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CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
*Zane “Father” - Chaplain*
Although the last thing I want is for Lace to catch me jacking off, at the same time, envisioning it happening is what ultimately empties my painfully tight balls. When the telltale sounds indicate that she is wrapping things up in the bathroom, I come in my shirt, mixing our scents. Then, just as her hand hits the door handle, I quickly bundle the material, step out of the room, and escape into the main bathroom.
When I emerge again, Lace is leaning against the kitchen counter. The glint in her eyes and the small creases appearing at their corners as her gaze follows me while I walk to the bar and sit on a stool proves that she likely knows what I was up to.
Does the fact that I just got a release make a bit of difference, though? Of course not. Simply seeing her without makeup, her blonde hair looking like a messy nest on top of her head, and wearing a baggy shirt just long enough to hide whether or not she has anything on underneath makes my dick twitch and balls start collecting jizz again as though a gallon or so of the stuff didn’t just try to escape my body to get to her.
When she turns and lengthens her long, tattooed and bruised legs to stand on her tiptoes so she can reach for something on the top shelf, the big shirt lifts several inches. I tilt my head to the side, trying to get a better view of that line under the curve of her ass, but she flops back down onto flat feet, pivots, and places two glasses on the bartop between us.
In the course of the past twenty-four hours, I feel like I have seen just about every facet of her personality. The good, the bad, and the ugly — well, as ugly as someone so beautiful can get.
Seeing her like this, relaxed and dressed down, is my second favorite version. My first was definitely her dancing when she thought no one was watching — something I imagine not very many people get to witness. If any at all.
She opens the refrigerator, takes out some orange juice, and bumps the door closed with her hip before bending down to get out a couple bottles of what I assume is alcohol from the cabinet beside the dishwasher.
With almost everything she needs, Lace sets up across the bartop from me, takes out a spoon from the drawer near her hip, and places that final item next to the collection of ingredients.
When she picks up the orange juice to start mixing, I decide to break the silence. “Now wait a minute. How about I make my own drink this time?” I try to keep a straight face when her bright brown eyes flick up to mine, but I end up laughing.
She laughs, too, with a surprisingly nervous undertone. “I cross my heart that this drink will be clean.”
“Hmm. I don’t know you well enough yet to know whether or not you are good on your promises.”
“Understandable. How about we start with this drink and go from there?”
I tap my fingers on the bartop, pretending to really give it some thought for a bit before responding. “Fair enough.”
Lace takes her time making the drinks, really drawing out each step. Instead of simply pouring in the orange juice, she trickles it into each glass. The second ingredient is grenadine, and she slowly pours that on top of the juice. It naturally separates, the syrupy, red grenadine sinking to the bottom, only mixing just enough to create a darker orange hue between them.
“Virgin?” she asks.
My attention snaps back up to her face.
She chuckles, placing down the grenadine and opening a bottle of blue, bubbly liquid without a label. “Your drink. Do you want it without alcohol? I kinda took advantage last time and wanna do right by you this go round.”
“Ahh, the real deal is fine, I guess.”
“Good” — her eyes float toward the clock over the stove — “because I promised you a drink on your birthday.”
Lace picks up the spoon, holds it inside the glass at the top of the liquid, and pours the blue alcohol over the curved metal. Like magic, the liquid that splashes outside of the spoon mixes with the top of the orange juice and turns green, but when she removes the utensil, the top liquid stays blue. From bottom to top, the drink is a rainbow.
Right as the time flips to midnight, she pushes the glass closer to me and quickly finishes making her own.
“Congratulations on finally being legal.” She holds up her glass.
I do the same. We tap them together and both take a taste.
The entire time her mouth is on the rim, she keeps eye contact with me. Her brown, studious eyes are intimidating — have been since I first met her just a couple days ago — but at the same time, she makes it hard to keep from looking away.
As though Lace can read my mind, a trick she apparently excels in, she brings up the very topic: “You’re good at that, ya know. Keeping eye contact. Well, when not under a shit-ton of pressure or trying to avoid looking at immodestly dressed women. Makes reading your body language a little harder, because it is such a juxtaposition to who you are. You’re masking when you do it.”
“Yeah, my dad taught me the eye contact thing.” Thankful that the drink she made is sweet, I wash down the bitter mention of him before continuing. “I served a mission at eighteen, and that trick helped me connect with people enough to share my faith with them. As for the immodestly dressed part, I… am warming up to it.”
“I’ve noticed.” She huffs in amusement, but then her dark eyebrow rises. “So, a mission, hm? Where to and for how long?”
“Ecuador, and for just under two years. I was supposed to stay longer but…” My revelation trails. Usually, I stop and try to steer the conversation in a different direction before even getting that far.
