Before Him

Smooth skin. Precum. Gasping words and phantom demands.

Oh, God. Oh, fuck. Ohfuckyes!

My hand tightens, and so does the pleasure as the world goes dark, yet like the negative of a photograph, I see her here, right in this room. Watching. Waiting. Lifting her dress because she can, she keeps her eyes glued to where my fingers move, her own slipping into her panties.

“I need your mouth on me,” I gasp. “You on your knees, sucking me off.”

The image of her lips as she stretches to accommodate me pushes me over the edge. I want to fuck her. Fill her. Fucking own her from here to forever. And I will. I fucking will as I begin to come, lashing my stomach with milky ropes of cum.

That was . . . something else.

Grabbing my T-shirt from the chair back, I wipe myself down. Reaching for my phone, I stare at the screen, willing her to respond, though I know she won’t.

I don’t think I told you how pretty you looked today.

My legs are a bit like jelly as I stand and grasp the edge of one of the sheers, staring up into the darkness. I get a bit of a start when my phone bings with an incoming text.

Thank you.

Little love, I’d shower you with compliments and debauchery every day of your life if you’d only be honest with us all.

30

Kennedy

PRESENT

DON’T COME A KNOCKIN’

“You must admit, he’s done an amazing job.” Annie lifts the plastic tumbler to her mouth, hiding her smile, but not before she adds, “Though I can’t imagine what this day has cost him.”

I blow out a breath, leaning down on the porch railing as I look over the yard because, honestly, I couldn’t even hazard a guess myself. What kind of person has the money to spend on professional party planners? For a kid’s birthday party? Maybe he has a nest egg somewhere or maybe he’s overstretched himself, going all out for his first birthday with his son.

He went all out That Night, too. Capitalisation required because I’m sure I’ll go straight to hell for the number of times I’ve relived those ten minutes of my life. Just him and a chair, the pixie house his stage, and me, his audience.

Dammit. I shake my head, moving my thoughts back to today.

I hadn’t planned to do anything special. It was just meant to be a simple backyard birthday party. Instead, it looks like someone brought the world of Minecraft here. There are entertainers milling about, dressed in costumes complete with green, square heads (creepers, don’t you know). There’s a balloon sculpture thing with actual square shaped balloons (really) and a giant wall made from huge foam blocks that I know the kids will have a ball diving into, and they’ll have just as much fun building it back up again. There’s a banqueting table covered in AstroTurf and decorated with all kinds of Minecraft souvenirs. The food is square, the birthday cake looks pixelated, and Annie has gone all out with her cupcake decorating. In short, Wilder is in Minecraft heaven.

And to think earlier that I was worried Roman didn’t have things in hand, that he hadn’t catered for all thirty kids. This is so much better than what I would’ve come up with without Holland’s help. Basically, my sister is our family craft master. What she can’t make with a glue gun and foam isn’t worth making. God, I miss her.

“It is pretty amazing,” I eventually answer. “I love it, but it also leaves me with a lot of questions. Like exactly how much has he spent?” And why did I think I heard Ethan pestering Roman to take him for a spin in his race car later? Anyway, no seventh birthday party can be complete without a movie tent, so I’m told, so we have a wide screen, a popcorn machine, and green beanbags that are (can you guess?) square.

“What are you drinking?” Roman suddenly appears holding a themed green soda bottle in his hand.

“The grown-up stuff,” I say, forcing myself to turn to face him as I raise my glass a little. It’s a Zinfandel that Roman has picked up, and honestly, it’s delicious. But that’s not why I’m drinking it. It was more to dull my nerves. I haven’t been able to look at him these past few days, not without reliving That Night. I’ve bitten my tongue a dozen times to prevent myself from asking what he was thinking about. Who he was thinking about. I’ve wanted to ask him a hundred times if I was supposed to see. I know Wilder mentioned that I sometimes sit out there. Okay, that I sometimes watch him. But would I be the reason he . . .?

God, I am. And one glass of Zinfandel isn’t going to cut it. Not when just thinking of him touching himself makes me wet. And it won’t dull my nerves to the high-pitched squeals of kids or force me to smile as I answer their parents’ questions. And I anticipate so many questions.