by Kellie Hart
“Either you are, as I predicted, the perfect man, or you’re extremely good with words,” I say with a light laugh as the warmth of blush tickles my cheeks.
“I’m hardly perfect, Carey. You’ll see that in time. I hope I can convince you that, with me, you have no need to be anyone or anything but you. But that’s enough existential chatter. How about my tour, aye? I’m eager to explore New Orleans. How do the kids say it these days, New Orleans, I am in you?”
“How old are you, Grandpappy Atticus? Sixty?” I tease and grab his camera strap, dragging him forward. “And yes, you’re correct; it is, indeed, politically correct to announce when you are up in someone or something these days. All the whippersnappers are doing it, or so I’m told.”
“I’m thirty-two, Carolina,” Atticus says, and his expression grows dark. “If you call me Grandpappy Atticus one more time, I’m going to take you against the wall here, and show you how I can still fuck like a spring chicken.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“I wouldn’t declare it if it weren’t.”
“Challenge accepted!” I say and waggle my breasts at him. “Come peck me up real good, GRANDPAPPY ATTICUS. BATTICUS. BOO.”
With a sexy grin, Atticus dives for me, but I’m too quick. I leap and rip his camera from his neck. With it safely in hand, I haul ass down Rue Des Chartres.
“I may not be as young as I used to be, young lady,” Atticus hilariously bellows after me, still playing his part, “but it’s high time I took you over my knee!”
“You need to catch me first, Pappy!” I yell back, still playing my part as well, but feeling as if I may not be playing at all.
Before I can stop myself, I rip off Sophia Pe-wig-lo and toss her hairy ass to the fucking curb.
HOURS LATER, AND AFTER COUNTLESS photographs captured, Atticus and I find ourselves in the Saint Louis Cemetery, stationed directly in front of the tomb of an infamous voodoo priestess, Marie Laveau. While we’ve sauntered around the Quarter, the sun has risen high above, and though I may not wear a watch, I can decipher from my serious case of humidititties that it is nearly noon now. Atticus seems impervious to the heat because he has yet to roll up the sleeves of his plaid button-down, and the fact I am dying to see his forearms has left me feeling incredibly horny, yet again, and very inspired.
Atticus’s dick ain’t falling down, falling down, falling down. Atticus’s dick ain’t falling down because it’s made of fucking titanium!
Ohhh, oohh, what about this one? Hand around that big old dick, now is time to take a lick. Up the cock, down the cock, we all go boom!
No, better yet—Hey diddle diddle! This puss needs yo’ fiddle to fly over the fucking moon. So be a dear. Get your ass over here, and eat me out! Here’s a fucking spoon!
“Carolina, darling,” Atticus chuckles, “you are now making a face that suggests you’re listening to the voices in your head.”
“What? Me? No!” I squeak. “I—I am just a tiny bit distracted.”
“By what, love?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing,” I babble before ripping my eyes from the creamy, perfect skin that peeks out around his wrists. “Anyway, back to the tour! Benjamin Franklin, Humpty Dumpty, and Jesus supposedly had dinner with Marie Laveau on the Steamboat Willy before she died of dysentery, in the year of our lord, 2045. ”
Atticus raises the camera to his eyes and mumbles around it. “Before you began drooling, you were actually explaining how the Xs on Miss Laveau’s tomb represent wishes left behind by those who visit the grave.”
Click.
“Ohhhhh,” I giggle. “Of course! Some people believe the popular triplet of Xs are symbolic of the holy trinity; others argue that they may represent the three high principles of the voodoo culture of which Marie Laveau was a known practitioner. The most popular opinion, however, is that the number of Xs left behind indicate the number of wishes a passerby makes when visiting the tomb. If an X is circled, it also means Marie Laveau granted the wish.”
For good measure, I stick my hip out and gesture to the grave with my left hand. I top off my But Wait There’s More! stance with a toothy grin, and Atticus laughs behind the camera.
Click.
“Have you ever left a wish behind?” Atticus asks when the camera is back at his chest.
“No,” I answer honestly. “I don’t believe in magic or miracles. I’m not superstitious like that anymore.”
“It sounds to me as if you lack hope, Carey, not that you lack superstitions.”
I shove my hands into my pockets, suddenly pissed off at his accusation that I am not fucking hopeful.
“Just because I don’t make wishes on the fucking tomb of a supposed voodoo queen, doesn’t mean that I don’t have hope,” I whisper more to myself than Atticus. “I’ve been burned too many times to put stock in hollow promises or wishful sentiments because, at the end of the day, we have no idea how things are going to turn out. I want to see what I believe and believe what I see. I like the tangible, the solid, the confirmed, so forgive me for not drawing a fucking, useless X on someone’s grave.”
When the word-vomit finally stops, I am left with my chest heaving, and Atticus stares at me as proof he heard every word I said.
“You never pretended to be a princess when you were an anklebiter, did you?” Atticus cracks a grin. “You never once wished on a star for your own knight-in-shining armor?”
Inexplicably, his question sparks my desire to admit something I have never told anyone else. I look to the ground as I set the words free.
“When Mike and I split up, I did wish for Superman to save me. He never came, so one day I decided I had to try and save myself, but I haven’t been terribly good at it thus far.”
My eyes burn with unshed tears, and I blink them away as I glance back up to Atticus. His understanding eyes hold my gaze, and though I think I will be forever embarrassed by my continuous battle to not drown in the tumultuous sea of my past, Atticus silently reassures me it’s fucking okay that I remain in a constant fight to stay afloat.
Click.
“Why did you take my picture just then?”
“Because, unlike all the others before, you looked content, like you had finally found the thing you have been looking for.”
“I don’t have a clue what that means,” I admit.
“I think I do,” Atticus replies, taking up my hand, “and I’m going to spend every waking minute I have with you making you feel that way, again and again.”
“I know something you can make feel again and again,” I purr and run my hand along the front of his jeans.
Something dark rumbles in Atticus’s chest, and he closes his eyes before pressing his forehead to mine. “As much as I would like to fuck you here and now, I don’t feel my second requirement has fully been met, and to be frank, Carolina, I’m exhausted.”
I lean away and meet his eyes, which are open again, but the blue is soft, rippling, and as calm as the Mississippi River at sunrise.
“When was the last time you slept?”
Atticus feigns a look at an invisible watch. “Approximately thirty-six hours ago.”
“For fuck’s sake, Atticus, why didn’t you say something?” I pull him back towards Rue Des Chartres. “I’m so sorry. You must be exhausted.”
“I am,” Atticus says quietly, and he yawns. His nose scrunches, and his glasses slip down. Watching this man yawn has to be one of the most fucking precious things I’ve seen.
“You are so goddamn cute when you’re tired,” I laugh, “but let’s get you back to my place. You can crash there.”
“I’m here indefinitely this time, Carey. I don’t want to impose, but if you insist...”
“I do insist, Atticus. I do.”
As we stumble along the cobblestone, Atticus comes to my side and cuddles me under his arm. In the enticing shelter of his touch, I sigh, and for a mere moment, I let myself consider that perhaps a wish delayed is still a wish granted. Despite the fact I was de
sperate for him to stay before, what if Atticus has finally landed in my life, exactly when he should and not a second sooner?
Before I realize what I am saying, the words slip from my lips. “Call my place your home away from home.”
“I like the sound of you being my home,” Atticus mumbles a few moments later. “Do you want to be my Carolina, too?”
Overcome by his words, I can offer nothing more than a small, quiet laugh as I drag him onto the screened-in porch I share with Mr. and Mrs. Lafourche; they once rented my apartment to Jacque and Char, long before their boys came in and swept them away.
When the door slams closed behind us, Atticus is suddenly awake, and he turns to me, holding me at arm’s length. His blue eyes traipse over my face, lingering too long on my mouth; then, he bends down slowly and kisses me. His tongue slips past my lips, and his hands glide down my arms, over my hips, and onto my ass. Nimble yet wild fingers grasp my cheeks and bring my pelvis to his. As he thrusts gently against me, every hard inch of him brushes that space between my legs that is on fucking fire for him. Groaning, I sneak a hand between us, and my hungry fingers bite down on his length. Atticus rips his mouth away, and he growls—literally fucking growls—before kissing me again and again. His tongue, his teeth, his tantalizing fingertips grope my skin, and I’m nothing more than putty in the hands of some great master, dying to be sculpted into his vision. If I had any say, that vision would begin with a capital F and end with UUUCCCKKKKKKKKKK.
We only separate when all three-hundred Cajun pounds of Mrs. Lafourche come onto the porch to gather her broom and dust pan. She looks me up and down before giving Atticus a once-over also. Things grow incredibly awkward when she sucks a corn kernel from between her teeth and spits it onto the blue, wooden floor. A few seconds later, she waddles by us again, her tools pinned between a very pronounced hind quarter and her armpit, and I immediately feel sorry for that fucking broom.
How is it that the goddamn broom can look smothered? That has to be a shitty way to go—ass-phyxiation.
“You kids don’t do nothing I wouldn’t do,” Mrs. Lafourche declares before I tear my eyes away from that undeserving broom’s suffrage. “But, get on with y’all’s selves. Carey, you don’t pay me enough rent to play Chase the Gerbil on the front porch.”
As Atticus whispers Chase the Gerbil? to himself, the front door to the Lafourche’s apartment bangs closed, leaving Atticus and me alone again.
“Well, you heard her,” I say, backing playfully from him. “We shouldn’t do anything she wouldn’t do, so let us get you up the stairs and into bed, young man.”
Atticus takes a sexy step forward and looms over me. “What if doing everything your girthy neighbor wouldn’t do is exactly what I intend for the rest of the day?”
I tug on my damp collar and gulp down a breath. “I mean, well, if you think it’s a good idea…”
“I think it’s bloody brilliant because I would love nothing more than to move onto my third requirement. I want to bathe and rest with you. Right now.”
The prospect of getting clean with Atticus does sound fucking delightful as it is hotter outside than my ass after a plate of nachos, but Atticus’s third stipulation is either incredibly simple or odd. I can’t decide which.
“Are you saying your third requirement is a shower and a nap, with me? That sounds so…”
“Queer?”
I grin at his word choice. “I wouldn’t say queer exactly, but bathing doesn’t always precede the event. In my limited experience, it occurs after, as does the sleeping together part. For the record, though, I am more than willing to forego all these formalities if it will guarantee me some immediate dick.”
Atticus tucks a wayward hair behind my ear, and his lips lift into a soft smile. “If requirement three seems odd, so be it. I’ve been in these clothes for two days; likewise, I want to sleep, preferably with you in my arms. Let us relax together, and enjoy this time because, soon, things between us won’t be so simple.”
“Care to elaborate on that, please?”
“What I mean,” Atticus explains, his voice low and deep, “is that soon we will leave the shower more filthy than we entered it. The water will cascade over your form, and my tongue will lap it up from the luxurious crevices where it goes still. And, too, you will never again sleep with me in your bed. I will hold myself above your trembling form as I bring you to the fucking edge and back with my cock. Even if exhaustion calls your name, and your eyes close to rest your weary body, I will continue the torture, all night long. Do you understand me?”
“I do,” I whisper, and the two syllables are laced with so much slobber they are almost as damp as my granny panties.
“Then, first things first,” Atticus says, extending his arm to let me pass. “Let us bathe. Let us rest, and let us continue to get to know each other.”
In silence, he and I traipse up the rickety stairs to my apartment. My breath quickens as I slip the key into the door and let it swing wide to reveal the midcentury antiques that make up my front room. Atticus stops and nods his approval, complimenting me on the white, Danish chairs that I saved up for over a half-year to buy.
Without another word, Atticus kisses me lightly on the lips and takes his first steps into my place. Sauntering across the crotchety old floorboards, he drops his camera on the coffee table and wanders down the hall, straight towards the bathroom. As if he owns the fucking place.
What if he’s already decided he does?
***
One problem with living in a house that is well over a century old, is the terrible pipes. In total, it takes Atticus and me at least fifteen minutes to prepare the water for something similar to a legitimate shower, but the time spent is well worth it. When I finally pull the curtain closed around my clawfoot tub, I turn to find Atticus unzipping his pants. Our eyes meet as the Levis hit the floor with a gentle thud. Then, black boots and a pair of argyle socks are shed. Finally, he places his glasses on the sink and begins to free himself of that fucking plaid shirt. I wish I could slow down time, or run the fuck across my apartment, grab his camera, and document this moment, because, one goddamn ebony button at a time, Atticus reveals the most beautiful skin I have ever laid my eyes upon.
Atticus is covered in tattoos. Swirling, twirling, and curling patterns of ink that culminate here and there to create flowers or birds, water or clouds; then, they separate and spin again into tribal patterns, geometric shapes, and lines of ancient literature that may be identifiable only to him. At first, it would be easy to believe that the ink would detract from his physique, that it possesses the power to hide every hint of definition to his chest or thighs. In truth, it does the exact opposite; it seems as if every touch of the needle to his flesh was strategically planned to highlight the swell of his biceps or the gentle rise and fall of his abs. My eyes are drawn back to a dark set of lines that glide from one side of his chest to the other, as some great maze in which my gaze has been trapped.
Holy crap on a cracker! Am I seeing what I think I’m seeing?
A tiny, silver rod runs horizontally through each of his nipples, breaking the skin east and west.
And all I want do is suck it. Suck them. Suck them both?
Who the fuck cares about the semantics? I just want them in my mouph! Hummanummmayum!
I want to tell Atticus as much, but I cannot gather the words. I am stunned into silence not only by my desire for him but again by the sheer magnificence of the man before me.
“You didn’t expect this, did you?” Atticus asks, his voice soft and inexplicably cautious. He rests his shaking hands on my hips and pulls me to him. “Is my body too much? Am I too much?”
I raise timid hands to his chest and caress the flesh there. When Atticus nods for me to continue, I explore quietly, skimming my fingers over rounded pecs and down rippling abs, and all the while, Atticus seems to move further into my space. As if he is desperate for my touch, he purrs with each stroke of my fingers against his skin. I look up
at him, and his eyes are pinched shut, but a small, satisfied smile plays on his lips. My heart breaks for him when a question dawns upon me.
When was the last time someone touched you, Atticus?
My fingers slip to a generous, dark happy trail that disappears beneath the waistband of his boxer-briefs. I stop there and raise my gaze to meet his. His eyes are open once more, and the expression contained therein is soft, so full of joy, and so completely unexpected, that my hand freezes in place, inches from where it truly wants to be.
“Don’t ever be afraid to touch me, Carolina,” Atticus moans, and I skirt a finger back up his chest. “This, right now, is the best feeling in the fucking world, but, please, tell me something. Am I anything like you expected? I need to know.”