Chelsea whimpers encouragement as I start to thrust against her, the buckle on my belt jingling with every push. She stays upright, her hands reaching back to caress anywhere she can touch, and that angle makes her even tighter.
Splaying a steadying hand across her hip, I cup her face with the other, turning her head so I can kiss her, taste that sweet tongue. Our lips clash and nibble, our moans mingle. Pumping faster, I move my hand to her shoulder, my arm crossing her chest, holding her right where I need her. Chelsea’s hand disappears downward, touching herself, rubbing quick circles on her clit as I slide in and out from behind.
And I lose it.
“Oh fuck . . .”
She gets there with a high-pitched whimper, her knees going weak, but I hold her up, my thrusts losing their rhythm, turning to hedonistic jerks as I come gloriously inside her.
Afterward, we fix each other’s clothes, touching and kissing. Chelsea’s creamy cheeks are beautifully flushed as she laughs against my mouth. “My God . . . I really like quick.”
And I think I just might love her.
17
Although the majority of the night is spent in her bed, I don’t actually sleep at Chelsea’s. I go home before the kids wake up—we’ve talked about it; she doesn’t want to confuse them or set a bad example. So, early one morning, after my run and a shower, as I’m threading my tie around my neck, my phone lights up with Chelsea’s name. I bring it to my ear.
“Let me guess—you’ve found a nanny who makes Mary Poppins look like a slacker and she’s agreed to take the kids for a whole week, so you need me and my hard cock at the house ASAP?”
Her throaty laugh comes through the speaker. “That is a lovely dream—but just a dream. I’m calling about something else—something that’s actually more wonderful. Are you sitting down?”
Curious, I sit down on the closed lid of the toilet. “I am now. What’s up?”
“Listen to this.”
There’s a rustling—the sound of her adjusting her cell phone. Farther away I hear her voice. “Regan, did you learn a new word?”
Then, loud and clear, comes Regan’s tiny voice. “No.”
“Are you sure?” Chelsea asks.
“No.”
“Regan, say no.”
“No, no, no!”
By the time Chelsea gets back on the phone, I’m laughing too. And pride—ridiculous, knee-weakening pride—surges through me.
“What do you think of that?” Chelsea asks, a huge smile in her voice.
“I think we’ve got a fucking genius in our midst.”
? ? ?
On a day in early April, Chelsea has a meeting with Janet at the CFSA offices. She brings the two little ones with her and I cut out of work early to be at the house when the other kids get home from school. I’m sitting in the front courtyard when Rory and Raymond make their way up the driveway. And before he even reaches me, I spot a bright red welt on Raymond’s cheekbone—fresh, but already starting to bruise.
“What happened to your face?”
Raymond’s eyes flick to his brother, then back to me. “I fell walking up the stairs at school. Hit my cheek on the metal railing.”
I motion to the chair next to me. “Sit down.” Then I grab a decent-size rock from the garden, come back, and start tapping his knees—watching them jerk on impact.
He adjusts his glasses. “What are you doing?”
“Checking your reflexes.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re nine. And unless a person is very old or ill, the body’s automatic reflex when falling forward is to protect the face and vital organs from injury by softening the impact with the hands. So . . . before I accuse you of being full of shit, I want to make sure you don’t have a brain tumor.” After another tap, I put the rock on the wrought-iron table and look him in the eyes. “Everything appears normal. So—who punched you in the face, Raymond?”
Rory exits the conversation, walking onto the front lawn, and his brother sighs. “You can’t tell Aunt Chelsea.”
“Why not?”
“Because she’ll call the principal and we’ll have to have a meeting and it’ll just make everything . . .”
“Worse.” I nod my head, totally getting it.
“Yeah.”
I lean forward, bracing my elbows on my knees. “I won’t tell your aunt—but you’re gonna start talking to me. Right now.”
“His name is Jeremy Sheridan. He hates me.”
“Is he an athlete?” I guess. “Gives you a hard time to show his friends how awesome he is?”
“No—he’s in all my advanced placement classes. The National Honor Society too. He doesn’t play sports.”
A nerd bully? That’s new.
Times have changed since I was in school.
“But my GPA is higher than his. I always score better than him on tests—so he hates me,” Raymond explains, his voice melancholy.
“When did this start?”
He thinks back. “January. It was little things at first—him messing with my locker, knocking my books out of my hands, tripping me. But lately things have . . . escalated.”