One Last Time: A Second Chance Romance

by Roxie Noir

  “You first,” I say, my voice scratchy. “Take your shirt off, throw it over there, and put your hands behind your head.”

  He does. I slide my hands over my nipples again and watch him, muscles flexing and stretching in one fluid movement. He’s more padded at thirty than he was at seventeen, or twenty-two, but he’s still so fucking beautiful it takes my breath away.

  “There,” he says, lacing his hands together behind his head. “You gonna arrest me, Bird?”

  “No,” I say, and lean forward, take his wrists. I run my hands along his thick, muscled arms. Biceps.

  God in heaven above, biceps.

  “That’s what you do when I’m sucking your cock and you’re trying not to grab my hair,” I explain.

  Seth grins, more wolf than human, and his muscles flex under my fingers.

  “Get that off and quit teasing me,” he says, and I finally pull the shirt off. I touch myself again, let him watch. Lean in for a kiss.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking,” I say.

  “I think you should put your fingers in your pussy and tell me how wet you are,” he answers.

  I do it. I lean back, my other hand on his knee, and I push my hand below the rolled-over sweatpants and slide my fingers past my clit, between my slick lips, and plunge them inside me, my hips bucking as I do. The angle is a little awkward but I shift and push deeper and crook them inside myself, my palm flat against my clit, and I moan as I find that spot.

  “Pretty wet,” I whisper, my eyes half-closed. I do it again, press harder on my clit. I swear Seth’s cock twitches as I make a noise.

  “Show me,” he says.

  “And stop?” I say, moving my fingers again.

  “No fair getting yourself off where I can’t see,” he says.

  I pull my fingers out. The moment they clear my waistband he grabs my wrist, brings my hand to his face, sucks my slick fingers into his mouth. Seth groans as he licks them clean, and when he’s done, he pulls on my wrist until I spill forward and he captures my mouth with his.

  He tastes like me, and it’s sexy as hell. It’s always sexy as hell, every single time he kisses me with my juices still on his lips.

  “I miss the way you taste,” he murmurs, lips still on mine.

  “I miss the way you shiver when I get on my knees,” I murmur back.

  I can feel the animal grin more than I can see it.

  “I miss the way you grab fistfuls of my hair when you’re about to come,” he says.

  I’m rolling both nipples between my fingers. I don’t know what I started but now I’m breathing hard, trying not to moan.

  “I miss the way you shout when I deep throat you,” I say.

  “I miss that too,” he says, and his right hand moves under his waistband, wraps around his cock.

  “Hey,” I say, and pull his hand out.

  Seth just lifts his eyebrows at me.

  “Show it off first,” I tell him, and press his palm to his cock through his pants. He groans and lifts his hips, pressing his hand against it, his other hand gripping my thigh.

  “Like that, Bird?” he asks, his eyes at half-mast, voice rough and raspy and thick with need.

  “Just like that,” I breathe, watching him shamelessly. He does it again, groaning, and before I know it I’m pushing my own hand down, sliding my fingers over my clit, strumming myself softly.

  The next stroke, the waistband of the plaid pants rides down and the head of his cock peeps out, nestled in the dark fur of his happy trail.

  “Get your pants off,” he murmurs. I obey, still watching, sliding the stretchy fabric over my hips, kicking them off.

  “God, you’re magnificent,” he says, and now he’s got his fist around his still-clothed cock, hips rising as he strokes himself.

  “Off,” I whisper, pointing at his pants, and he stops long enough to obey, his cock finally springing free.

  If I were a poet, I would write sonnets about Seth’s dick. It’s long. It’s thick. It’s very pretty, as dicks go, and most importantly he puts it to very good use.

  “Can I touch it now?” he asks, a teasing smile on his lips.

  I don’t answer. Instead I straddle him again. I take his hand. One by one, I wrap his fingers around his erection, and then wrap my hand around his. I kiss him hard as he strokes himself, the muscles in his arm knotting.

  A moment later he grabs my other hand, pushes it between my legs. Even though it’s my left hand my clit’s so swollen that it doesn’t take any dexterity to stroke it between my clumsy fingers. I kiss him until his breathing goes ragged. I kiss him until I’m shaking, my clit so slippery that my fingers keep sliding off.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking,” he says.

  “How good it would feel if we fucked,” I tell him.

  He takes his hand off his dick. In a flash I’m on my back on his couch and he’s kneeling over me, then wraps his hand around his cock again.

  “Fucked how?” he asks, leaning over me.

  I drape one leg over the back of the sofa, curl the other around him.

  “Slow at first,” I say.

  I put my hand between my legs again, the right one this time, stroke my clit. Seth’s eyes follow.

  “You want me to tease you?” he asks. “Find that spot that makes you come but make you wait?”

  I just nod. My fingers move faster and harder. My back arches and my hips lift and Seth watches every inch of me, pumping himself into his fist.

  “Then harder and faster,” he says. He leans in, one knee between my legs, one hand next to my head. “Until you’re saying my name and your pussy squeezes my cock so hard —"

  I stroke harder, faster, my head turned to the side.

  “ — That there’s nothing I can do except bury myself in you as hard as I can — “

  I come, my fingers working my clit frantically, and my back arches and my hips lift and I think I whimper but I don’t stop, not even when my leg shakes.

  “ — And then come inside you like you always beg me to —"

  I’m trembling as I take my hand off my clit, slide it around the back of Seth’s neck, look him right in his beautiful eyes.

  “Come wherever you want,” I murmur, and it’s barely out of my mouth as he groans and strokes himself one last time.

  It hits me in a hot line from my chest to my belly button, spurt after spurt, and when he’s finished he drops his forehead to mine, breathing hard, gives me a long, deep kiss.

  “Sorry,” he says, and smiles.

  I start laughing, my hand on his face.

  “For?”

  “Breaking the spirit of the rules, if not the letter.”

  “This doesn’t count as you giving in?”

  One more kiss, and then he pushes himself off me.

  “If anything, it counts as you giving in,” he says, grinning as he walks away.

  “No, it doesn’t,” I call after him, still lying on the couch because if I move, I’m going to get cum everywhere and Seth’s usually a gentleman. “I think we just did a great job of not having sex.”

  His downstairs bathroom door opens, and I hear the water running. A moment later he reappears, washcloth in hand, still stark naked.

  See? Gentleman. Also, still an eyeful as he stands in front of his couch for a long moment, just looking at me.

  “You gonna paint me like one of your French girls?” I tease. I’ve got one arm over my head, one leg on the couch, one foot on the floor. I’m sure my hair’s doing something I wish it wouldn’t.

  Oh, and there’s still jizz on me.

  “Just memorizing what you look like right now,” he says. “For future use.”

  “I’d pose, but I’m trying to avoid getting jizz on your couch,” I say, pointedly.

  “Like it would be the first time.”

  My brain sticks, suddenly, my thoughts running into each other. Did he just tell me that he’s fucked other people on this couch? Where I’m currently lying, after not having sex but als
o not not having sex?

  “Oh,” I manage to say as he walks to me, then kneels.

  “What? I live alone,” he says, half defensive and half sheepish, wiping my torso off. “It happens.”

  The wet washcloth is warm. It’s a nice touch.

  After a moment, it hits me that he’s talking about jerking off on the couch, not fucking someone else.

  “Right,” I say out loud.

  “Right,” he says, half-smiling. He drops a kiss on my shoulder, stands, pads away. I sit up and look around, wondering where my clothes went, but not wondering that hard.

  When Seth comes back he’s gotten a fuzzy blanket, and he puts an arm around my shoulder. I lean into him, curled on the couch, and we stay like that for a long time.

  “Do you want to come on the ski trip?” I finally ask, half-surprising myself.

  Seth laughs softly, turns his head. I think he kisses my hair, though there’s so much of it that it’s hard to tell.

  “I didn’t even ask you,” I say, closing my eyes. “I just went ahead and overthought the hell out of everything and decided I should spare you, but what’s the point since you’re —”

  I stop short, because I almost said you’re going to have to deal with them sooner or later, and… that feels like a lot to say, even right now.

  “ — invited,” I finish.

  “Do you actually want me to come, or do you just feel guilty now?” he says.

  I twist my head against his shoulder to look up at him. Somewhere in the back of my mind I know that this is where we get into trouble, that there’s something about sex that makes us too honest with each other, too brutal.

  “I’ll have a better time if you’re there,” I tell him.

  “Then yes.”

  “You can get off work on short notice?”

  “Please,” Seth says, half-rolling his eyes. “Daniel’s always taking off because of ‘family stuff’ or ‘his kid is sick’ or ‘Charlie just had a baby,’ I can go on a ski trip with my girlfriend.”

  “Do you ski?” I ask, off-handedly.

  “I went once.”

  That pretty much means no.

  “You wanna be my kept man who mixes drinks in the condo and hangs out in the hot tub?”

  “There’s a hot tub?”

  I just snort.

  “Of course there’s a hot tub,” I say. “There’s a rooftop hot tub. I think there’s three rooftop hot tubs. You think Vera Fucking Radcliffe is buying a condo in a ski resort that doesn’t have a hot tub?”

  “Not anymore, I don’t.”

  “It’ll be fine,” I say, and snuggle into his shoulder again. “You’ll be fine, just don’t take anything personally and don’t… listen to them.”

  “What if they give me directions?” he asks, teasing. “What if —”

  “Don’t be a dick,” I tell him, yawning. “You know what I mean. You’re not still gonna try to insist that you’re sleeping on the couch, are you?”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Seth

  I reach up and turn the exhaust fan on, not that it’ll help a whole lot. My kitchen is still going to smell like breakfast until Tuesday morning at least.

  “Do you always just have bacon in your fridge?” Delilah asks.

  She’s got a cantaloupe on a cutting board, and she’s holding it with two hands, contemplating.

  “No, you just got lucky,” I tell her, opening the paper on the package. “Eli found some new artisanal butcher who he’s in love with, and he got so excited that he got us all packages of bacon so we could, quote, ‘see what it’s supposed to taste like,’ end quote. Except Levi, he got nothing.”

  She looks at me, cocks an eyebrow.

  “Vegetarian,” I explain.

  “Not even tofu bacon?”

  “He’d know it was a consolation prize.”

  “It’s still a prize.”

  I flick water onto the cast iron pan, and it sizzles.

  “Is it?” I ask, and drape a slice of bacon across it. Delilah just laughs.

  “I’ve never actually had it,” she admits.

  We’re standing in my kitchen the next morning, both still wearing pajamas from the night before. Delilah’s hair is wound on top of her head, a takeout chopstick stabbed through it, and she’s got a huge mug of Earl Grey next to her on the counter.

  I never realized she was a morning tea drinker. It surprised me. Somehow I always figured that tattoos and caffeine overload went together, but there’s no good reason for that.

  I’ve got coffee. Strong. Black. Good.

  “Are you supposed to cut cantaloupe lengthwise or… otherwise?” she asks, a knife in one hand. “Does it matter?”

  “Lengthwise, usually,” I say, and plop the last piece of bacon that’ll fit in the pan.

  I drink my coffee, watch the bacon, talk to Delilah about how to cut cantaloupe. It’s normal, boring, the same thing that millions of couples around the country are probably doing right now.

  But I like it. I really, really like it. I liked waking up next to her this morning. I liked that she snuggled into me for a few minutes before we got up. I liked the sound of her going down the stairs, turning on the kettle, yawning in the kitchen.

  “You doing anything today?” I ask as she scoops seeds into the trash.

  “Depends on the roads,” she says. “You don’t have a compost bin or something?”

  “I live in a townhouse.”

  “It’s got a back yard.”

  It’s true. My townhouse has a perfectly nice, postage-stamp-sized back yard, complete with a deck and a few small trees. That said, I haven’t spent a moment of my life gardening since I moved out of my mom’s house.

  “I think the roads are clearing up,” I say, poking at the bacon with the tongs.

  She looks over her shoulder, through the kitchen window, the light catching her right across the cheekbone.

  “I might work on the storage unit,” she says. “It’s pretty close to finished, and at this point I just want to get it done, you know?”

  She puts the two halves of the cantaloupe on the cutting board. I grab paper towels, stack a few on a plate, take the dripping bacon out of the pan.

  “Come to my mom’s for dinner tonight,” I say.

  “Tonight?” she echoes, looking up at me in surprise.

  “Yeah,” I say, and drape more bacon onto the pan. “It’s our usual Sunday thing, everyone will be there. You haven’t come yet. You should.”

  “It’s not — ow! Shit.”

  Her knife clatters to the countertop. I look up in alarm.

  “You okay?”

  “You have sharp knives,” she says, voice muffled by the thumb in her mouth. “Shit, that hurt.”

  I’ve already put the bacon down, and I’m scrubbing my hands of raw meat, drying them, grabbing her a paper towel.

  “Here,” I say. “Can I see?”

  Delilah makes a face, then holds it up to me. Instantly, blood wells from the slice right across the pad of her thumb. I press the paper towel to her thumb, and she takes it from me, holding it tight.

  “So, besides alphabetizing your silverware, I guess you sharpen your knives regularly?” she says, still making a face.

  “Eli was over on Wednesday to talk about numbers and next steps for the brewpub,” I tell her, picking up the knife and moving it away. “Number stress him out sometimes, so he sharpened all my knives while we talked.”

  “Ah,” she says. “Well, give him my compliments, I guess? Is that burning?”

  I turn again, and the bacon is definitely smoking.

  “Shit,” I say, and grab the tongs.

  “You deal with that, I’m gonna go get a band aid,” Delilah says. “Bathroom?”

  “Under the sink,” I say, flipping the bacon and making a face. Half-burnt and half-raw is the worst kind of bacon. “Give me a sec, I’ll come —"

  “I stab people for a living, I can put a bandaid on my finger,” she calls, her voice already echo
ing from the bathroom.

  I hear the sounds of the cabinet opening, of things being pulled out.

  And then: “Oh!” followed by silence.

  A long silence. No sounds of cardboard boxes opening or bandaids being unwrapped. Just silence.

  I frown and turn the burner off.

  “You okay?” I ask, wiping my hands on a dish towel, walking for the bathroom.

  When I turn the corner I can see her head over the top of the cabinet door and she looks at me, surprised.

  “Oh! Yes, fine, I just found them,” she says, quickly, grabbing something off the floor. She clears her throat and opens the band aid box. “I like the rainbows.”

  On the floor in front of her is the plastic shoebox where I keep my minor injury supplies: bandaids, gauze, Neosporin, hydrogen peroxide.

  Next to it is a small pink zippered bag, a hairbrush, and a pair of black lace panties.

  My heart falls clear through my chest.

  “Oh, they’re also unicorns,” she says, examining the bandaid as though it holds the secret to eternal life, her voice slightly strained. “Rainbow unicorns! Great.”

  “Sorry,” I say, bend down, and grab those three things in one quick swipe and, without stopping, carry them to the trash can in the kitchen and throw them in.

  Fuck. Fuck. I’d forgotten that those were in there, because apparently I haven’t needed a bandaid in a couple of years.

  Women used to leave things at my house sometimes, and I’d keep them until I could give them back or until I was sure I wasn’t going to see that person again.

  Except then Fall Fest with Delilah happened, two and a half years ago, and I forgot to clean out my lost and found so those things have been back there for all that time.

  In my defense, I did launder the underwear. I’m not disgusting.

  I hear the sound of cabinets shutting, and a moment later, Delilah’s back.

  “Good as new,” she says, holding up her thumb. It’s got unicorns with rainbow manes on it now.

  “I have those because of Rusty,” I tell her, the pit of my stomach still swirling. “She got a skinned knee here once and was bummed that I only had boring bandaids, so I got cool ones. They’re a couple years old.”