“The guest bedroom is this way,” he calls. It takes an extra second to unglue my feet from the wooden floor and follow him. “Do you need to shower?”
That question nearly stops me in my tracks again. I had a shower at the motel I stayed in last night, but the water pressure was comparable to a yard sprinkler, the drain was clogged, and the tub held more rust and grime than soap.
A shower in a place like this just might be the closest to heaven I'll ever get.
“Y-yeah, if you don’t mind,” I manage. However, the second the words leave my mouth, I wonder if I’m being incredibly stupid. Or rather, stupid-er. Showering in a stranger’s home, naked and vulnerable. Not that I’m much more protected with a scrappy t-shirt and torn jeans, but at least I’d die with a bit of dignity.
“I have a towel and washcloth for you. A spare toothbrush, too, if you need it. Even razors.”
I chew my bottom lip, feeling a small burst of excitement. Admittedly, it’s been a long time since I’ve had the luxury of shaving my legs.
“All of it,” I rush out, then instantly flush with embarrassment over my clear desperation for a decent shower. Clearing my throat, I tack on, “Please.”
I can’t see his face, but I know he’s grinning.
He leads me into a spacious hallway, where an ornate gothic stone bench is placed on the left side, an array of different plants covering it, and beautiful artwork surrounding it. We veer off to the left and enter through double doors that open into a massive bedroom.
“This is the guest bedroom?” I ask incredulously, taking in the biggest bed I’ve ever seen covered in soft black sheets, the crackling fireplace on the opposite wall, and the white ceiling with beautiful black wooden beams lining across it.
“One of them, yeah.”
“I can’t imagine what the master looks like then,” I mumble, a funny look passing over my face.
He turns, a devilish look on his face as he asks, “Would you like to see it?”
“Nope. Bigger isn’t always better,” I quip, noting the open door to my left where I can see a black stone vanity. I head toward it without waiting for his response, and his burning stare doesn’t abate as it follows me. “I assume the bathroom is already stocked with what I need?”
“Sure is,” he drawls deeply.
My stomach flutters as I hurry into the bathroom, too much of a chicken to spare him a glance. By the time I get the door shut and lean heavily against it, my heart is pounding.
He'll be waiting for me to finish, and what comes after will be something I've never done before.
I'm going to fuck him.
And for the first time, it'll be my choice.
I'm so fucking nervous, but it doesn't feel… bad. In fact, it’s exhilarating. It's a foreign emotion, but I can understand why people get addicted to it.
Because at this moment, I've never felt more alive.
Cage
Present
2022
When I was a kid, my grandma once convinced me that my mother came out of the womb talking.
I'm still convinced of it.
“So, I told her, ‘Ma'am, if you're going to keep talkin' all that shit, at least carry some toilet paper with you to wipe your damn mouth.’”
Molly cups a hand over her smiling lips, green eyes glittering with mirth as she shakes her head at my mom.
She used to embarrass the absolute shit out of me and Olivia. But once we lost my sister, I found a new appreciation for her eccentric personality. She's all I have in this world, and despite her utter heartbreak over her daughter's death, she always showed up for me. Never let me down, despite how hard the world tried to kick her to the ground.
“I don't like bullies. What do you kids call 'em these days? Karens? Well, she was one of them. Except I just called her what she really is, which is a defective sperm that grew too much of a mouth instead of a brain.”
“You're such a poet, Ma,” I comment dryly.
The tiger lilies I had just bought Mom are arranged in the crystal vase she’s had for decades at the center of the dinner table, our empty plates and wineglasses in front of us.
I pull out my pack of nicotine gum and shove one in my mouth. I'm tempted to eat the whole sleeve of them now that we've finished dinner. Mom already served the peach cobbler, which I skipped. I'm not much of a sweets person.
Unless, of course, it's Molly's pussy.
“Am I? Next time, I'll charge ya just to listen to me speak then,” she retorts. “All this time, and I coulda been getting rich just from yelling at you.”
I chuckle, glancing at Molly and finding her biting back a smile. One of these days, I'll teach her how to set them free.
“Have some more to drink,” Mom encourages, pouring more red wine into Molly's glass. “With as stiff as you are, I fear my son will be marrying a wooden puppet. He'll be picking splinters out of his—”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I groan. “Quit talking.”
“I'll make sure to buy him a magnifying glass then,” Molly says, one corner of her lips curled upward.
“For the splinters or his penis?”
“Ma.”
A laugh bursts from Molly's throat, and instantly, I forgive my mother for being so crass. I'm used to her making jokes at my expense, but I'm confident Molly has never met anyone like my mother, and her personality definitely isn't a one-size-fits-all. There's been a few girlfriends in the past that she's scared off, which instantly told me they weren't worth it anyway.
“I'm not gonna scare ya off, am I?” Mom asks her, as if reading my mind.
She shakes her head. “I don't scare that easily. Not anymore, at least.”
“See? She's tough,” Mom tells me, then focuses on Molly, a sly grin on her face. She's going to say something terrible, except I don't have time to stop her. “How viable is your uterus? Eggs haven't shriveled yet, right? I've been waiting for grandkids.”
“I'm sorry about her,” I apologize, leading Molly into my childhood room. “Believe it or not, she doesn't ask about every woman’s uterus that I've brought around.”
She gives me a guarded look. “How many women have you brought around?”
My expression is serious as I say, “Two. And they were hopeless attempts at trying to make myself feel what I felt with you.”
She turns away, choosing not to answer.
“My mom really likes you,” I tell her, refusing to let her run away, even if it’s in her own mind.
“She hardly knows me,” Molly argues softly, running her fingers over a high school soccer trophy.
“She knows all that she needs to,” I say, shrugging a shoulder.
She raises a brow. “What have you told her?”
I grin. “Only the important parts. That you’re incredibly strong, funny, and the most amazing woman I’ve ever met. I think she can see that already.”
“What if she's wrong? We're not even dating.”
My muscles tighten, and my teeth clench. I'm overcome with the urge to show her just how wrong she is. She’s mine, as explicitly as the heart in my chest.
I’m advancing on her before she can slide her fingers across another trophy. Her breath halts as I crowd into her, my chest molding against her back. She shivers as I lean in closely, feathering my lips across the shell of her ear.
Those little tremors are not nearly enough.
I want her to fucking convulse like she’s being possessed, and it’ll be my cock inside her while she does.
“You think I need an anniversary date to put my baby inside you?”
I don’t recognize my own voice anymore, but I do find that little gasp familiar.
“You wouldn’t,” she breathes. “We hardly know each other.”
“No,” I agree. “Not yet, at least.” I place a kiss below her ear. “But I would. I absolutely—” Kiss. “—fucking—” Kiss. “—would.”
She whips around, those fiery eyes pinned to mine as she snaps, “I wouldn’t let you. What if I find you to be absolutely insufferable? You could leave food crusted on your dishes instead of rinsing them off. Or have dirty clothes all over the floor and soggy towels on the bed.” She pauses and glances nervously to the side. “You could find my nightmares intolerable.”