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6
I stumble into my front door just as the sun touches the stairs. That man. He—if I wasn’t so limber, I’m pretty sure I’d have pulled a helluva lot more muscles than are aching right now. I don’t think there is a section of that bed or the carpet, for that matter, that didn’t touch my body. For Christ’s sake, we went through five condoms, and I’m pretty sure that if I’d had another, I’d still be pinned to the headboard.
Leaving what was left of my dress on the bathroom floor, I sit gingerly on the edge of the tub as I let it fill with cold water, wishing I had a few bags of ice to reduce the swelling and appearance of any accidental bruises. I told him to play, and I’m pretty sure he just got accepted to the Fuze philharmonic.
I know that fucking the father of a patient is skirting some ethical lines, but it’s been a few weeks since I’d had any good dick, and this man was playing a game I aimed to win with multiple orgasms. Setting a meditation playlist to repeat before slipping into the icy goodness of my tub, I settle back and close my eyes with a contented sigh.
My mind wanders then it hits me. The silence in the room. I jolt upright, grabbing my phone and dropping it right into the tub, watching it bob then sink. Grabbing it from between my aching thighs, I thank God that I have the waterproof case I got this summer when I went diving off Baja. I left Bailey and Sangria at that house of debauchery! I shoot off a quick text to Ainsley.
ME: Hey, I was so beat I left the puppers at the house. Can you see they find their way home? I’ll leave the key under the planter by the door in case they don’t just come in through the doggie door.
AINSLEY: You bet’cha.
I relax back into the tub. It’s Sunday, my mental health day, and I’m going to spend it like I always do. In my PJs, watching b rated horror movies and binging on whatever my little heart desires.
In the middle of Hellraiser four, my doorbell rings, and I hop up to grab the first delivery of the day. After my bath, I turned the air up to get the house to a nice crisp sixty, grabbed my throw, and snuggled into my Harvard hoodie and matching plaid pants. It’s lunchtime, and since I couldn’t decide what I wanted, I got a little of each craving. Shawarma, Japanese wagyu steak, lamb Kabob, some great waffle fries, a Bloomin’ onion, fiery wings with cool ranch dipping sauce, and half a fried chicken. The dasher has been all over town, but I gave him a thirty-dollar tip.
Skidding to the door with a growling belly, I swing open the door, and as the Doordash bags drop, see—“Mister Westmoreland?” Looking down, I see he’s got the dogs, my food, and little Ciara.
“I—We thought you might be missing these ladies. Ciara said something about asking you to lunch—” his brows raise. “But it seems you’ve already got that taken care of.”
I hear engines roar and poke my head outside to see Monroe and their other friend Sully, whom I met briefly yesterday on their bikes at the end of my driveway, staring covetously at my Sian. I mirror the man before me with a curious brow raise.
“Uh—yeah.” the words draw out. What am I doing? I wave at the guys, who don’t seem to notice. Fingers in my mouth, I give an ear-piercing whistle. Ciara cringes a tad, but her daddy sorta licks his lips. “Hey! Food?” I point to the bags dragging down those powerful hands that haven’t moved. The guys look at him, and he nods. Alpha in and out of the sack, it seems. Getting off their bikes, I notice that under their matching leather vests, they are wearing what I can only describe as Sunday Best. Come to think of it, so are the two on my doorstep.
Stepping out of the way, I let them enter, and my dogs head straight for the mudroom where their food is, “Dining room is just past the stairs on your left.” I watch Monroe and Sully smile and grab the bags from Mister Westmoreland. Before I can say anything, I hear screaming from the living room. That’s when I remember what I was watching and that there is a child in my house. Spinning on my heel, I see Ciara frozen in place as Pinhead, and the other Cenobites appear in all their gruesome and bondage glory.
“Alexa! Play Duck Tales!” I quickly try to correct the damage.
“You like horror, Darlin’?” I didn’t feel him step up behind me as his lips almost graze my ear.
As casually as I can, I step away and offer my answer. “Doesn’t everyone, at least now and again? I mean, it’s the safest way to get the adrenaline rush from fear without being in any danger. Well, unless you count horrible sequels.” I chuckle. “Is this okay, little miss?” I motion to Uncle Scrooge McDuck on the screen with his nephews Huey, Dewy, and Louie.
She nods but speaks to her father, rubbing her belly. “Da.”
“I know you're hungry.” He ruffles her hair. “Sorry, we just left church, and she’s used to eating afterward.”
“Do you like waffle fries and cheese? Or with gravy? I have both. Come on, let’s grub.” I smile, putting out my hand for her to take. She does, and we start to walk away, my Stompeez dragon slippers chomping up and down as we go. I hear her daddy groan. I’m guessing it’s my pantiless ass in these raggedy pants from college. I refuse to look back at him or acknowledge the fact that the small interaction of his breath on my neck has me imagining tying him to my swing and fucking him into a coma. I had my taste, but that’s all it was or could be. He’s not a man you love, he’s a man you fuck, and while it could be fun, I’m far more Christian Troy than Sean McNamara. Minus the dysfunction and drama, of course.
