to her.

  Remembering Friday night was like calling up a distant memory, one gilded and soft around the edges. Four days stretched between that night and this moment, but inside the warp-speed incubator of those ninety-six hours, I was lost, overwhelmed, confused. But I didn't want it to stop.

  "I licked it and now it's mine," I said, my tongue sweeping from her clit to her core, and laughter rolled through Lauren.

  15

  Lauren

  Spitting the toothpaste into the sink, I rinsed out my mouth a few more times. My knowledge of oral sex was pathetically limited, and though I savored the way Matthew surrendered when my tongue was wrapped around his shaft, and I even liked swallowing when he exploded in my mouth, there was nothing wrong with disliking the aftertaste.

  I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror, trying to recognize the person looking back at me. I was different yet everything was exactly the same, and I wanted to find that thread of newness, that variation, and study it under a microscope. I wanted to know what it was and where it came from, and how I could encapsulate it and hold on to it forever because this night was ending too quickly, and my reality waited for me on the other side.

  The hallway floor creaked beneath my feet, and I leaned against the doorframe, gazing at Matthew's bare backside. I didn't think they actually made men like this—strong and defined without being muscle-bound, dark without being excessively hairy, and gorgeous without being too pretty.

  And most importantly, he was naked in my bed at three in the morning.

  "I'm gonna need a little time after that."

  "Hmm?" I stammered, my thoughts stuck on the curve of his ass.

  "Need some time to recover. I might be paralyzed."

  I collected the twisted heap of sheets and blankets from the floor, shaking them out and spreading them over the bed, over Matthew.

  "Your eyes give away all your indecent thoughts, Miss Halsted."

  Peeling back the covers, I ran my palm up his leg to his ass. I squeezed, feeling his muscles cording under my hand, and landed a resounding slap.

  "All of them?" I challenged.

  He shot a heated glance over his shoulder, and I rubbed the pink handprint blooming on his skin before switching sides. He rolled, swinging an arm out to grab me around the waist and pin me beneath him.

  "I'd really like to know what you're thinking."

  I brushed the hair from my eyes and s
miled up at Matthew. "I'm thinking you are an unbelievably hot sample of your species, and I wanted to feel the perfection for myself. Then I was wondering whether you wanted to fuck me in the shower, and if you did maybe you'd want to use the massaging showerhead on my—"

  "Holy fuck, Lauren."

  A howling groan filled the room, and Matthew balanced on his forearms, kicking the sheets away and rocking into me with one rough motion. That response told me everything I needed to know about the unrefined and frankly shocking requests that kept rolling off my tongue.

  I probably wouldn't admit it to anyone, but I was drunk on the power he gave me and my words. I didn't understand where they came from or how he drew them out or why we needed them. But I knew they did something to him, to us both, and I was slowly understanding the depth to which they affected us. They freed me from everything, from my rules, from myself, and they didn't just turn him on, they turned him up.

  "You always say you need some time," I said. It came out in a stutter, rasping in time with the hammering of his hips. I wrapped a hand around the headboard; we usually found ourselves on the floor after this kind of thrusting, and we'd done this enough to know when to hold on. "And look where you end up."

  "Thought I did. But then you spanked me, and opened that filthy mouth of yours." He shook his head, his expression bewildered. "If I knew I'd like you slapping my ass so much, we would have started there."

  He lifted my hips a few degrees, and I knew from the concentration on his face and bunched muscles in his shoulders he was close, but that angle hurt like hell.

  "Don't stop but please don't keep doing that," I said.

  He froze for a moment, then pulled out. "What'd I do? What's wrong?"

  I rolled over and settled in his lap, my back to his chest, knowing this position always worked for us. We'd tried them all, and determined our strengths and preferences quickly. I guided him into me, and we sighed when I sank down over him. "You can still be a caveman while being gentle."

  We moved together slowly, undulating in a patient rhythm with his arm braced over my breasts and his mouth on my neck and shoulders. This was sleepy, middle-of-the-night sex, quiet and calm and instinctual, with the only sounds coming from hushed moans and skin sliding across skin. I felt Matthew—all of him—swallowing all of me until there was no delineation between us.

  We weren't frantic and we weren't primal, and we weren't hiding behind filthy bucket lists, alcohol, or a certain degree of anonymity. We'd needed those things to come together before, to be whatever, whomever we wanted—at least I needed them—but we didn't need them anymore. This was where we knew each other, where we anticipated every sound and shiver, and we didn't need anything else. It was just us, just Matt and Lauren, and we only needed this.

  He brought his hand to my pelvis, holding me there and pressing, and we felt my walls closing around him, magnifying the fullness. I laced my fingers with his, guiding him.

  "I want your fingers on me, just like…" I demonstrated, my fingers scribbling over my clit while I arched into him. I was right there, so close so close, but I wasn't ready to go over yet, and I stiffened, holding back and fighting off the first tickles of release. My clit couldn't take any more stimulation right now, and I moved our fingers lower, to where he moved in me. Our pace slowed to an aching roll, and we moaned in concert when we rubbed the base of his cock.

  "Tell me what you need," Matthew said against my throat. His voice was strained, almost gravelly, and it strummed every tightly wound nerve in my body. "There is nothing hotter than watching you touch yourself while I'm fucking you, and I know you're so fucking close and you're just waiting until I let you come."

  "Why do I love it when you talk to me like that?"

  He rocked against me, his forehead pressed to my shoulder and his rough groans against my skin, and I focused on nothing more than the warmth and wetness where we were joined.

  "The same reason I love your filthy mind, so just tell me what you need."

  I didn't have to think about it. The words were right there, rising to the top like perverted little bubbles in my champagne, just waiting for him to ask for them, and here's the thing: I wanted everything I asked for. I didn't want him calling me his dirty slut while we ate paella, of course, but I wanted it when the lights and clothes were off. Sex with Matthew was a special type of truth serum for me, and it was the one place I could completely shake off the world and rely only on instinct.

  My hips swayed, and through the smooth, round motion I locked our fingers around his base, squeezing while I met his thrusts. And then I turned my head, my lips brushing over Matthew's, and in the most demure voice possible I said, "I want to be your fuck toy. All for you. Only for you. Only ever for you."

  A strangled grunt rumbled from Matthew's chest, his arms tightening as he surged into my body. He bit my shoulder hard—harder than ever before, harder than necessary—and I came apart with a shriek, my body liquefying in his arms. The electricity crackling between us went from bright white to starlit darkness, and I felt everything inside me unraveling. Every stitch and seam was sliding loose, and I was undone by him, this, us.

  "You're incredible. So fucking incredible," he panted. His muscles sagged with a sigh, and his forehead fell to my back.

  Matthew kissed my shoulders, holding me close. I studied him over my shoulder for a heavy moment, my gaze dropping to the purple indentations in my skin before breaking our connection to fall into the pillows. He flopped on his stomach beside me and brought his hand to my ass.

  "This is crazy," I whispered.

  "I'm starting to think you're right about that." Matthew pressed a kiss to the slope of my breast and stared at it, hopefully reminding himself to take it easy with the biting. "But I like this kind of crazy."

  I was sore. Really sore.

  The idea of sitting on an airplane for six hours sent me searching the terminal shops for ibuprofen because there was no room for the constant, throbbing memory of Matthew and last night's nonstop sex festival on this flight. And it wasn't like we could only blame last night. It had been four straight days of this.

  Suggestive taglines on the covers of Cosmopolitan, Allure, and Glamour caught my attention, all professing the secrets to making my man happy in bed, and I scowled back at them. Those stories required a warning label: 'You and your man will be happy in bed, but you won't be able to sit down for three days. And P.S.: he might bite the shit out of your shoulder.'

  I knocked back three tablets, pulled on my darkest sunglasses, and wandered the terminal. Once my flight was called, I discovered sitting was exactly as uncomfortable as I expected. Wiggling into a tolerable position, I prayed for smooth skies. I skimmed my emails while passengers boarded, busy clearing issues from my inbox and crossing tiny items from my action plan, and didn't notice the unopened text message icon in the corner of my screen until the flight attendants started their safety procedures.

  Matthew: have a good flight sweetness. call me whenever.

  I stared at those words, those simple, innocuous words, and heard them as if he was whispering into my ear.

  "Miss, you need to turn that off." The flight attendant nodded toward my phone with a steely glare. "Now."

  I spared the text one last glance before deleting it.

  16

  Matthew

  From: Matthew Walsh

  To: Erin Walsh

  Date: September 28 at 11:32 EDT

  Subject: On the topic of citrus fruit

  * * *

  …Clementines.

  * * *

  Birthday: August 16.

  * * *

  And I need you home at Thanksgiving or Christmas. Get your ass back to Boston. I need you to meet her.

  From: Erin Walsh

  To: Matthew Walsh

  Date: September 29 at 04:30 CEST

  Subject: RE: On the topic of citrus fruit

  * * *

  M –

  I was going to congratulate you on gathering ba
sic information about your new friend, then I realized how absurd that would be. So. As you were.

  * * *

  And by the way, if architecture doesn't work out for RISD, tell him there's work for him calling the plays at high school football games. I can't tell you how wonderful it was to hear him recap your little in-office molestation, even if his texts are slamming my data plan.

  * * *

  But here's the real question, kid: did you read her in?

  * * *

  - e

  From: Matthew Walsh

  To: Erin Walsh

  Date: October 4 at 22:56 EDT

  Subject: History

  * * *

  E –

  You know I'd rather talk this out than go back and forth over email, but you can't find five minutes to call me or get on Skype. One of these days, you need to explain to me what it is you do with those volcanoes.

  * * *

  She doesn't know anything about Mom or Angus, and she doesn't know anything about you and Shannon, but hear me out before you tear into me.

  * * *

  She was raised right, with parents and structures and rules, and happiness and Christmas cards, and you know, decent human beings. You should see her mother's travel blog, E. It's like rainbows and puppy dogs and lollipops. That's what Lauren came from. She's not like us. She's good. She might also be a trained assassin, but she's good.