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I’min the booth at Greenies.
A thumb traces my hip bone. Fingers pluck at the hem of my dress. Nails scrape my thigh. Lips tease my jaw. “You want me to stop?” a deep voice rasps, and this time, I don’t hesitate.
“No,” I all but moan, only to be shushed by a soft tsk.
“Gotta be quiet, sunshine.” Teeth nip my earlobe. “You want everyone here to know what I’m doing to you?”
“There’s no one here.” Because we’re in his car. No,mycar. Cass’ suit is gone, replaced by the same jeans and shirt he wore the first night we met. All I wear is a scrap of plum fabric bunched around my waist and the hands cupping my chest.
When those hands move south, caressing my upper thighs, I know it’s coming. I know fingertips are about to tease the cotton gusset of my panties aside. I know two fingers are about to slip inside me, a thumb is about to trace my clit with quick, hard circles, both are going to work in tandem to coax me towards a mind-numbing orgasm.
“Wanna feel this cunt wrapped around my cock,” I know Cass is going to whisper in my ear right before I take matters into my own hands. Before I takehiminto my hand, delving beneath the waistband of undone jeans, smoothing my palm along the long, hard length fighting to be freed from a pair of boxer-briefs, earning a tortured moan. “Keep doing that and this’ll be over before it starts.”
I know that’s the last thing I want. I know I’m going to make a hasty retreat. I know a little touch makes me greedy, ready for more, and I know in a matter of seconds, Cass is going to get his wish when I—
A blaring alarm blasting my eardrums jolts me awake. Swearing and sweating and so very disoriented, I jerk upright, almost rolling out of bed in my haste to shut off the noise. Banging on my bedroom door and an indignant voice yelling at me to get up slowly drags me back to reality. Makes me aware I’m not in a booth at Greenies or in the parking lot of a random bar in Chicago.
I’m alone, in bed, an uncomfortable throb between damp thighs, hard nipples scraping against an uncomfortably tight tank top, pregnant by the man apparently now inhabiting my sex dreams. The man who’s still in my head as I roll out of bed, dip into my nightstand, and dart across the hall to the bathroom. Who all but sets up camp as I get into the shower, avoiding eye contact with the bullet vibrator I click to life as hot water fills the room with steam, water droplets loudly pelting the tile covering the quiet buzz. As hard as I try to evict him, Cass is front and center when, a matter of seconds after sliding the toy between my thighs, I come hard and fast—back bowing, legs shaking, and a tiny ball of shame nestling behind my ribcage.
Fuck.
* * *
With damp hair, flushed skin, and a soft robe covering my naked body, I’m the picture of guilt as I slink down the hallway.
This is all Cass’ fault. He’s the reason I’ve been so worked up lately, for more reasons than one. The incident in Greenies was the catalyst for an onslaught of very inconvenient hormones—the horny kind. Thespecifichorny kind because not just any warm body will do. Gone is my body’s inability to consume anything that isn’t saltines, replaced by the insatiable urge to jump the tall, sculpted body that did this to me in the first place.
Fun.
Iffunwas code for incredibly inconvenient, distracting, andawkward.
In a laughably cruel twist of fate that perfectly depicts my life lately, I don’t find August alone at the kitchen table. Two hands grasping the back of his chair, Cass looms over my kid, both of them murmuring in hushed, conspiratory tones. Sneaking forward an inch, I barely restrain a shocked, slightly outraged huff when I recognize what they’re huddled over.
“Wrong ‘your,’ kiddo,” Cass gently corrects, leaning forward to tap the chicken-scratched filled pages of the journal not even I’m allowed to read. When I skim through the pile—checking for grammar errors, making sure they’re actually writing, that sort of thing—August stands over my shoulder, huffing and pouting when I dare linger too long. Yet here he is, brandishing the thing for Cass’ reading glory.
A break,I plead silently.Just a little one. That’s all I’m asking for. Give this man a flaw.
Figuring getting caught spying would only add to my mortification, I clear my throat to announce my presence. Boy and man swing to face me in unison, wearing matching tentative smiles.
“Mornin’, Mama.” August hastily flicks his journal shut and stuffs it in his backpack. I barely register Cass doing the same, tucking a small notebook in his back pocket, because I’m trying very hard to pretend he isn’t there. “Cass made French toast.”
My gaze flicks to the empty plates and dirty cutlery littering the table. “I can see that.” I can smell it too—as can my rumbling stomach.
It’s distracting. The breakfast, the apparent tutoring session, Cass’ mere presence. So much so that I briefly forget what I just did, and how he was in my kitchen correcting my kid’s spelling mistakes while I did it.
Key word; briefly.
“He’s gonna drive us to practice too.”
“That’s nice of him.” So verynice. Focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, I make my way to the fridge, intending on grabbing whatever’s closest so I can escape back to my room and rot in mortification in peace. “Why?”
“Y’all are on my way.” The lie is so smooth, I would believe it if I didn’t know where Cass lived—on the other side of the town, about five minutes away from the field the Select team practices on. “And I want to talk to you.”
“About?” I fight to keep my tone airy, as if his desired topic of conversation is a complete mystery to me when, in fact, I’ve got a pretty good idea.
Cass’ eyes flick to August and, like they rehearsed this, my kid mutters some incomprehensible excuse before fleeing the room. I don’t get the chance to, in perhaps a slightly childish move, flee right along with him. A gentle but firm hand holds me back, another pushing the half-open refrigerator closed. “Sunday.”
I try and fail to shrug Cass off. “We’re gonna be late.”
