by Xavier Neal
At least in those circumstances there is a sounding board to word vomit at when your insecurities about being a shitty parent spring too high.
My runaway train of thought has my mouth following suit. “You really want kids someday, Pax?”
“Obviously.”
“How many?”
He seems perplexed by the question. “However many the woman I’m in love with is willing to give me.”
I can’t stop myself from asking a follow up. “And if it’s none?”
His body begins to slowly close the space between us. “Is it none because she doesn’t want them, or because she already has one?”
Guess I wasn’t really being subtle there. “The latter.”
Pax’s hand finds mine. “Then I treat the one she has like my own. Pushing her on the swings. Reading her bed time stories. Taking her on doughnut dates. Wiping away the inevitable chocolate that will end up on her nose on said date…”
A blush coats my cheeks at the same time I snicker.
“Just because I don’t share genetics doesn’t mean she can’t be mine. Trust me. Mamma and I don’t share a frazione of DNA, and there has never, and will never, be a doubt in my mind that she is my mother. Doesn’t matter to me whether they ever sign divorce papers or not. Nothing could or will ever change that. It’ll be the same way for me and the child I consider mine when the day comes.” He lifts my hand to plant a gentle kiss on the back of it. “Now, Buttercup, what’s for dinner?”
Having almost completely forgotten I was responsible for the meal, I slip out of his light hold and back up towards the kitchen. “I’ve got chicken parmesan in the crock pot. I just need to cook the pasta.”
Pax’s face falls to a frown.
I drop my purse onto the island. “What?”
He presses his lips tightly together.
“What?”
His head tilts slightly to the side, clearly still hesitating.
“Come on, Suit. Out with it.”
“It’s just…chicken parmesan and crock pot do not belong in the same sentence.”
My arms cross defensively across my chest. “Have you ever actually had it?”
Pax tosses me a sarcastic expression. “Of course not. I’m Italian. We use old as fuck recipes that only get passed down verbally and often require longer than twenty four hours to be done ‘properly’.”
“Food snob.”
He shakes his head. “That’s my best friend, Wyatt. I’m just…traditional and crock pot cooking is not traditional.”
“It is for the modern woman!”
And women like me who can’t cook worth a damn so the crockpot takes the blame for all the mistakes while I get the glory when it’s edible.
“Modern women can use regular pots and pans, too.”
I childishly repeat. “Snob.”
He gives me a devilish grin. “No. I just like the best of everything.”
His eyes darken, and the lustful look creates desperation between my thighs. Instead of surrendering to it and allowing him to gorge on me, I quietly stammer, “P-P-Pour the wine, please. I’m gonna start the noodles.”
Pax follows the instructions while I busy myself trying not to ruin the pasta. Once the meal is successfully plated, we make ourselves comfortable on the tall barstools at the island. It’s a little more cramped than the kitchen table, but it also allows for more closeness, more connection, more intimacy, all of which we both take full advantage of. Throughout the meal he rests a hand on my thigh; strong, warm strokes used to encourage me to continue my ramblings about work. When the trip to South Haven Island is brought up, he mentions having a client with a beach house, we could borrow, not bothering to ask if I mind the company so much as expecting I’ll love it.
And I will…
But he should still ask, shouldn’t he?
He can’t just have all of the control.
He can’t just keep barging into each and every aspect of my life and expect me not to object. What if I wanted the time alone? What if I want to take the lead or wanted to invite him? Should I speak up or was he perhaps just being flirty?
God, why do I feel like every time everything is going perfect with him I need to sabotage it? Is this really just about protecting Hattie or is that just the easiest excuse to hide behind?
With each of us no longer taking bites from of our plates, Pax suggests we take the rest of our wine out onto the patio.
I place my cell phone beside the bottle on the tiny wicker table that’s located in the middle of the seating arrangement and move my chair to be beside his. “So, was it the most godawful meal you’ve ever had in your life?”
He offers me a small smirk. “Not the most godawful.”
“Hey! You ate at least half of it!”
A short chuckle bounces his chest. “Did I? Or did I cleverly hide it underneath and to the side of the overcooked pasta?”
My eyes grab a glimpse of my cell before I shoot daggers at him. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“Honestly?”
“Can you do it without being a dickhead?”
Pax’s beautiful laugh fills the night air burying me in the type of contentment I rarely feel outside of time with Hattie or my mom. He reaches for his glass, has a small sip, and replies, “Your pasta was…not good, Buttercup, but I ate what I could because you made it, and you were proud of it.”
The warmth of his words wins him more points than they should. “What was so terrible about it?”
“Store bought sauce aside?”
“You make yours fresh?!”
He nods and steals another sip of his wine. “Sauce aside. The chicken was overcooked and lacked seasoning. What’d you use?”
Guilt grows in my eyes. “I was supposed to season the chicken? Isn’t the sauce supposed to give it flavor?”
Pax pats my leg in a condescending nature. “How about we leave the cooking to me? I don’t mind. Really. I grew up learning to cook. I know my way around a kitchen when Wyatt’s not barking orders or demanding to take over.”
After another helpless glance at my phone, I inquire, “Is he really that bad?”
“Being a professional chef makes him unbearable in the kitchen. We all learned back in college it was easier to smile and nod than try to cook anywhere near him.”
“Is he a better cook than you?”
“Obnoxiously so.”
“Does that mean he should come over to cook for me instead?”
The playfulness is not well received.
Pax’s large frame shifts my direction, eyes narrowed and jaw tightened. “L'unica persona che arriva a quel fottuto onore sono io. Sei mio per proteggere. Il mio a cui badare. Il mio fare sesso con. Siamo d'accordo?”
My eyes widen in silent request for a translation.
“The only person who gets that fucking honor is me. You’re mine to protect. Mine to take care of. Mine to fuck. Are we in agreement?”
I smugly smile, loving not only the way it rattled him, but the alpha male it awoke.
Is it so wrong to want someone to occasionally take control of your bliss whether it’s with your food or with your body? It’s not like he’s telling me what to wear or who to never make eye contact with. Every time he gets controlling it’s with one objective in mind.
Providing me with pleasure.
And it’s not like he ignores my denials on the rarities they occur.
He actually does the opposite.
He acknowledges them and commends me for not being afraid to speak up.
Reminds me that I should never be afraid to give him my opinion.
That it matters.
That I matter.
His grip on the glass tightens so hard I fear it might shatter. “Are. We. In. Agreement?”
“We are.”
He lets out the breath he’d been holding.
“So, Suit, you have pretty good taste in food,” I wink, and continue on, “exquisite taste in cigars and wine-”
“And women
.”
The interruption causes me to squeeze my thighs in hope of dulling the newly created ache. “What about music? Whenever we’re in your Rover we typically just listen to the radio.”
“Hattie likes the radio.”
“Oh, don’t I fucking know it…” I roll my eyes. “It doesn’t help they have a tendency to play the same seven songs like every hour. How many times does a person really need to hear that damn ‘Rum Rum Bum Bum’ song?”
We lightly laugh together.
“What do you listen to when Hattie’s not overpowering your musical preferences?”
“Jazz or anything Sinatra, Martin, or Sammy Davis Jr.”
“Of course, since you practically have your own Rat Pack, right?
Pax gives me grunt. “No.”
My glass free hand sways side to side. “I don’t know…From the stories you tell, to the way you dress, it seems like you just might.”
“I don’t.”
“But if you did I’m betting you’d be Sinatra.”
“Just because I’m Italian?”
“Obviously. Besides, you’re not nearly as funny as Sammy or Dean.”
“Hey!”
I chortle, have a sip of wine, and a sneak glance of my phone.
Pax flips the question. “What about you? What do you listen to on your way to work or home, without Hattie in the car?”
“Usually just keep the radio playing because it’s easiest to tune out and let my brain brew about work shit, however, I do love having a glass of wine to some Billie Holiday out here on the patio. I grew up listening to her. My mom and grandmother were both huge fans.”
Without missing a beat, Pax pulls out his phone, swipes it a couple times, and fills the night air with the romantically inviting tunes I was just recalling. He places his phone down beside mine and asks, “Tell me why you’ve been staring at your phone all night like you’re waiting for it to ring.”
Slightly embarrassed at my behavior, I attempt to brush it off and place my wine glass down. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s something, Ryann, and I do not appreciate being lied to.”
My shoulders slump.
“Tell me.”
I sheepishly confess, “This is only Hattie’s third sleepover. I’m nervous, okay?”
Pax’s expression softens.
“All of this is still really new to me. The drop me off birthday parties. The sleepovers. The desire for some independence and personal space. She’s growing up so fast, and it’s terrifying. And you know, I work so much sometimes that I wonder am I missing it all? Am I a terrible mother for wanting to soak in as much time as I can when I have the time to? Am I smothering?”
He places his glass on the table and pulls my hand up to his lips. “Take a breath, Ryann. It’s okay to indulge in the moments of adulthood the same way it is alright for her to enjoy the moments of adolescence like a slumber party.” Pax places another kiss on my knuckles. “It doesn’t make you a bad mother. It doesn’t make you selfish.” He extends one of my fingers and sucks it between his teeth.
The bite tips my jaw down.
“Let me distract you from your worries.” Pax repeats the action on the next finger. “Your fears.” He moves onto the third, though he bites a bit harder. “Your insecurities.”
I rapidly nod and rush my open mouth to his.
Our tongues collide with haste causing our teeth to gnash with gusto. One of his large palms engulfs my tit, tugging at the taunt nipple, while the other tangles itself in my hair, yanking me out of my seat. Once I’m on my feet gravitating towards him, the gentleness I was given earlier vanishes.
Pax abruptly pulls his mouth away and pushes his chair back. “Turn that ass to me.”
There’s no vacillation in my decision to follow his command.
Without warning, his hands yank up the edge of my gray dress exposing the tiny string wedged between my cheeks. His hands roughly cup my globes, kneading the area like dough in desperate desire of attention. The harder his fingers dig in the wetter it makes me.
“I mean it, Ryann,” he practically purrs my name. “You’re mine to fuck. Spread those legs wide and touch your ankles.”
My body hums with bliss from the way he’s preparing to verbally fuck me as much as physically.
From the unusual position I’m given the opportunity to watch his process. His decisions. His hunger spiral down the slopes of thoughtful control to the pits of brutal domination. There’s something so invigorating, something so fucking sexy about observing a man who radiates control, who constantly has his shit together, be shredded down to the most primal instinct of claiming what belongs to him.
I watch Pax swiftly undo the belt to his pants and pull down his zipper. He carefully removes his straining cock to give it the soothing rub it needs.
A jealous moan pushes itself free from my lips.
I wanna be the one rubbing that hard dick.
Stroking and sucking on his long shaft.
My body twitches in anticipation of movement, which prompts Pax’s free palm to deliver a hard pop to my ass cheek. The sound that graces our ears is a mixture of excitement and objection.
“Don’t. Fucking. Move.”
I let out a dramatic huff. Instead of delivering another swift spank to my ass, he delivers one to my pussy, and I thoughtlessly cry out.
“That’s right. You’re gonna fucking scream tonight, Buttercup.”
And my neighbors are probably going to hear…
Another wave of thrill tears through me.
I love that he isn’t afraid to practice a bit of exhibitionism. No, we’re not fucking in a photo booth at the mall, but we can still be caught.
Heard.
Watched.
Fuck, I hope we’re watched.
The thought soaks my panties, and Pax immediately notices.
His stroking speeds up a little. “You’re gonna be heard.”
My muscles grasp anxiously around nothing.
“For miles.”
Wetness seeps its way towards the inside of my thigh.
“Look how fucking wet you get just thinking about it…”
I dig my teeth into my bottom lip to capture my moan.
Pax cocks an arrogant smirk, removes something from his pocket, and then shuffles his pants to his ankles. His dick twitches under my glance, and the pre cum I spot glistening on the tip makes my mouth water.
All of a sudden, his hands guide me a bit closer before they spread my ass cheeks wide. The night air circles around the under used hole for only a moment. Something wet, coarse, and thick prods at the area, seeking entrance. Naturally, the muscles fight against the intruder, but Pax’s smooth voice has them stretching on their own volition. “Take it, Buttercup.” To my surprise, the pushing of the object creates an insatiable burn between my legs. My pussy pulses in protest at not being chosen while my asshole sucks the mystery object in further, intrigued and aroused at the way it mercilessly caresses the area. With no additional warning, Pax yanks me down onto his condom covered cock, settling himself at the hilt. A large gasp is robbed, yet he forcefully pushes on my back to keep my head between my ankles. His fingers latch themselves onto my hips causing the string to my thong to cut into his skin. He ferociously thrusts, every plunge wedging the object deeper into my asshole. I clutch onto his thick, tatted calves and call out his name in rapid succession. Thoughts of what the mystery object in my ass could be finally settle on the cork from the wine bottle. Knowing he’s had this delicious act of debauchery marinating in his mind for hours has my pussy dripping in delight. The sounds of his dick diving through the slickness echo in the air alongside the promised screaming. Each stroke is long. Meticulous. Fierce. Each groan that leaves him, loud. Brutal. Honest.
He relentlessly pounds until I’ve forgotten about my financial worries.
Forgotten about my daughter’s health condition.
Forgotten whether or not I’ll ever be enough for her on my own.
His grip significantly tightens as he pummels his way past my first orgasm and straight into the second.
Just when another scream is on the tip of my tongue, the object is yanked free, and replaced with his entire thumb. “Pax!”
He bellows his satisfaction that is primarily lost in the confines of the rubber barrier. “Il mio!”