I pay the cab driver and then shuffle out of the back seat, pushing the door shut with my hip and beginning the trek from the bottom clearing up to the bungalows at the top of the valley. I keep my steps fast because one look skywards tells me that we’re probably in for a snowstorm. A rainstorm at the least. That odd winter stillness, almost akin to summer humidity, is hanging cloyingly in the air and I can practically taste the imminent onslaught. The clouds are thick and grey, and the cool pause in the air heightens the scents of the pine trees.
Mitch brought me something to eat yesterday evening and then told me that he was heading to his place in Phoenix Falls so that he could access his home workshop and get me some furniture finished up for today. I’d been overwhelmingly tempted to say screw it to the whole endeavour, to tell my mom to tell Holly that she’s most definitely not welcome here, and then to grab Mitch by his collar and tell him that we’re still on for tonight. For date number five.
Instead I wrapped my arms around his neck and reached up to press my lips against his, letting him push me up against my doorframe as he kissed me slow and deep.
I told him I was sorry. He told me he wouldn’t let me down.
I drop the grocery bags on the step outside of the bungalow, fishing out my key and then quickly opening up. I move everything over to the kitchen counter and then start organising what I bought.
Dishes to cook in, kitchenware to plate up on, and, most importantly, all of the food. I don’t know why I let my mom talk me into being so hospitable but I’m here now so I may as well get this over with.
I wash and peel a bunch of vegetables and leave the pre-cooked chicken resting on the counter, hoping that I’m not about to make the sequel to food poisoning part one. Then again, giving my sister food poisoning wouldn’t exactly be unjustified.
Don’t be petty, I tell myself. You’ll cook, she’ll talk, and then you can part with a happy-family story to tell mom about on Monday.
I’ve got all of my dishes labelled, ten timers set on my phone, and I’m looking undecidedly at the new bottle of champagne in my fridge when there’s suddenly a three-thump rap pounding on my door.
I hastily close the fridge, hiding the champagne like illegal contraband, and then I scrunch my fingers through my hair, hoping that it has a little va-va-voom bounce as I pull open the front door.
Mitch’s truck is pulled up outside with the bed facing our bungalows. He’s turned away from me as he throws down the back of the bed, and then he reaches in, spreads his feet and lifts.
When he turns around he’s got a medium sized kitchen tabletop gripped over his forearms, the cords in his neck protruding from the weight of it, but his face is as calm and controlled as ever.
He jerks his chin at me and I quickly step out of his way, freeing up the doorway so that he can walk the large wooden top through it sideways.
“Sorry it took so long,” he says, his voice low and tight as he lowers an edge of the tabletop to the floor and then leans the underside against the wall. “I made a bunch of parts back home but we’ve been assembling them on-site, in the cabins. Last night I remembered that I’d have to build the table inside the bungalow, ’cause the wood’s too big to get through your entryway. Got the chairs in the back and they’re upholstered real nice. You like red, right?” he asks over his shoulder as he walks back to his truck to pull out two beautiful carved chairs, their seats made up with plump red padding.
“I like red,” I reply, watching him carry the chairs in, one in each hand. “How did you know that I like red?” I ask, and he lets out a low grunt as he drops both of the chairs down by the kitchen counter.
He wipes his hands on his cargos and walks out again, avoiding my eyes. When he comes back with the final pieces for the furnishings – legs, stabilisation planks, and screws to finish off the table – I see that his cheeks have turned ruddy.
Have I forgotten something? I let the thought rest when he shakes his head, drops his equipment and mumbles out, “Just a guess.”
In less than a minute his thighs are splayed, he’s half-straddling the underside of the table, and he’s screwing the metal bolsters in place, aligning the legs against them before he gets to the drilling.
I send off a text to my mom to tell her that I’ve done my prep and that I’m all set for my sister’s arrival. Then I toss my phone onto the dresser in the bedroom and I unashamedly lean against the kitchen wall, watching Mitch as he works. He grips a leg into place and twists a bolt inside of it, in a fast rhythmic rotation of his fist.
He glances up at me when he catches sight of my legs in his peripheral vision, still in my jeans from my quick stop into town, and he stares for a moment at the top of my thighs, his hand moving a little slower as he lets his mind wander.
Then he swallows, blushes, and drops his eyes back to his work.
“You aren’t using an electric drill?” I ask him, watching his bicep bulge with each curl of the tool.
He shakes his head. “Used an electric drill for the holes, but when it comes to screwing the pieces together I don’t need anything battery-operated. Manual tools let me screw it in tight and precise, whilst keeping total control.”
“I don’t use anything battery operated either,” I say to him.
His work instantly pauses.
He glances up at me from his splayed position on the floor and he licks his lips as his eyes trail down my body again.
“You don’t?” he asks, his voice hoarse.
I shake my head.
He nods, his jaw clenched.
“I like that,” he says finally, and then he drops his drill to the ground, standing upright and stepping back to survey the table.
It’s upside down with four bespoke legs erected high in the air. He suddenly grips two of the legs and heaves them towards himself, enabling the table to lift onto its side, and then he wraps an arm over the top and pulls it down with a thump so that it’s standing upright. Dust particles jump into the air, sparkling when they catch in the white light streaming in through the open doorway.
He grabs a cloth from his back pocket and rubs down the surface of the table, only looking up at me again when it’s so clean that I’m reflecting in its dark polished surface.
“Why do you like that?” I ask, looking at him from the other side of the top.
He rolls a shoulder as he stuffs the cloth back into his pocket. “I like putting the work in.”
I raise my eyebrows. Then I reach out an arm so that I can poke a finger on the table, moving it to test if it wobbles. It doesn’t move an inch.
“Sturdy,” I say simply.
He nods his head. “It needs to be.”
I look away from him, turning my head so that my hair covers my glowing cheeks. I hear him move across the room and then the dull scrapes of the two chairs being placed at opposite sides of the table sound in the quiet room.
“Only two chairs,” I acknowledge, my brow suddenly creasing. “You’re not coming?”
He wipes his hands on the back of his pants and then walks around to my side of the table. His hands encase my hips, automatically moving our bodies flush together, and he dips down so that he can give me a light kiss.
“I don’t need a chair because I’m not eating with your guest,” he says, a hard flash behind his eyes when he mentions my sister. “But trust me, I’ll be coming,” he says firmly, and my belly whirls, warm and throbbing.
*
With every timer turned off and everything cooked, I lean nervously against the new table, my fingers gently skimming the polished edge. When I look up through the front window of the bungalow, the valley outside darkened by heavy winter evening clouds, I see my reflection crystal clear.
I’m wearing a high neck dress in baby pink, its hem floating just below the knee, with a soft cream cardigan to insulate my arms. My hair is in a blonde cotton candy blow-out and my cheeks are a little more flushed than usual after my hours at the stove.
I look like a little Battenberg.
I walk quickly across the floor, my pointed satin kitten heels clapping swiftly against the wood, and I rip the curtains shut to block out the mirror image. Then I head back to the table, pedantically realign the kitchenware, and check my phone for the time. It’s 18:43. My mom said that Holly would be here most likely between six and seven but the lack of communication is making me itchy.
In an act of daughterly goodwill I unblocked my sister’s number on my cell, expecting an onslaught of apologies from October, followed by maybe some kind of explanation at the time of their “break up”, but what I actually found made my chest ache even more.
There was nothing. She hadn’t sent me one message, from the time that she started sleeping with my ex fiancé to the time that they split.
I stare blankly at my phone, the frown on my forehead battling with the stinging behind my eyes.
I mean, obviously this dinner was a terrible idea for me, but maybe it’ll give Holly the opportunity to…
I struggle to come up with a word to justify or defend her actions. If my mom hadn’t asked me to do this then there’s no way that I’d be even considering forgiving her tonight.
By seven o’clock I’m so hyper-alert that I’ve taken to pacing, my hand rubbing desperately at my chest as I try to think of what I’ll say to her when she arrives. I think about it for a solid ten minutes and not one expletive-free sentence comes to mind.
At half seven I’m pretty much numb. I’ve been listening out for the gravel-crunch of a cab, the clipped tap of designer heels mounting my step, but all that I get is the faint whistle of the wind coursing heavily through the pine trees. I shudder, cold, and I finally allow myself to sink down into the chair that Mitch spent last night upholstering for me as the truth hits home.
She’s not coming. I was jilted by my ex and now I’m being jilted by the woman that he cheated on me with. My own sister, no less. She’s standing me up, and she was the one in the wrong in the first place.
I press my fingers against the centre of my brow and the oven suddenly hums to life, snapping me out of my depression spiral. I glance over to it, checking that it hasn’t randomly turned itself on, and a cringing pain tightens in my stomach as I see all of the dishes and ramekins keeping the food warm in there. I close my eyes, wincing, and then I let myself arch back in Mitch’s chair, the soft red padding supporting my body like a hug.
A loud rap hits the front door and my eyes fly over to it, my heart stilling in my chest.
Three raps. His usual.
Oh God. I glance around the room, the untouched table set-up, the foil wrapped dishes inside the oven, and mortification makes my blood turn cold.
He can’t see this. He can’t know what happened.
“Harper?” His voice is low as he calls my name through the wooden panel of the door. For some reason I can tell that he hasn’t smiled in the past seven hours. Maybe longer. “You in there?”
I stay still on the seat, hoping that he’ll go away. I can make up a lie tomorrow, maybe say that everything got patched up nicely – anything to prevent him from finding out that my sister just broke my heart for a second time in two months.
“I can see that your lights are on, Harper.”
Goddamn it. I push back the chair and the sound of wood scraping against wood rings loud in the silence. Then I make my way over to the door and rest my hand on the knob. Count to five, steeling myself, and then I pull open the door.
The past two hours of misery momentarily disappear.
He’s standing just behind the step, his hands tucked into the front pockets of a pair of deep navy suit pants, razor-sharp lines pressed down the centre of each leg, and the muscles of his quads make the fabric cling obscenely. My eyes move upwards to take in his white shirt, pulled across his pectorals in an expansive stretch. It’s rolled up over his forearms and opened slightly at the top, as if his large body just couldn’t be contained.
The wind howls violently around him but he stands completely still outside my door.
When I finally peek up at his face his gruff coating of stubble and the hard look in his eyes almost makes me lose my balance. I have to take a long inhalation to get some oxygen flowing through my brain.
I make a small coughing sound as my eyes drop back down his torso, the sight of what he’s wearing making my breathing turn shallow.
“Are you… are you wearing suspender braces?” I ask him, my voice rasping.
He pulls his hands from his pockets and runs his thumbs up the backs of the belts. Then, after a moment, he suddenly lets them go with a harsh twang and they snap hard against his pecs in a loud erotic smack.
I blink fast, trying not to stare so obviously.
“Yeah,” he says simply. Then he looks over my head for the first time and his expression turns blank. He looks back down at me. “Am I early?” he asks, confusion in his tone.
I remain silent for a good ten seconds, my eyes on the pink points of my shoes. When I look back up at him I catch the exact moment that understanding dawns on his face. His brow drops and his jaw steels hard.
He looks so angry that I actually take a small step back.
“She didn’t turn up,” he says flatly.
It’s a statement, not a question, and my chest burns painfully. I rub at the sting and his eyes briefly flick down to my trembling fingers.
He nods slowly and then, after a beat, his eyes flash over to the gate about twenty feet away to his right, opened in preparation for Holly’s cab. Suddenly he’s cursing, storming across the gravel, and shoving the gate shut, the chain wrapped around his fists as he leashes it around the pole and entwines it through the gate.
Then he’s hulking back over to me with a face more thunderous than the weather behind him.
I chew on my lip as I try to will away the prickling behind my eyes, keeping my gaze averted whilst I pull myself together. When Mitch finally gets his arms around me and I look up at him, his expression has recomposed completely. He’s calmed down in the space of ten seconds, collecting himself so that he can take care of me.
I release my bottom lip and make a little sniff.
“You do all that cooking back there?” he asks me quietly.
“Yes,” I say breathlessly, reaching my arms around his neck and gripping my fists around his suspender braces, where they’re cutting firmly into his engorged shoulder muscles. His pecs are swollen, hard, and only a millimetre away from my mouth.
He glances behind me again, over to the oven, and he nods his head. “You did a great job.”
I shake my head weakly, my energy melting into nothingness as I take in the scent of his warm beautiful skin. He got dressed up, the most formal that I’ve ever seen him, to hold my hand whilst I said goodbye to my sister. That knowledge alone was worth the effort I put in.
“I probably did too much,” I admit as his hands stroke over the soft back of my cardigan.
“Looks perfect to me.”
“Would you… would you like to come in?” I ask him nervously.
He looks back down at me, first at my eyes, then my lips. Then he grunts, “Yeah.”
We walk backwards, me almost stumbling over my kitten heels and him sturdier than an army Major. He knocks the door closed with the back of his bicep and when we reach the oven he pulls it open. A puff of steam comes out. He scopes the spread, lifting away the scorching foil with the backs of his fingers, and he makes a gruff sound of approval.
Then he closes the oven door and looks down at me.
“Harper–”
I pull away from him, and quickly sweep a curl out of my eyes.
“This is embarrassing, I know it is. She fucked me over before and then I let her fuck me over again. Maybe you should go. Pity will only make me feel worse.”
He closes the space I’d put between us, pulling me roughly against his body as he locks his eyes in with mine.
“I already told you, Harper – they don’t deserve you. You gave her a chance and she blew it. But I’m not even mad about it anymore. All that she’s done is free up your Saturday night for me.”
I feel his large palm as it slowly slides down my lower back and then, when he’s fully cupping my behind, he waits a beat before squeezing my ass. A small gasp leaves my throat and my eyelashes flutter as I look up at him.
“You don’t mind that I blew you off on our date night?” I ask.
His hand grips a little harder and he presses his torso firmly against mine. “I’m not angry, baby. It all worked out, anyway.”
“Do you, uh, do you wanna eat?” I ask.
He glances warily over to the oven, probably thinking about words like food poisoning and uncooked chicken, but after a moment he nods his head and says, “I could eat.”
Mitch lifts the trays out of the oven and I serve up the food on the counter, so as to not scorch the top of my shiny new table. He watches my knife-wielding hand with a steady gaze as I carve the chicken, and I place three pieces on both of our plates. I look up at him and I point the knife at a leg, silently asking if he wants more. He slides his eyes over to mine and nods.
Then I point at the other leg.
He nods again.
By the time that Mitch is carrying our plates over to the table he basically has a whole chicken on his plate, plus mashed potatoes and an assortment of vegetables that were at one point caramelised but have since seen the depths of Mordor.
He waits for me to sit and then he pulls out a chair of his own, dropping down into it with his legs spread wide. I swallow hard and thank God that I put the glasses and a bottle of champagne on the table. It’s been out of the fridge for so long that it’s body is sweating. Which is relatable.
Mitch sees the bottle and raises an eyebrow at me. He’s thinking about my “self medicating” incident and my subsequent behaviour.
I don’t even blame the champagne for that – that was all me.
“Could you open it for me?” I ask him, scooching a little closer to the table and watching his eyes drop to my chest. Watching me bounce. He gives me a curt absentminded nod, his gaze unabashedly preoccupied, and he pulls the bottle into his lap, pointing the head away from me, over to the corner to my left. His left hand is gripping the base of the body and his right is clenched tight over the head, his arm lifted slightly so that he can wrench it, fast and clean.
I feel like I’m watching champagne porn. With a swift tug of his wrist he yanks the cork free, releasing a quick low grunt and then reaching for a glass to fill the initial overspill into.
He fills it so that the foam is just below the rim and he passes it over to me before setting the bottle back on the table.
“Thank you. Don’t you want any?” I ask, braving a tiny sip, to relieve myself of the cloying heat he seems to be permanently putting me into.
He shakes his head, his fists gripping his cutlery but still waiting for me to take the first bite. “Not really my thing.”
“I have other things,” I say.
His eyes dip to my lap and he licks his lips. His hands tighten around his knife and fork as if to say I bet you do.
“In the fridge,” I clarify, warmth staining my cheeks. “I bought you something, in case you were to come over.”
His eyebrows lift in surprise and he gestures to the fridge, silently asking permission to get up and check. I nod and take my first mouthful of chicken, which is not pink, thank God. He watches me chew for a moment and then he pulls himself away from the table, heaving himself up and over to the fridge.
When he sees what’s inside I see his tan cheekbone tick up in amusement.
“You really got my number, baby,” he says with a half-smile as he tears at the cardboard that’s joining the six bottles together, and pulls out a beer for himself. He uses his thumb to push off the lid, a fast hiss leaving the neck, and then he tips the bottle back, taking a savouring pull. I forget about my food as I watch his Adam’s apple roll.
When he rejoins me at the table my food is almost as untouched as his.
“You don’t have to eat all of it,” I say as he raises his cutlery, poised to tuck in.
He glances up at me as his fork works a sweep of mass destruction around his plate. Without another word he shovels it in.
I raise my eyebrows in amazement.
His throat works as he swallows. “Why wouldn’t I eat all of it?”
“Um.” I watch, entranced, as he folds a piece of meat over with his fork, spears it thoroughly, and then wolfs it down. He chases it with a swig of his beer, his eyes on mine as he drinks from the bottle. My eyes stray to the bottom of his throat, the deeply tanned V of exposed skin at the top of his chest, and I watch as it heaves with each of his swallows.
When he places the bottle back on the table he jerks his chin at me so that I look up at his face. “It’s really good, Harper. You’re a good cook.”
I squirm on my seat, secretly pleased, and I give him a little smile as a gold shimmery feeling sparkles in my chest.
“Thanks,” I say, and I look down at his plate as I take a tiny sip of my champagne. He’s literally cleaned half of it already. I look down at my own and say without thinking, “You can have mine if you’d like. I got a sort of anxiety adrenaline rush earlier so I’m not very hungry.”
He shovels in another mouthful and glances across at my plate. Gestures at it with his fork, swallows, and then says, “Eat, baby. I need you to get your energy up.”
The cutlery in my hands clatters shakily as I move it over the porcelain.
“Why do you need me to get my energy up?” I ask, forcing my fingers to saw a piece of chicken and take it in my mouth.
Mitch looks at me, long and hard, without saying anything. Then he moves his gaze back down to his plate and shoves in another forkful.
We eat quietly for a few minutes, the only sounds the high-pitched whistle of the wind outside as it rushes through the pine trees, and the repetitive scrape of metal cutlery as it grazes at our plates.
He finishes about ten minutes before I do, and he sits back in his seat, legs kicked out as he watches me over his beer. When I’m down to my last piece of chicken I look up at him from under my lashes and gesture to it in an offering.
He gives me a smug kind of grin and pushes back in his chair, taking his plate over to the sink and then coming over to my side of the table. I stand with my almost-empty plate and he takes my fork, spearing the meat and then consuming it like a Viking.
He takes the plate from my hand and places that in the sink too, squirting washing-up liquid on a sponge before running the tap and starting to wash.
He must be able to sense that I’m about to protest because he looks down at me from over his shoulder and says, “You cooked, I’ll clean.”
At least something in this place is about to get clean. Our height difference means that my eyes are permanently level with his giant pecs and I don’t think I’ve had one clean thought in my head for the past eight weeks.
“You did such a good job tonight, baby,” he says quietly again when he notices that I’m beyond verbal communication. He finishes up the washing and dries his palms on the towel.
“I didn’t make dessert,” I admit when we’re facing each other, his hands re-rolling up his sleeves and mine twiddling with a button on my cardigan.
He says nothing, his eyes burning into mine like I’m missing something. When they begin to trail over the curves of my body I realise what he’s thinking.
I’m dessert.
He wraps an arm around my waist and walks me backwards towards the table, leaning slightly over me so that he can pick up his bottle of beer. He watches me as he tips back the rest of it and then he sets it on the floor, freeing up both of his hands.
I arch backwards, allowing the backs of my thighs to hit off the wood of the table, and the slight jolt of my body makes Mitch grip his hands around the sides of my hips.
“Thank you for dinner,” he murmurs, leaning down slightly to close the space between us.
“You’re welcome,” I whisper up at him. I wrap my hands around the front belts of the braces and add, “I wouldn’t have wanted tonight to go any other way.”
He stills for a beat and then, for perhaps the first time since I met him, he gives me a real smile. Perfect white teeth against deep tan skin, sharp cut creases in both sides of his angular cheeks. He leans down until we’re forehead to forehead and a satisfied growl rumbles in his chest.
“You’re so sweet,” he murmurs as I lean up to rub my nose against his. “You’re just so darn sweet.”
He’s too close to me to not have my mouth on his so I give the suspenders a rough tug and it has his eyes fluttering open, looking down at me in surprise before dropping his gaze to my lips.
“You’re really gonna cook me dinner and then let me make out with you?” he asks incredulously, his fingers splaying slowly wider until they’re encasing both of my butt cheeks.
“Well, you did do the cleaning,” I whisper back with a smile.
He grins and shakes his head. “I’m dreaming.”
“Do I usually make an appearance in your dreams?” I ask, pulling the braces tighter so that they bite hard into his shoulder muscles.
He grunts, his neck arching back at the burn, and he nods down at me.
“Yeah, you’ve been in my dreams.”
“And what kind of dreams are they?” I continue, my breath catching in my throat when he presses the front of his pants up against my belly. He’s so hard and thick that my eyes roll backwards.
He lowers his mouth to my neck and gives me a gentle suck. So gentle that I moan and my nipples pinch beneath my clothes.
He breathes a laugh against my skin and then rises so that he’s towering over me again, pulling me up with his forearms so that my lips are only an inch from his.
He waits until I settle and then he finally whispers, “They’re the kind of dreams that I have to wash the sheets after.”
A delighted giggle bursts out of me, Mitch clutches me closer, and then he finally presses his mouth down on mine. His hands knead my ass rough and fast, and he grunts with pleasure at the feeling. Then he slants my mouth open and slides his tongue inside, with a long hot stroke.
I moan, no longer laughing, and my legs automatically move to wrap around him. He dips down so that he can shove up the bottom of my dress and then he hitches my thigh high up around his waist. I clutch at the tops of his biceps as his hips pin me to the table, at first grinding me hard against the edge, and then lifting me onto it completely so that both of my legs are off the ground.
He slips his tongue around mine, rubbing and licking until I’m whimpering, and his palms knead my thighs until I’m splayed, wanting and boneless.
“Mitch,” I whisper, rubbing my breasts up against him.
He pulls back to look at me, his face set hard with masculine appreciation. The skirt of my dress has bunched in the middle, hiding my underwear, but my legs are fully exposed and he admires them blatantly. I wrap my ankles around his ass and use his hard muscles to help me kick off my kitten heels.
He breathes out a laugh and clasps my ankles in his palms when I’m finished, rubbing them so gently that I have to sit back on my elbows to stop myself from succumbing to total limpness.
“I like your… top,” he says gruffly as his eyes rake up my arms and over my chest.
“It’s a cardigan,” I say breathlessly, tugging him closer against my lap when he releases my ankles.
“Cardigan,” he grunts, like he’s never heard of one before.
“Do you wanna see what’s underneath it?” I ask, lifting one hand from behind my body so that I can toy with the buttons running from my breasts to my belly.
He makes a low sound and encases both sides of my waist with his hands, his eyes on my chest.
“Yeah.”
I slip the soft fabric off one of my shoulders and I watch as his eyes cloud over, taking me in.
“Other side,” he rasps, helping my arm out of the sleeve and exposing one half of my baby pink dress, stretched tight across the rounded curves of my upper body.
I sit up and hold out my other arm. He rolls the cardigan down it gently and then, when it’s completely off, he folds it neatly, his eyes on mine.
“Are we…” He struggles to find the appropriate words but his hands on my hips and his groin rubbing my heat tell me exactly what he’s thinking about. “Are we… going to stop? Or…”
I lean up, wrapping my hands around his biceps, and I rub my thumbs over the hard swells, looking up at him from under my lashes.
“Do you want to stop?” I whisper.
He smirks down at me, pressing his crotch more firmly between my thighs. “That feel like I wanna stop to you?”
I press one of my palms flat on the table behind me so that I can keep my balance as his arousal obliterates my bodily control.
“It feels… it, uh…”
“Yeah?” he asks, pressing against me even harder.
I squeeze my eyes closed, the thick length of him making my belly pound and pool with heat. “Big,” I finally whisper. “It feels… very big. I’m too small for you.”
He breathes a laugh. “I’ll get it in, trust me.”
I drop down onto the table, my thighs hitched high around his waist. Mitch leans over me to collect the champagne and my glass before depositing them on the floor, and then he kicks out the chair beside him so that he has more room to position himself against me at the table.
He pushes my dress up so that the little skirt is over my belly and he looks down at my newly exposed underwear, a pair of simple navy blue cotton briefs with a small bow in the centre.
His cheek ticks up at the side as he rubs a thumb over the bow.
They’re not exactly sex panties but he seems to like them all the same. I didn’t know that this would be happening tonight since I had had other plans but when Mitch meets my eyes I can see the unspoken words sparkling in his irises.
You got navy panties to match my uniform, he tells me.
I can neither confirm nor deny, I tell him back.
He smirks and then his thumb presses lower.
“Oh,” I gasp, as he rubs his thumb firmly down the cotton and over the swell of my clit.
He drags his thumb up and down and his eyes watch his work, entranced.
“You’re wet, Harper,” he murmurs. “Wet through your panties. You know what that means?” he asks, and I shake my head, too over-stimulated to understand the nuance of what he’s thinking. He looks down at me, his chest rising and falling in large controlled heaves, and his fingers suddenly slip beneath the cotton of my underwear and press firmly against my swollen little nub. I arch my back in surprise and he gently rotates his confident press. “I’m gonna glide inside so easy you’ll think that I was made for you.”
He pulls his hand away from my sex and asks, “How do I take your dress off?”
“Zip,” I whisper, sitting quickly upright and getting shakily to my feet. He steadies me with his hands on my shoulders and I pull my hair to one side as I turn my back to him, exposing the long zip that travels down from my neck to the centre of my waist.
He grips one hand around my throat and the other pinches the tag of the zip, sliding it seamlessly down my back in one strong pull. He brushes the short sleeves down my arms and the top falls away from my body, until it pools around my waist in a little pink pouf.
“No bra,” he murmurs from above my head, staying still as he waits for me to turn around.
“I was wearing a cardigan,” I remind him as his hands encase my bare waist.
“Can I touch them?” he asks me quietly, his palms gripping into me with need and excitement, desperate to finally feel me without any barriers in the way.
I don’t reply. Instead I move my hands to press against his and I drag them slowly upwards until he’s fully gripping my breasts.
“Fuck,” he grunts, no longer needing my fingers to guide him. He pushes them up with his eager palms and then lets them drop, towering over me so that he can watch them bounce firmly back into place. I tip my head back against his throat so that I can watch his expression, a hard sneer of desire set firmly on his mouth.
“Look at those babies,” he rasps, getting another handful and bouncing them. I whimper and he starts caressing my nipples with fast relentless circles. “I’m not gonna be able to keep my hands off them.”
I move my trembling hands quickly to my waist so that I can shimmy out of my dress, letting it drop to the floor and leaving me in nothing but my underwear. I press my ass up against his crotch as he kneads at my breasts and he makes a low dangerous snarl as he moves a hand to the front of my panties. He dips his fingers beneath the gusset and rubs firmly against my clit, making me arch my back against him.
“The key to your bungalow has been burning a hole in my pocket for almost eight fucking weeks, Harper,” he growls as I wrap my arms behind his neck, writhing against the pace of his fingers. “You and that smart mouth, and now I’ve got you all to myself. Got the whole weekend to show you what I’ve been fantasising about doing to you. Got the whole weekend to work this little pussy.”
He turns me around and helps me back up onto the table, ducking down to kiss me and sliding his tongue instantly inside my mouth. He keeps one hand squeezing my ass cheek and the other flies up to my chest, claiming my breast with a rough grope. His tongue rubs against mine with warm long strokes, working me up until I pull away, moaning in agony.
“Mitch, I need it,” I plead with him, my eyebrows arching as I watch him lower himself to my breasts and take a nipple in his warm mouth. He sucks it hard and firm as his hand teases my other one, and he moans in pleasure, like this is as much for him as it is for me.
“Softest little tits,” he grunts when he lifts himself up again, eyes on mine as both of his palms massage my breasts. “Jesus, Harper.”
Then he removes his hands from my chest so that he can yank down the suspender braces from around his shoulders, the belts snapping against his shirt as he rips them from their taut position. He watches me with a steady gaze as his large fingers work their way down the buttons, exposing more and more of his warm tanned skin.
“Do you have a condom?” I ask him as he undoes the final button, shucking the shirt off his shoulders and tossing it to the floor. He reveals his thickly muscled abdomen and those large swollen pecs. My mind goes blank as I take in the breadth of them.
He pulls his wallet from the pocket of his suit pants and flicks open the leather flap. My eyes drop to the contents. I see a thick wad of cash and five glossy black squares. He pulls out a condom, tosses his wallet to the edge of the table, and then holds the square up for me to read. I’m met with the familiar golden script of “MAGNUM Plus”. My cheeks heat up, remembering what I did.
“Look familiar?” he asks me, his eyes locked in on mine.
“Um.” I look up at him as innocently as I can manage but his gaze is so ruthless that I squirm a little on the table.
“That morning back at my place in October,” he says. “Noticed a drawer slightly ajar and decided to take a look. Was interested to find that my box of condoms had been ransacked and strewn all around the place. Any explanation?” he asks me.
I press myself against him but he doesn’t waver, the condom still held perfectly eye-level.
“I didn’t mean to,” I say beseechingly. “I was out of it, remember? I just wanted to look in one drawer and then when I saw what it said on the box…” Suddenly I frown, remembering my thoughts from that night. “I was thinking about how you had a box of condoms next to your bed, which meant that you were sleeping with other women.”
I move to pull back from him, awash with renewed irritation, but he grips me tightly against his abs.
“I bought those condoms because a hot twenty-eight year old chick had just taken up permanent residence on my building site and I knew that I was gonna need to start blowing my load if I wanted to remain remotely professional around her. But then I started to spend more time with her and I decided that I didn’t want to fuck around. You broke the seal, baby. Those condoms weren’t open.”
I yank him down hard so that he can reach my level and kiss me, and I part my lips immediately, begging him to come inside.
He moans as he laps his tongue against mine and then he murmurs into me, “You like that? You like that I’ve been saving this cock for you?”
“Yes,” I whimper, my fingers desperately trying to rip open his pants. “Yes, I like that.”
“And you?” he asks. “Since you got here, have you been saving this pussy for me?”
“Yes,” I say, moaning and nodding as he slips his tongue around mine. “Only you,” I whisper and he pulls away with a quick growl.
He yanks his chair back behind him and heaves himself down on it, kicking his legs out as he scrapes the seat forwards. I sit up slightly on my elbows, my feet dangling off the tabletop on either side of his thighs. He slowly leans forwards, tucking his fingers into the sides of my panties and tugging. We’re both holding our breath as he pulls my panties away, exposing my heat as he rolls the cotton down my thighs. I raise my legs so that he can slip them fully off my ankles and then he repositions me so that I’m splayed right in front of him, his thighs spread wide, showcasing the large hard-on straining against his pants.
“Jesus,” he mutters, leaning back in his seat. One hand scrapes down his stubble and the other rubs firmly at his solid erection. He looks into my eyes, catching me watching him, and he asks, “You like getting your pussy eaten?”
I blink fast, my legs shaking a little. It’s not something that I’ve experienced much of and in all honesty I hadn’t particularly enjoyed it. I’m about to say no when he rephrases.
“Want me to eat your pussy?”
“Um, oh, um…” I run one hand through my hair, leaning up on one elbow.
I mean, when he puts it like that…
“I think, perhaps, maybe, if you’d like to–”
And then his mouth is suddenly between my legs, lapping warm and gentle as his palms massage my thighs.
“You’re sweet everywhere,” he grunts, the sound reverberating through my belly.
He eases my calves over his shoulders and I naturally succumb to laying backwards, my fingers twining in his hair as he licks and kisses at me. His palms rub up and down my thighs as he rolls his tongue between my legs, and then one hand disappears and I hear him grunt as he grips at his erection.
I lift myself slightly upwards and whisper to him, “I want you, now.”
He looks up at me from between my thighs, unsure for a moment, and then he begins kissing his way up my belly. One of his hands goes to grab a condom and he tears it open before his mouth has reached my neck.
He stands upright and my eyes fall to the bulging muscle beneath his suit pants.
As he undoes his zipper I say to him, “Do you always carry a spare drill with you like that?”
He laughs and shakes his head, his eyes flashing to mine as he pushes his trousers down his thighs.
He doesn’t mess around with one piece of clothing at a time – his boxers are shoved straight down with his pants, meaning that I’m immediately met with his long thick arousal, the hard muscle that he’s had ready for me for almost two months.
It looks like he’s been ready for me for almost two years. He’s more erect than a barge pole, his length dark and straining. The sight of the large sac behind it has me dragging him down on top of me, wriggling into place as I kiss his mouth with mine.
“Condom,” he mumbles, leaning up so that he can fit it at the head of his shaft and then use his fist to roll it down.
“I’ve never had a, uh, a Magnum sized… you know… before,” I whisper up at him with a slightly teasing smile.
His eyes flash on mine and he kisses me hard again.
“I’ll go slow,” he murmurs, resting one palm flat beside my head and the other gripping around the thick base of himself, aligning the domed head with my heat.
“I thought you worked hard and fast,” I remind him, stroking my fingers over his bulging shoulders.
His cheeks turn ruddy and he smiles as he pushes gently at my entrance.
“On the site,” he murmurs. “Not the bedroom.”
When he’s in place he moves his hand to my hip and then rubs it around so that he’s cupping my ass, squeezing slightly to make me laugh.
“We’re still on the site,” I whisper up to him. “And technically we’re not in the bedroom.”
He swallows hard and takes a deep inhalation, his pecs heaving above my mouth. “Hard and fast is for fucking,” he says to me. “We’re gonna make love, Harper.”
My eyes widen in surprise. Make love? I involuntarily knock my thighs against him and he makes a gruff sound as he accidentally pushes the large head inside.
“Oh!” My eyes bulge and I take a deep gasp of air, Mitch’s left bicep bulging around the side of my cheek as he lowers himself down on top of me.
“Sorry,” he murmurs. “I didn’t… that wasn’t…” His leashes his fingers into my hair, panting as he keeps his body still. “Tell me when you’re ready.”
To make love? In my mind I’m not so sure, given the reason why I fled to Pine Hills in the first place. But if I wipe away my past and I root myself in this very second I know that I would be a thousand million trillion percent sure.
“I’m ready,” I whisper up at him. With a deep groan of relief he thrusts the rest of his length inside.
“Harper,” he rasps, the hand on my hip tightening firmly. He slides out until only the head is inside and then he pushes back in, long and deep. “This okay?” he asks me, looking down at me from above my head.
I wrap my calves tighter around his firm behind, feeling the strength in his stance as he carefully fills me up and withdraws.
“Yes,” I whimper, my nails biting into the back of his neck.
He nods and then looks down at my body as he slides in and out in a gruff steady rhythm. The hand on my hip rubs up to my breast and he grips at it appreciatively as he pumps me against the table.
“I’m gonna pay you back for dinner,” he murmurs, as the table scrapes heavily against the floor.
“Y-you’re already paying me back,” I moan, and he grunts as he slides back inside harder.
“Not like this,” he clarifies as the table shoves backwards another five inches. “I’m talking finance. I’m gonna take care of you.”
“Trust me, you’re taking care of me,” I gasp. “Besides, y-you already paid for dinner when you slid four-hundred dollars inside my purse.”
He groans and thrusts faster, lifting himself up so that he can watch me at a higher angle. He moves both hands to grip my hips and he holds me hard against his crotch, keeping me firmly in place for his relentless movements. My eyes trail over the thick muscles of his abdomen and the swollen peaks of his chest and I recline totally backwards, lifting my breasts a little higher and watching him lick his lips as he watches them shake.
He can’t resist. He presses himself back down on top of me, one arm holding my wrists above my head and his other moving in on my chest, rubbing fast circles around my nipples as he pounds into me harder.
“Why’d you have to be so fucking sexy, Harper?”
I pant and moan and his hand moves back to my hip so that he can shove his thick length into me faster.
“Good job we’re alone on the site tonight, baby. Can’t have anyone walking in here and seeing what I’m doing to you. Seeing what the boss is doing to you.”
I gasp and writhe but he keeps me in place, his sac smacking against me, fast and heavy.
“I’m not gonna be able to stop making love to you, Harper,” he says quietly, his face set with pain as he slides in and out.
My back arches and I whimper at his words.
Making love. He’s making love to me.
He notices my reaction. The sudden slickness, the clenching, and his eyes burn despite his composure. “You like hearing that,” he states simply as he tilts my ass further upwards, allowing him to stroke deeper. “You like it when I say that, don’t you? Because that’s what we’re doing here, Harper.” He swallows and his jaw clenches, like he doesn’t want to continue. “It makes me think that maybe no other man’s done it to you like that before,” he murmurs, and I bite hard into my bottom lip, trying to stop my soft anguished sounds.
“Is it true?” he asks gruffly. “Am I the first?”
I can’t keep it in anymore. I grip at the hard swells of his chest, moaning and nodding.
“Yes,” I whimper. “You’re the first to do that. You’re the only one.”
He presses down onto me hard, pinning my back completely against the table, and he rolls his hips between mine with long rough strokes.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, looking down at me. He allows barely a millimetre of light to penetrate the shield that his shoulders have formed above my face.
“You’re gonna break the table,” I whisper back at him as it scrapes another five inches across the floor.
He breathes a laugh and shakes his head. “I promise I made it real secure,” he murmurs. Then he thinks about it and says, “I can make you another one.”
I laugh too but suddenly he’s hunching as far down as he can, kissing me in a frenzy and grunting with every thrust. Then I’m clenching and writhing, and he’s pulling back to hold me in place whilst I climax, watching me with a jaw set harder than steel. His own strokes begin to turn sloppy and he makes gruff snarling sounds, his biceps bulging as he grips me against him, until he can’t control it any longer and he growls as he finally unloads.
I cling onto him as he settles his heavy body down against my own, our breathing laboured as we recover from what just happened.
When he finally lifts himself up our eyes lock together. Then we both look backwards, sensing something amiss.
Laughter bursts out of both us.
The table has scraped all the way to the other side of the room.
