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I slide my tongue through her pussy, over and over, lapping at her arousal, teasing her clit until she’s quivering and shaking and moaning my name. And as I make her come, I own her pleasure, her moans, her spasms. Rising over her, I take her mouth, kissing her so deeply that neither of us can breathe, but it’s not enough. It won’t be enough because this is it. What was arranged to happen between us is done, and even though I’ve tried hard, I can’t seem to work out how to bring Allie with me once we leave this beach house and return to our normal lives.
30
ALLIE
When darkness falls and all the men in the house have disappeared to wash the day from their skin, I rustle up the only meal I’m confident to present to such a large group. Spaghetti carbonara with homemade garlic bread and a large green salad topped with parmesan shavings.
The scent of garlic is probably what brings the men down the stairs and they gather around the kitchen island, fixing drinks and making small talk. From the outside, we are the picture of domestic bliss. From the inside, I’m trying to keep a smile on my face and enjoy every precious moment, but I have so much buzzing around inside my head that it’s almost impossible to keep the mask in place.
Grace’s expression and bitter words are still there.
Kirsty’s disappointment and controlling actions are there, too.
All my doubts about what the hell I’m doing with my life are like a sour cocktail.
And over the top of it all is the ticking clock, counting down the days and hours of my time with these amazing men.
Oliver takes plates and begins to lay the table, but the thought of being confined in this house with the swirling soup of my thoughts makes me ball my fists and exhale a breath. Theron, whose watchful eyes have been resting on me since he descended the stairs, places a big hand in the middle of my back. “What do you need?” he asks, in such a low rumbling tone that it settles me just a little.
“To be outside,” I say.
“Hey, Oliver. Bring those plates over here. We’re having dinner at the beach.”
Heads turn, and Oliver opens his mouth as if to object but decides against it. Everyone's freshly washed and in their evening best, but eating pasta at the beach is the best idea I’ve heard all day.
Oliver places the big white dishes next to me on the counter and I begin to serve up huge mounds for all the big, strong men around me. With plates, silverware and drinks in hand, we all troop past the pool, through the gate and down the stairs. When my feet hit the cool sand, it’s like every worry I have slips out between the grains and I can breathe again.
Oliver, obviously worried about his designer slacks, appears with blankets in a large bag and we spread them out, side to side and corner to corner until they form a square big enough for us all. Hunger gets the better of the group and we eat without much conversation.
When we’re done, plates are set aside on the sand, and I remember something I left in the kitchen. “I’ll be right back.” Scrambling to my feet, I dash back to the house before anyone can suggest joining me. I want this to be a surprise.
The small chocolate cake I baked is hidden away on a high shelf. I don’t have any candles but I don’t think it will matter. I bring a cake knife and carry the plate carefully back to the beach.
Jonas is the first to spot me, and he straightens immediately.
“Happy birthday to you,” I sing softly, ignoring my own embarrassment at my tuneless tone. My performance is less Marilyn Monroe, more Cookie Monster. “Happy birthday to you.”
All the other men look around, confused. “Happy birthday dear Jonas. Happy birthday to you.” I kneel in front of him on the blanket, presenting my best cake making efforts. His eyes meet mine and they’re filled with a swirling soup of happiness and sadness. I don’t know the reason he didn’t announce his birthday in the same way he wears the rest of his life on his sleeve. I just know that he deserves to be celebrated.
“I didn’t know it’s your birthday, man,” Jimmy says. He seems embarrassed, but I don’t think it’s because he’s a bad friend. I think Jonas always keeps it to himself.
“How did you know?” he asks, then nods. “The application form?”
“Yeah. I don’t have candles, but eating the cake is the best part of birthdays, anyway.”
“Where did you get the cake?” Clay asks.
“I baked it.”
There’s a murmur of approval and if I didn’t know Jonas better, I'd say there was a tear in his eye. Probably just a grain of sand.
“Birthday boy gets to cut and eat the first slice.”
Jonas takes the cake knife and divides the cake into twelve even slices before taking two portions for himself. I laugh and he shrugs. “If I didn’t take two, these guys would probably argueover the last slice.”
As the cake is shared, each of the men pats Jonas on the back, or congratulates him, and Jonas grins so widely, I start to wonder if he’s ever had a birthday celebration before.
When he’s finished his double portion, he seeks me out and presses a chocolate-flavored kiss to my lips. “Thank you, Allie. Thank you.”
