“You don’t have experience with women. You don’t know what they are like.”
Lathan sent him a look full of warning.
Gill held up his hands in a gesture of peace. “You sure about her? This thing with her is speed-of-light quick.”
Lathan met his friend’s gaze. Held it. “She’s the only thing I am sure of.” He got out of the car and was only vaguely aware of Gill driving off as he watched Honey and Little Man. Honey darted in one direction, changed course, went another, and Little Man frolicked after her. Fucking frolicked—like he was a twenty-pound puppy, not a two-hundred-pound beast. Joy bubbled out of Lathan in a laugh he didn’t hear, but felt in his chest and throat and mouth.
Honey finally ran up to him, laughter on her face, the smell of spring on her skin—happiness. That she could be happy after the bipolar kind of day she’d had was evidence of her strength. “You’re feeling good.” He couldn’t not touch her. He put his hand on her neck, his thumb caressing the sharp bone of her jaw.
“…like all the bad has died so something good can take root and grow.”
He understood. More than she meant him to.
“But it has been a long day.” The scar at the corner of her mouth hitched up into a giant grin. She pretended to yawn. “I’m going to go to bed early. Want to join me?”
He drew her to him and brought his mouth to hers. “Fuck, yeah,” he said against her lips. She pressed her mouth to his, sliding her tongue into him. Her flavor exploded across his taste buds, traveled through his body, and converged in his groin.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Her hands slid into the back of his jeans, over his ass, squeezing and kneading. He almost couldn’t think, couldn’t continue kissing her from the erotic sensation of her massaging his ass.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
She hooked one leg high on his hip. He lifted her and she straddled him. Her warm feminine center settling over his erection.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
She shimmied against him. The friction—exquisite, excruciating. He wanted their clothes gone. Now. Needed to eliminate all barriers, wanted the slip and slide of flesh against flesh. He carried her into the house.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Halfway through the living room, Honey pulled away from him. “Is that your phone?”
The sensation that he’d been ignoring crashed into his awareness.
Tap. Tap. Tap. The unique pulsation meant one thing.
His parents.
And they never texted for the sheer fun of it.
“Shit. Fuck. Damn.”
“What is it?” Her legs tightened, pressing his erection even harder against her center. He felt the groan in his throat, knew it was full of the sounds of wanting and frustration.
“I have to take care of something. You go on upstairs. I’ll be up in a few minutes.”
She unlocked her legs from his waist, but he held on to her until he was certain her feet were solid on the ground.
“Go on up.” He gave her a quick peck on the lips and a smack on the ass to get her moving. The scent of her desire was heavy in the air around him when he finally pulled his cell from his pocket to find a text from his mom.
Your father and I just pulled in.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He read the next message.
We’re at your door.
Getting rid of his parents—priority one.
He untucked his T-shirt to hide his erection and hauled in a giant breath. The air smelled and tasted like Honey’s desire. Which didn’t help with the erection situation. He walked to the front door—Mom was always one for formality—and opened it.
The rush of scents clogged his airway. He coughed into his fist. Amber. Sandalwood. Orange blossom. Vanilla. Deer piss. Fucking deer piss. In Mom’s perfume. He was half tempted to tell her, but didn’t want to engage in any unnecessary dialogue.
Underneath the stench of Mom’s perfume, Lathan smelled the truth. Discomfort. Disgust. Annoyance. Anxiety. The same feelings his parents had every visit. The reason every visit was torturous.
Mom wore a black dress better suited for a gala than visiting his home. She was petite with long blond hair—that he was certain wasn’t all hers—and never seemed to age. The miracle of modern plastic surgery, he supposed. She reminded him of those women on that Housewives show.
Dad was decked out in slacks, a tie, and a jacket. Mom always picked out his clothes.
Mom signed. Son. Hello.
He was tempted to answer her in sign, just so Honey wouldn’t hear, but he hated signing. It never felt natural to him. Never. He attempted to control his volume as he spoke. “Mom, don’t do that. I can still hear some things, and I can read your speech as long as you look at me when you talk.”
“I’m just trying to make things easier…”
No, she wasn’t. Being the mother of a hearing-impaired child was something his mom had made trendy. Oh, how she had enjoyed the accolades of her friends when she’d taken class after class in American Sign Language. It hadn’t mattered to her that he didn’t like sign and didn’t intend to use it.
“I prefer speech reading. And have ever since I was thirteen.” Reading his parents’ speech took concentration. He only saw them twice a year for a few minutes each visit. Not enough to firmly learn their patterns. He shifted to block the entire doorway. “Now is not a good time for a visit.”
That look of eternal consternation—the look she always wore around him—pinched his mother’s lips. “Gill called… weren’t acting right… not having an episode, are…?” Mom always called them his episodes. Those times when he’d gotten so lost in an SM that he couldn’t find his way back to reality.
He clenched his fists. Knuckles popped. “Gill should mind his own fucking business.” Just when he thought shit between them was getting resolved. “I’m a grown-ass man. Don’t need you checking up on me. And do I look like I’m having an episode?”
“Lathaniel. The use of foul language makes… sound lowborn,” Mom said.