The Parent Trap

by Jasinda Wilder

  I lick my lips, and then let out a laughing sigh. “Fine. I’ll play.” I sit forward, reach behind me and unzip my skirt. Wiggle out of it. “My skirt is off.” I can’t believe I’m doing this—any of it. Phone sex, let alone getting naked outside on my porch.

  It’s freaking hot. I’m drenched, soaked with arousal.

  I peel off my shirt, make short work of my bra. “I’m naked,” I whisper.

  “Fuck, I wish I was there to see it.”

  I almost invite him over, but stop short. I like this. It’s hot, and it’s daring, and it’s honestly just fun.

  Instead, I moan as I touch myself. “I’m picturing you. Your fingers instead of mine.” I whimper, biting my lip. “Are you touching yourself, Thai?”

  “Yeah,” he growls. “Wishing my hand was yours.”

  “Remember earlier? How I was touching you nice and slow? Do it like that. Not rough…gentle.”

  He growls something like a laugh, or a grunt, or something. “You ever watch anyone jerk off?”

  “No,” I admit.

  “We’re not…gentle.” A laugh. “Not how we do it.”

  “Oh.” I bite my lip. “So…how do you do it?”

  I hear sounds—my imagination fills in what they are. His hand sliding roughly down his cock. “Hard. Fast. Rough. I squeeze, hard.”

  “Does it…feel good?”

  “Yeah, mostly. You always wish it was a woman’s hand. But the goal when you’re alone is to just get there as fast as possible. For me, at least. Just…get it over with. Be done.” A groan. “Talking to you, remembering how I felt when it was you, earlier…imagining your incredible body…I’m going to come so hard, so fast, Dee.” Another groan. “Talk to me, honey. Tell me what you’re doing. Tell me how it feels.”

  “I’m, um…my fingers are on my…my pussy. Sometimes I dip inside myself to…you know. Get some…some wetness. It feels good…but nowhere near as good as it felt when it was you.”

  “My fingers or my mouth?” he asks, his voice impatient and rough.

  “Mouth.” I close my eyes and remember…how he knelt down in front of me and held me up, how his tongue slid inside me and circled me, how he devoured me as if I was his last meal. “Today was incredible, but that? When you did that? Went down on me? Thai, that was the hottest orgasm of my fucking life.”

  He groans, a low crazed hum. “Delia…Dee. Fuck. I want you on your bed, spread out for me. I want to eat you out all fucking night. I want to give you a thousand orgasms with nothing but my tongue, all night fucking long.”

  “God…please?” I whimper. “Even just one. Once more, with your mouth. I’d die for it, right now.”

  He seems to know I want this, just this tonight, despite what I’m saying. He doesn’t suggest anything else.

  My fingers fly, and my whimpers escalate to gasping shrieks, and I can barely remember to talk through it. “Thai, ohmygod, Thai, I’m—god it feels so good. Pretending it’s you, and I’m—I’m gonna…” I can’t remember the words, dizzy and wild with burgeoning climax.

  Masturbation has never been so incredible.

  I didn’t know it could be this way, I truly didn’t. I was doing it wrong all this time.

  Or maybe, I just didn’t have Thai.

  He’s grunting, a low series of groans. I hear the sounds—as I’m sure he can hear the sounds of my fingers on my sex. “Dee, I’m so close. I want you to come. Right now—fuck, fuck, right now, Delia. Come for me, same time as me, fuck, right now.”

  “Oh god!” I scream. “I’m coming!”

  He snarls and I come and I curl in on myself and my thighs shake and my breasts tremble and I see stars and I don’t stop until I’m unable to bear my own touch anymore.

  He laughs. “Well. Now I’m a mess.”

  “Yeah?” It’s a prompt, to tell me more.

  “It’s all over my hand and my stomach.”

  “As much as earlier?”

  “Nah,” he says. “Only you can bring that out of me, like that.”

  “What…um. Maybe this is a naive question, but…what determines how much you come?”

  A laugh. “Not naive. I, well…? A lot of things. But mainly, how long since I last did. I didn’t this morning, so then this evening, it was a lot. But now, since I just did a few hours ago, it’s not all that much.”

  “So…If you were to not come for a day or two?”

  “My balls would ache, and if you were to make me come, it’d be a bucket. A fucking river.”

  I swallow hard. “Thai?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Will you…will you do something for me?”

  He doesn’t quite laugh, as if he knows what I’m about to ask. “What’s that, babe?”

  “Don’t…don’t come. At all. Until the next time we…we’re together.” I go for broke, for as bold as can be. “Don’t come until it’s with me. Promise. My hands. My mouth…my pussy.” I’ve never used that word out loud, ever.

  God, I’m such a proper little princess.

  But…I like being dirty and inappropriate.

  But, is it dirty? Is it actually inappropriate? Doesn’t really seem like it. It’s just hot.

  “God, you dirty girl.” A deep dark laugh. “I love it.”

  “You promise.”

  “I promise.” A pause. “If—”

  I finish for him. “I won’t either. Not until it’s you.”

  “So then the obvious question is…when can I see you again?”

  I just laugh. “True story, and a sad one: I have to go to LA for the weekend. A convention. It’s going to be long and stupid and boring, but I’ve gone every year and I can’t skip.”

  “After I promise to stay totally celibate, you tell me this?”

  I laugh. “Yeah, sorry. Trapped you. But hey, I’m going to keep my promise too.” I pause. “And when I get back, which’ll be late Sunday night, we can…you know. See each other.”

  “How late?”

  “Usually well past midnight.”

  “I have an idea.”

  “Okay?”

  “When do you leave?”

  “Early tomorrow morning.”

  Weird—I’m just sitting naked on my porch, jellied in a post-orgasmic haze, having a conversation with my…Thai. My Thai. Whatever this is, whatever we are. I’m not ready to label or box it yet.

  “I’m going to put an envelope in your mailbox. It will have my address and a key for my condo. Before you leave, get it. And when you come home Sunday night, just let yourself in.”

  “A key?”

  “Yeah.” He pauses. “Never given anyone a key, and never had one, either. But let’s not make too big a deal.”

  “It is, though. For me and you. And just in general. But it’s big, because it’s the same for me, never given anyone a key, never had one.”

  “I trust you.” Thai laughs. “And I’m saying right now, this is your open invitation to come over whenever you want. I have nothing to hide. I’m not scared of this. Whatever it is.” A pause. “And, when you come in, Sunday night. Just get in bed with me. You’ll be tired, so…it doesn’t have to be anything physical. That can be in the morning. We’ll take the morning off, go in late. Or not at all.”

  “I…” I swallow hard. “I actually really like the way that sounds.”

  “Good, me too.” He chuckles. “Now, I have semen going crusty on me, so I’m gonna go clean up.”

  I laugh. “Ew. Okay.”

  “Delia?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “I’m really glad you called.”

  “Me too,” is my answer. “Me too.”

  “Bye,” he murmurs. “Have a safe flight.”

  “Thanks.” I pause, and I hope he hears the smile on my face; it’s a big one. “See you Sunday.”

  “Cannot fucking wait.”

  This time, goodbye is followed by the call ending.

  I gather my discarded clothing, toss them in the hamper.

  Put on pajamas—which in this
case is just a T-shirt.

  And then a thought strikes me.

  Before I can reconsider, I act on it.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Matthais

  I rinse off in the shower, because when I told Delia I made a mess, I hadn’t been kidding. Big mess.

  Clean, I put on some shorts and a T-shirt, grab my spare key from the junk drawer in my kitchen, and stuff it in an envelope with a hastily scrawled note:

  Delia,

  I can’t wait for you to crawl into my bed Sunday. Be safe. I already miss you. Yeah, I said it—I’ll miss you.

  See you…well, not soon enough.

  —Thai.

  I seal it, and write her name on the front.

  A thought occurs to me, and I act on it before I have time to reconsider: I call a friend in LA who specializes in rare books. I tell him what I want, and I tell him to name his price, just get what I asked for delivered to me, here in River Gulch, by Sunday; I receive a promise that he’ll come through.

  Drive over to the old neighborhood, halt at the mailbox—to my surprise, there’s an envelope in there already. With my name on it. Her handwriting is…magically neat.

  I put my envelope for her in there, and then consider opening hers for me right now. Instead, I decide to take it home. Probably just a key, maybe a note too. But it’s something.

  It’s late when I get home again. The envelope feels heavy, somehow. I sit on the edge of my bed staring at the envelope in my hands. It’s just an envelope. Four letters in blue ink. She formed the letters of my name with fancy flourishes, curlicues and long swoops and—I’d never admit this out loud even under pain of torture—my favorite part, a little heart for the dot over the ‘I.’

  She’d even filled in the center of the heart with a dot of pink Sharpie.

  Lame, lame, lame. I’m so lame.

  Getting all sappy and giddy over a fucking heart on an envelope.

  I feel an absurd compulsion to do something overly macho. Punch myself in the face. Crush a beer can on my forehead. Something idiotic like that.

  Instead, I just let it wash through me, and recognize all this for what it is: I’m catching serious feelings for Delia.

  The thought of not seeing her at all from now—late Thursday night on the cusp of Friday morning—all the way until Sunday? Legitimately makes my heart sink. And I can’t even escape into fantasy-land, because I promised her I wouldn’t do anything until it was with her.

  I’m thirty years old. I was twelve, nearing thirteen, when I started to notice girls. Noticing that I liked looking at girls swiftly transitioned into noticing particular aspects of female anatomy made me feel funny in my swimsuit area. Like any hetero teenage boy first hitting puberty, that quickly took off into figuring out how I could get a look at what a fully developed girl looked like underneath her clothes. Turned out—fortunately for me, I felt at the time—my dad had a stash of Playboy magazines “hidden” in a crate in the basement. Which means I’ve been jerking off every day of my life since I was twelve. Normal, I figure. Sometimes twice a day, maybe a little less normal, but how am I supposed to know? It’s not something guys typically discuss, you know. Point being…since I discovered that looking at naked girls made my willie get big, I haven’t gone a day without it. I think back…of course there have been days spent traveling, days during college when I was in classes and cramming that there just wasn’t time or energy.

  This is the only time in my life that I have voluntarily gone not merely a day, but several days, without doing that. Shouldn’t be a big deal, but…it is.

  Because I’m doing it for someone. She asked me, so I will.

  What this indicates to me is that there isn’t much I won’t do, if Delia asks.

  I sigh.

  Just open the damn envelope. It’s not a love letter, it’s a freaking key.

  I open it, sliding my finger under the flap. Within, a 3x5 notecard with a key taped to the blank side. On the opposite, lined side, a note.

  Here, her handwriting is still magically neat and garnished with fancy flourishes, but smaller, more cramped. As if rushed. As if she was putting the words down before she thought better of what was coming out on the page.

  Thai,

  I honestly can’t believe I’m giving you a key. I guess this means I kind of trust you, doesn’t it? Should this be such a big deal? It feels like it is. I mean, it’s not like we’re moving in with each other or anything. Just offering each other access to our homes. The thing is, I do trust you, Thai. I’m really putting myself out here, with you. So…please, please, please don’t be playing a trick on me. I couldn’t handle it if this amazing new version of you isn’t the real you. Because I like this Thai Bristow.

  A whole lot.

  See you Sunday. In bed.

  —Delia

  P.s.: If you were to be sleeping naked, I wouldn’t be too mad. ;-)

  I read the note until my eyes blur and the letters start swimming and the words stop meaning anything.

  My throat is clogged, and my eyes burn. I’ve never really cared until now whether anyone likes me. I’ve always been perhaps a little too confident in myself, and in my place in the world. Friends have always come easily. Popularity was a cinch. Dell has been my best friend from birth, and I’ve never questioned that, he’s just always been there, always been my dude. Girls? Pssh. I’ve literally arranged a hookup with a girl with nothing more than a look—I caught her eyes, smiled, darted my eyes and jerked my head at the door. She’d nodded, smiling shyly yet eagerly, and that was that.

  That’s the amount of effort it takes to get a girl into bed.

  But being liked?

  It’s never crossed my mind.

  Because I’ve been an arrogant prick. Just assuming people like me, assuming I’ll get what I want because I always do, because I deserve it, simply because I’m me.

  It’s never been important that someone liked me.

  But it’s important, suddenly and shockingly, that Delia likes me.

  That she approves of me. That she thinks I’m a good person. It’s important—maybe more important than anything has ever been—that she wants to be around me. To be my friend. To maybe even be more.

  Claire, the girl who dumped me and spurred a week-long spending spree in Paris, is the closest I’ve ever come to having a girlfriend, and we sure as hell never put that label on it. We just met after classes for coffee, went to my room at the frat house for sex, maybe caught a movie or a party together on the weekends. It wasn’t…important. It didn’t mean anything to me and clearly meant even less to her—my being upset had more to do with the unexpected and unfamiliar shock of being the dumpee rather than the dumper than any real emotional pain.

  This whole thing with Delia is on a whole other planet. Shit, another freaking universe.

  Her opinion of me counts for…god, everything.

  How it happened, when it happened, I can’t even pinpoint. Buying out Dell was impulsive. Maybe in the back of my subconscious it was another prank to play on her. Or maybe it was the opposite—maybe, in my subconscious, I’d known for years that I had to make things right with her. Maybe the guilt over my awful mistreatment of her had been niggling at me for years. Maybe buying out Dell and taking the position as co-owner of the company was my way of trying to make restitution, an in to start making things right.

  It hadn’t been conscious, I know that much. Things had just developed. At first, I just wanted to prove to her that I wasn’t useless. Then, I wanted to change her opinion of me. Just a little. Get her from not actively hating me to where she could be in a room with me and not verbally eviscerate me.

  And then, somewhere along the way, I realized I care about her, and I care deeply about her opinion of me—not only do I want her to see me as competent, not only do I want her to not hate me…

  I want her to forgive me.

  I want her to care.

  The lust—our physical chemistry? It’s gravy. The moment I laid eyes on her fo
r the first time in ten years, it was obvious she’d blossomed into a truly breathtaking beauty.

  I’m already sick of this phrase, but—for the first time, I care more about the personal, emotional, and psychological elements of our relationship than I do the physical. I know that stuff will happen, and from the two instances of intimacy we’ve shared, I also know that they will be earth-shaking and heart-stopping and be-all, end-all incredible. I’m eager and impatient and wild for her.

  But…I can wait.

  This note is bringing up inside me the stark, sharp reality that with Delia McKenna, I want the emotional foundation of a real relationship more—far more—than I want sex.

  I barely recognize myself.

  But, to echo what she said to me in the note—I like this Thai Bristow.

  The arrogant, selfish prick is dead—

  Long live the decent guy.

  It’s a long, shitty, miserable weekend.

  Delia is in meetings and lectures all day and having working lunches and dinners with other top executives in the construction and building industry. She texts me a handful of times, quick and clearly distracted. I don’t push it, and don’t worry about it.

  I spend Friday at the new development site with our architects and planners and Cal, laying out how the subdivision will work best in conjunction with the landscape. Saturday I spend at the office, trying to get ahead on what I’d need to do Monday, in hopes I can convince Delia to take at least the morning off with me.

  Sunday, I get a text from her while I’m out for a run—it’s an image, and I didn’t bring my phone on the run, just my cellular-connected watch. So the image has to wait till I get home.

  When I arrive back at my condo, sweating like a pig and gasping for air, I beeline for my phone and bring up the thread with her.

  It’s a selfie—she’s in a foyer outside a conference room, earbuds in, hair in a loose ponytail, minimal makeup; she’s snapped it from high up at a downward angle, so I can see her whole outfit. Long, loose, flowy white skirt with a sapphire blue sleeveless top, in a shade that almost exactly matches her eyes. She’s smiling as if at me, with affection.