His chest rises and falls rapidly—panting and grunting. His fist tightens in my hair, pulling hard enough to give just a bit of pain. And it’s rewarding, encouraging, because I know I’m bringing him to the edge of his control.
Yes, Stanton!
I want him to push me, pull me—fucking use me—as long as it’s only me he’s thinking of. Me he wants.
My head bobs faster. I cup his heavy balls in my warm hand and massage, tug, then gently caress.
“Oh fuck . . . deeper . . . Sofia . . . shit . . . that’s it, baby.”
His cock hardens even more, a slick, silken rod filling my greedy mouth. I wrap my fingers around him near the base and jerk up and down in harmony with my mouth. Then his hand on my head tugs, holds me steady, as his cock slides in and out of my mouth, with the volition of his thrusting hips. “Fuck . . . I’m coming . . . coming in your perfect mouth . . . fuck . . .”
I feel the flesh expand, swell, and a second later hot, salty streams surge on my tongue, filling my mouth. I swallow every bit he gives me—appreciatively. Because I love that I can do this to him. I love that I gave him this.
Stanton gulps for air as he runs his fingers through my hair softly now, soothingly. When he goes slack in my mouth I release him and immediately find myself pulled up, pressed against him. He holds me as we tumble back on the bed. He kisses my forehead, my closed eyes.
Then his hand slides up my thigh, as his body slides lower, his breath a tickling scrape across my stomach. He settles between my spread thighs, cups my ass, lifting me as he lowers his mouth. The air whooshes from my lungs at the sensation, the first touch of his lips enveloping me. I arch my back, he grips my hips, holding me steady for the onslaught of his tongue.
His tongue licks and probes, rubs against the tight, desperate bundle of nerves between my legs, bringing wet, delicious heat that steals my thoughts and renders me speechless. I look down to watch him, and the sight makes my hands clench in the sheets, my thighs quiver. His eyes are closed in concentration, his face blissful, his mouth hums wordless appreciation as his head swivels. And I feel it build—the pressure, sparks of erotic pleasure spike deep inside me—building, cresting, getting closer.
“Oh God, Stanton, oh God . . .”
He releases my hips from his grasp and my pelvis gyrates shamelessly against him, wanting him deeper, harder, hotter. He slides two fingers into my tightness as his tongue makes firm, relentless circles against my clit. Every muscle in my body goes stiff in anticipation, and for a few beautiful seconds I’m suspended, hanging weightless on that sensual precipice.
And then, with a long serrated moan, I shatter. My shoulders shake with the force of my orgasm, my pussy pulses around Stanton’s fingers, as carnal joy wracks every nerve in my body. It goes on and on, spasms of pleasure that force whimpering gasps from my lungs.
After the heated sensations cool to soft embers, I open my eyes. Shining dots of light sparkle on the outer edge of my vision, and in the center is Stanton’s face—watching me with tender satisfaction. I feel his hand hold my jaw, and when he kisses me slowly, I taste a pleasing combination of tart alcohol and my own sweetness on his lips.
Drained and boneless, we crawl up the covers, rest our heads on the pillows, and with mingled breaths, close our eyes to the rest of the world.
14
Stanton
There’s a body of scientific study on sleep—the benefits, the side effects, how best to fall asleep, how many hours, which position, what kind of bed, what type of pillow, optimal room temperature. Researchers agree it’s best to wake up naturally—when your body tells you it’s had enough. If you work for a living, that’s probably not possible.
Second best is to be woken gradually—which is why there are clocks with crashing waves, classical music, and Tibetan chimes for alarms. But whatever the fucking sound, gentle is always better.
This is not a theory my mother has ever subscribed to.
Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding . . .
Sofia shoots upright, hair flying, arms swinging.
“What? What’s happening? Where . . . are we under attack?”
Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding . . .
I barely muster the energy to moan, “It’s a triangle dinner bell.” My momma’s favorite wake-up call. “As for under attack . . . you could say that.”
Shit. I feel my forehead, run my hand over my hair—looking for the pickax that’s obviously sticking out of my goddamn head—splitting it in two.
Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding . . .
“It’s getting louder . . .” Sofia wails before wrapping the pillow around her face like a taco. “Why is it getting louder?”
I fumble for my phone on the nightstand and check the time.
Fucking hell.
“It’s gettin’ louder because it’s Sunday.” My own whisper grates on my ears. “And because we’re in Mississippi.”
She lets half the pillow drop, picks up her head, and looks at me through one open eye. “Is that supposed to mean something?”
“Yeah. It means we’re goin’ to church.”
She plants her face right back in the pillow.
And I know just how she feels.
• • •
Not all Southern Baptist churches are the same. There’s the contemporaries—with their modern, sometimes “mega” buildings, huge amphitheaters, Christian rock, advanced sound systems, and arm-waving, amening congregates who sometimes number in the thousands. Then there’s the traditionals—like the First Southern Baptist Church of Sunshine, Mississippi, built before the Civil War, no air-conditioning or heat, wooden pews, quiet congregates whose asses are in the seats every week, with the closest thing to a sound system being the organ player, Miss Bea, my old ninth-grade teacher.
We sit in the pew in the back half of the room, flanked by my parents—my sister Mary texting as quickly as she can before my mother sees, and Marshall, who’s falling asleep. Sofia caused quite the stir when we first walked in. Not because she’s not dressed suitably for church, but because she’s a new face—a fucking gorgeous face—with her dark hair piled high, her rich purple dress that highlights her hazel eyes, and strappy sandals that make me think about tying her down to a nice comfy bed.
She’ll be starring in the jerk-off fantasies of every teenage boy in this place—and several of their fathers.
Just before the service begins, I catch sight of the back of Jenny’s and Presley’s heads a few rows in front . . . and the dark-haired man sitting beside them.
Mine. I want to shout, write it on the wall—tattoo it on Jenny’s forehead in all capital letters.
He leans over, whispering, and Jenny covers her mouth, fucking giggling. My teeth grind and I exhale like a fire-breathing dragon—ready to launch myself across the room, scoop them up, and turn his ass to goddamn soot.
Probably feeling my stare, Presley turns around and gives me a smile that takes up more than half of her face. I blow her a kiss back. Thirty seconds later she’s coming over, after getting Jenn’s permission. She sits between us, whispering happily with Sofia, the perfect distraction from the man I’m itching to pummel.
When Pastor Thompson begins the service, I hear my daughter inform Sofia, “That’s Pastor Thompson—he’s a hundred and twenty years old.”
I chuckle. “He’s ninety-two.”
“He looks good for ninety-two,” Sofia says, nodding.
Pastor Thompson has been my preacher my whole life—for the entire lives of almost every person in this church. He knows our names, our birthdays, been there to comfort on those terrible, heartbreaking days and led us to rejoice on the amazing ones.
And for the first time in a long time, the thought of my being known so well by so many doesn’t annoy me. It feels . . . nice, knowing I’ll never have to explain myself. To tell where I’m from, where I’ve been, where I?
??m going—it’s just not necessary.
I’m one of theirs. They all already know.
Which is why when the preacher gets to his sermon, he looks around the church—and the old bastard winks right at me—then he opens up his Bible and tells the story of the Prodigal Son.
• • •
Outside the church, I spot Jenny and the dark-haired man across the grass. With a better view, I’m able to see he’s a few inches shorter than me, thinner, but still in shape. He’s average looking with a straight nose, heavy brow, puffy girly lips. And he’s got that cleft in his chin like John Travolta.
A heinie chin.
From this moment on, I’ll forever think of him as Ass Face.
“That him?” Sofia whispers, her eyes trained in the same direction as mine.
“That’s him,” I growl. Like a dog that spots his favorite bone in the jaws of another canine.
“Wow,” she exclaims quietly. “He’s gorgeous! He could model for Calvin Klein or Armani.”
Frowning, I turn to her. “Why would you tell me that?”
She looks back, grinning. “You want me to lie?”
“Yes. I do.”
She gives Ass Face another once-over. Then covers her eyes. “My god, he’s hideous! I can’t bear to look at him. Move over, Quasimodo, Jimmy Dean is in the house.”
I sigh. “Sofia?”
“Yes, Stanton?” she says sweetly.
I lean in, so my lips are just a hairbreadth from her ear.
“Lie better.”
As the happy couple heads our way I turn to face them, asking Sofia out of the side of my mouth, “How should I play this? Scare him with threats, or just go straight to the ass-kicking?”
Please, let her opt for the ass-kicking.