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But Jonah was on his own planet, head murky from a hangover and too muddled to really notice much.
“Bacon and eggs, huh?” he grunted. “This’ll tide me over until it’s turkey time.” And with that, he began devouring a plate like a starving mouse. I guess hangovers will do that to you, will make your appetite spike, drive your body to get some food in you to absorb the alcohol.
And I met Mr. Martin’s eyes over the head of his son. Had that really just happened? Had we really had a session, right here in the kitchen, not five minutes before his son walked in?
But the big man winked at me, eyes gleaming, going back over to the stove. Somehow he’d slipped into his clothes, so fast, so adept, with none of the flustered air that surrounded me.
“Perfect, you’re up Jonah,” he said casually. “I was just about to fry more bacon, you want some?”
And Jonah nodded wordlessly, still chewing, ravenous after his hard night.
“Yeah, sounds good,” he grunted. “By the way Ally, did you have a good time at the party? You disappeared and I couldn’t find you. Figured you got home okay, it’s just two blocks away.”
And I nodded dumbly. Oh god, how much he didn’t know, how his dad and I had practically just had sex, right here, right next to the stool he was sitting on.
“Um yeah, it was good, thanks for inviting me,” I murmured, cheeks flaring. “Really fun, thanks again.”
And I was about to blab some other inane thing when suddenly Jonah’s eyes seized on the bowl of milk on the ground. Oh shit. The bowl itself looked innocuous but there were little splatters of milk all around from our sex session, even a bit of yellow goo mixed in if you looked closely. Holy cow, that was Mr. Martin’s semen that hadn’t blended with the milk, pale yellow droplets of goodness that floated like oil on top.
“What’s that doing down there?” asked Jonah suspiciously, looking around the entire kitchen now, seeing if there was anything else awry. “The cereal’s up here, not on the floor. What the fuck is that doing down there?”
My mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air. Because what possible reason could there be? Oh shit, oh shit.
But Mr. Martin was slick and smart, on it in a flash.
“There’s a mouse in the kitchen, figured we’d try to catch it with a little milk,” he drawled smoothly, not even hesitating as he browned up another couple strips of bacon. “You know, bait it with some of the good stuff.”
And I choked then, because the good stuff was Mr. Martin’s semen, the yellowy drops that splattered on the surface, coating my breasts and cunt even now. And whoever heard of a mouse being tempted by milk? It was cats which loved milk, right?
But all it did was set Jonah off on a tirade, a rant about how even fancy Manhattan apartments had mice, that you couldn’t trust new construction these days, how his dad had gotten ripped off and should ask for his money back, some type of partial rebate at least.
And as Jonah went on and on, unleashing a stream of blue into the air, Rob just glanced at me and winked, his gaze knowing, tantalizing, devouring me even with his son in the room. Because yeah, we’d had a naughty session right here, just minutes ago … and all I wanted was to go all the way with the big man, as soon as possible.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Rob
Thanksgiving lunch was delicious as usual. Mrs. Larson, our cook, made a delectable meal but it was pretty much ruined by my son’s ramblings. I don’t know what’s gotten into him, but Jonah goes on and on about his himself with no thought to ask about others. For example, I mentioned casually that I’d taken a trip to China for business the last month, but instead of asking, “Oh how was it?” or even “How did you like the food?” instead, Jonah made it all about himself.
“Oh China,” he rolled his eyes, “everyone is so into the Middle Kingdom these days.”
That was true, the country’s got a quarter of the world’s population, so yeah, a lot of folks are sending their kids for Mandarin lessons and the like. But Jonah was a self-centered teen to the max.
“I want to go there too,” he pouted, frowning at his mashed potatoes. “I’ve heard that it’s best to travel in the south during the winter, and the north during the summer, maybe take the Manchurian Express. Or was it the Siberian Express?” he frowned, eyes on his plate. “Who knows, I’ll look it up later.”
And that’s what I mean by self-centered. It was all about I, I, I, and most of his comments were really ignorant. First of all, there is no Manchurian Express, the term was a figment of his imagination from watching too many Fu Manchu movies. Second, the Siberian Express runs East-West, so Jonah’s comments about seeing the North and the South were just idiocy, his sense of geography was all wrong.
