“Serving sausage for breakfast every Sunday morning….Is that like an ironic jab at God or just a twisted lesbian joke I don’t understand?” I ask between bites of the link.
My aunt Whitney rolls her eyes. “You’re in a fun mood, which means you either got laid, are about to get laid, or have a prospect for it in the near future.”
Her wife, Lindsay, chuckles from behind her coffee mug. “I put my money on the first one.”
Technically, I haven’t fucked anyone yet. I haven’t even come with either of them. No, I’ve just been jerking off every chance I get. I don’t think I’ve jacked it this much since college. This is the problem with dating a couple. Instead of just worrying about taking the right pace with one person, I have to consider two. I wanna be balls deep in Gwen, like yesterday, but I don’t wanna piss off Jason in the process or put her in a situation where she regrets what happened. It’s strange, but I really like Jason. He’s kind of funny, definitely laid back, and we like the same basic shit. Basketball. Action movies. Good pair of tits. Haven’t had a real friend to hang out with since Bronson moved to Colorado to get married, build a cabin, and catch beavers or what the fuck ever. We catch up on Facebook every blue moon, I assume when he goes into civilization, but that’s where that shit stops. I work with two dickhead lawyers who barely tolerate each other let alone someone doing their dirty work. The shit they twist my arm into filling my social calendar with helps me see a good pair of heels in the air every once in a while, but isn’t really how I prefer to spend my downtime. Being around Jason is easy and fun. Plus, Gwenny was right. The man does suck like a Dyson.
Apparently, I’ve been silent for too long because Aunt Lindsay playfully pushes, “We wanna know who’s right, Hudson. That’s what makes this game more fun for us.”
“Using my sex life for your own personal amusement. That doesn’t sound healthy.”
“Never should you pull at that thread,” Aunt Whitney teasingly scolds.
I finish my piece of sausage. “Prospect.”
“You lose that round,” Aunt Whitney announces to her wife while cutting her pancakes. “Let’s see how you do with the next. Where do you think he met her? Barney’s, Macy’s, or Nordstrom?”
“Macy’s.”
“Why are you two always assuming I’m picking up chicks at department stores?”
“Because the past four you did,” Aunt Lindsay promptly reminds me. “Not to mention the last one actually lit the suit you bought from her on fire when she found out you were breaking up with her for trying to move into your apartment.”
“Don’t move your shit into my place without asking!”
The two of them laugh at my expense, and I reach for my orange juice.
“Commitment-phobe, just like my sister was,” Aunt Whitney states firmly.
My mother was a drug using, alcoholic, party girl who could barely spell her own name. She didn’t give a shit about anyone other than herself. Not sure I would call her afraid of commitment so much as incapable of loving any other human. Her death came as a shock to no one. The tears I didn’t shed on the other hand, well, they kept my aunt Lindsay in my face for far too long.
Aunt Lindsay steers the conversation towards the original topic. “Am I right? Was it Macy’s?”
I lean back in my wooden chair and casually reply, “Nope.”
She continues to interrogate, “Was it one of the ones listed?”
“Nope.”
Aunt Whitney grumbles, “God, was it like Saks or something? Some store you had to switch to because you’ve been kicked out of the others?”
Their low opinion of my dating life simply makes me smile. “No. I met ‘em online.”
Aunt Lindsay is first to jump on the answer. “On one of those trashy sites or the reliable ones? Are you paying for a subscription because according to this woman I work with-”
“Time out,” Aunt Whitney interrupts. “You said them.”
“I did.”
Her eyebrows lift in an accusatory nature. “Do they know you’re dating more than one person at a time?”
Unable to resist smirking, I nod. “They do.”
“And they’re okay with this?” Aunt Lindsay chimes in. “Have you checked in with their feelings? Really listened?”
The grief counselor tone scrunches both mine and her wife’s face.
She’s been using it for as long as I can remember. Doesn’t matter what age I am, it’s like a fucking dog whistle. It annoys the shit out of me.
“We all sat down together and agreed to some boundaries before things really started.”
Both of their jaws drop, although it’s Aunt Whitney who squeaks, “Really?”
“Well yeah. When you’re dating a married couple, shit’s a little different.” On that note I wink, pick my fork back up, and have another bite of my syrup smothered pancakes.
Wasn’t kidding when I said I didn’t know how to cook. Thankfully my aunts live about fifteen minutes from my apartment and never turn me away, especially when I’m hungry. I think it’s mainly from a lifetime of being the only people I could depend on that keeps them from insisting I learn how to fend for myself a little better. Not completely useless, but definitely could be a little more responsible. I’ll admit it. I think never having had their own kids together probably feeds into the constant need for my presence as well. To me, they were my parents long before my mother O.D.'d, but I’m not so sure they always view it that way.
Aunt Lindsay huffs, “Are you messing with us?”
“No.”
“You’re an agent of fucking chaos,” Aunt Whitney mumbles.
“Agent or angel?” I tease.
“Sheppard,” she snips. “You have this uncontrollable need to bring chaos and destruction to others’ lives and then thrive off of the mess you’ve made.”
“Not…true….”
“Hudson, it’s what you do for a living,” Aunt Whitney reiterates.
Maybe a bit.
“What’s wrong with introducing a little anarchy to the mundane way people run their lives?”
“The unsalvageable pieces you leave in your wake without a second thought.”
“I think about them when I pay my rent.”
“Not your career choices,” Aunt Lindsay snaps. “Your relationships! You go from woman to woman, bed to bed, saying whatever you think needs to be said to get the job done until you’re tired of doing the job, which is when you move on, sometimes without even telling the other person until you’re threatening to call the cops at 3 a.m. because she’s banging on your door!”
Stacey. Probably could’ve handled that better. She was ready for me to meet her parents after a month, and I quickly was ready to stop answering her calls. She had a habit of making unannounced visits to my office to blow me under my desk. Once in a while was hot, but she frequently told everyone who would listen in my place of business she was my girlfriend when I couldn’t even recall her last name. Way too fucking much. Way too fucking fast.
“This isn’t some random twenty-five-year-old stumbling around looking to have someone put a ring on her finger so she can keep up with her sorority sisters. This is a married couple. This is a pair of individuals already committed to one another meaning the ‘anarchy’ you’re excited about bringing is going to have lasting results long after you’ve stopped giving a shit. Have you considered that?” Aunt Lindsay questions sharply. “Have you considered the trauma this might do in the longevity of things?”
Defensively, I bite, “This was their idea!”
“And you said yes,” she quickly replies. “Making you responsible in this situation as well.”
“The R word is a very scary thing for you,” Aunt Whitney mocks.
“Whit,” Aunt Lindsay reprimands. “Now’s not the time to make our nephew rebel harder. It’s to get him to walk away before he ruins two innocent people’s lives.”
“Why do you assume I’m going to ruin them?” I almost growl.
“Because unless you’re planning to give them a level of devotion you’ve never given anyone else before, you’re just going to end up being their little sexual plaything and inevitably put an unnecessary weight on their already, unsteady marriage.” Aunt Lindsay doesn’t give me time to ask my follow up question, though she answers it. “And yes, I am assuming it’s unstable or at least unhappy if you’re the first person, or this is the first time, they’ve ever done anything like this before. And I would just like to add the number of relationships let alone marriages who end up successful in this type of situation are alarmingly slim.”
Rather than retort, I shove another bite of pancake in my mouth.
I don’t know why, but I feel compelled to shout at her I’m already giving more than I have in the past and it’s only been a fucking week. For whatever reason I’ve made a habit of texting them both in the morning on my way to the office, and if I’m not seeing either for the day we still talk before I call it a night. And it’s wild because the conversations are so fucking different. Gwen’s is obviously flirty, hints of sexual intention more than apparent. Jason’s is relaxed, like we’ve been joking about shit since we were in elementary school or something. It’s strange to crave the attention from both. It’s new and not just because I’ve been rubbing one out to the thoughts of him sucking me off. This isn’t anything I’m used to. Exchanging texts or messages with a chick for a couple days, bone her for a couple of weeks, deal with her to have steady pussy for a couple of months then rinse and repeat. Shit’s not like that with them. And to my own surprise I enjoy it.
“He’s been quiet for way too long,” Aunt Lindsay assesses. “Did we hurt your feelings? Would you like to discuss the emotions you’re holding onto right now?”
Aunt Whitney can’t stop from rolling her eyes. “Relax, Linds, he’s our nephew. Not one of your patients.”
“Clients,” she corrects, picking up her coffee mug again. “My job is not to fix them. It’s to help them.”
“Semantics.” Aunt Whitney mouths at me receiving a playful pop on the hand.
They exchange a couple of laughs and mirth filled glares.
For the first time I can remember the entire thing makes me long to have what they have. To have someone to joke around with all the time. To talk shit with over breakfast. To call…I don’t know…mine?
Can you really have that with two people? Is that even possible? Will I eventually have to pick one? And why isn’t my mind immediately deciding on the piece of pussy?
My vibrating cell phone calls for my attention.
I slide it out of my pocket and key in the code to view the message.
Gwenny: You should be having ME for breakfast.
Pressing my lips tightly together, I text back.
Me: How about lunch AND dinner instead?
“Is that work?” Aunt Whitney questions.
My hesitation to reply drops her wife’s jaw. “It’s one of them, isn’t it? You’re actually texting them at breakfast?”
“See. I am dedicated to them.”
The vibrating device demands my attention again.
Gwenny: Working. Most likely late. Tomorrow?
Her schedule comment gets the wheels turning and eventually I look at my Aunt Lindsay. “I’ve got a question.”
“Shoot.”
“The guy I’m dating-”
“Not a sentence I was expecting,” Aunt Whitney interjects.
“He’s disabled.”
She gives me a slow understanding nod as if our situation now makes more sense.
Half of me hates her for judging a relationship she doesn’t know shit about while the other isn’t even sure if you can call whatever it is we’ve been doing for only a week, a relationship.
“He hates talking about it or anything related to it. According to his wife, he’s shut her out completely. Think seeing a therapist or some shit could help…I don’t know…get him talking to her again? I mean I got him to talk to me, but it took a shit ton of booze.”
Aunt Lindsay frowns. “Do not use alcohol as a callous.”
Knew I shouldn’t have let that part out.
“And if he’s having trouble communicating or opening up, my guess is it’s because he’s spent too much time around people who sympathize as opposed to empathize. Perhaps visiting a support group might do him some good. Being around other people who also struggle with their conditions, whatever they may be, might actually compel him to talk to those he trusts.”
“His wife is working late. Maybe I’ll take him to one this afternoon. Get him out of the house.” The idea causes me to hum. “Do I just Google, ‘Support Groups in Highland for Angry Assholes in Wheelchairs’ or what?”
Aunt Whitney hides her snicker, but gives me an approving nod.
I’m more like her than I ever was my mom.
Wonder if that’s why she spent even less time around me as I grew up.
“How are you this fucking insensitive?”
“How did you use fucking and insensitive together?” Aunt Whitney challenges. “That doesn’t sound very healing rainbows and sunshine daises.”
Aunt Lindsay dips her fingers into her coffee and flicks them her wife’s direction.
“Hey!”
She gives Aunt Whitney a glower before her eyes meet mine. “I’ll help you find one, but you’re gonna have to tell me a bit more about….?”
The grin on my face is instant. “Jason.”
“Do you see that smile?” Aunt Whitney’s teasing aims towards me.
Aunt Lindsay nods rapidly to answer the question. Afterward she says, “You’re gonna have to tell me more about Jason and his situation to find one he might relate better to.”
“And then you have to tell us about this wife,” Aunt Whitney insists, which reminds me to text Gwenny back. “You can’t tell us about the sausage and not the pancake.”
I lift my eyebrows in curiosity.
“Pussy is like a pancake. It’s best when it’s soft, fluffy, and covered in syrup.”
The squeak out of my aunt Lindsay is barely heard over our laughter.
Yeah. Definitely her kid….
I hide my building frustration and knock on the door for the fifth time.
He’s fucking here. He didn’t just roll out of the house and go for a random afternoon ride. My guess is he’s hiding in shame after being a dick to Gwenny. I called her after breakfast before our internet adventure began, primarily to ask why she was working late on a fucking Sunday. It didn’t take applying much pressure to have her confess how Jason’s been back to his harsh, distant ways since Friday morning. I left out the part about him being cool as ever with me and just let her vent. By the end of the discussion, I realized how I’m getting a little part of Jason she’s not the same way I’m getting a little part of her that’s he’s not. We gotta fucking figure this shit out. Tag teaming it may be alright for now, but it won’t last forever.
None of this shit can last forever….Can it?
Fuck, I shouldn’t even be thinking like that.
Finally, the door swings open and Jason’s stoic face is revealed. The sight of his cut jaw and light stubble in the sunlight threatens to give me a hard on.
When the fuck did I become attracted to men? How did I miss taking the fucking on ramp to Fuck Someone in the Ass Ville?
My smile becomes brighter. “Hey!”
“Gwen’s not here.”
His clipped tone and cold shoulder are neither surprising nor accepted. “Hey!”
He doesn’t respond.
With a hint of levity in my tone I state, “Now you say hey. That’s how normal human beings greet each other.”
Jason’s expression doesn’t change. He doesn’t blink or even appear to be interested in my presence.
This is the shit Gwenny deals with every day? For the past year? I’ve only been around a week and being potentially shut out already hurts. No wonder she’s always right on the edge of tears and looking for validation. How could anyone survive through months of dealing with The Terminator of happy emotions?
“Gwen’s not here.”
“Yeah, you said that already,” I mutter and move past him into the house, despite his efforts to try to stop me.
“Then go,” Jason commands from behind me.
“Oh we are.”
“We?”
Turning around with a crooked grin, I give him a nod. “Yeah. We. As in the two of us. We’re going somewhere.”
He wheels himself a bit closer. “No, we’re not.”
“We are.”
“No. We. Are. Not.”
I ignore his expected resistance and ask, “Where are the keys to the van?”
“How do you-”
“Assuming,” my casual interruption gets a grunt. “Gwenny’s Infiniti isn’t exactly wheelchair friendly, and I know you go to physical therapy once a week, so that means you have something more…,” the phrase ‘handicapable’ feels too shitty for me to say, “logical for transportation.”
He narrows his eyes as if he heard the unsaid word and loathes it. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“We, Blondie, are going to a support group meeting and to get gelato if you can stop your tantrum before it starts.”
Jason grips the arms of his chair so harshly his biceps bulge. The tribal designs stand firm, calling to my tongue to trace them, to learn their meaning through some fucked up version of brail where you lick instead of touch. I dart my eyes away from the temptation knowing now is not the time to even discuss what they mean or my desire to taste them. Unfortunately, his ticking jaw ignites a similar reaction inside my dark slacks.
Well, this shit is all….new.
Fuck. Fine. It’s still relatively new.
His chosen words are covered in disgust. “I wouldn’t go fifty feet near one of those meetings for my wife. There’s not a fucking chance in hell I will go anywhere near one for you.”
A wave of indignation rushes up my spine and pushes me to close the gap. I lower my face to his daring him to take action at my proximity. “Let me make something fucking clear for you, Blondie. Gwenny asks you to do shit. I’m telling you. Gwenny is your hot as fuck wife, and I’m the asshole whose cock you’ll be sucking between highlight reels on ESPN. She treats your ass with kid gloves because she cares about your feelings, and I’m the one here to tell you to man the fuck up.”
The glare deepens yet he doesn’t say a word.
“Now, you can make this easy for me and tell me where the keys to the van are and your shoes, or you can make this fucking difficult and be a bigger fucking pain in the ass. But let me remind you, one more time, I am not Gwenny. I’ve got the strength to force your ass wherever it is I feel like taking you, so if you wanna fucking box this shit out, just know I’m not holding back a damn thing.”
Jason’s fists noticeably ball.
In a strange way, I want him to hit me. Maybe getting out the rage he keeps leashed up will make it easier for him to talk, if not to me then at least Gwenny. I don’t mind skipping the dark details of the demons he’s hiding from, but she agreed to stick by his side through everything. Since he’s not fucking her, he should at least be giving her that.
Standing back up, I ask, “Are you gonna be helpful or not?”
He turns his head away.
“Why am I not surprised?” I mumble under my breath. A small lull passes between us before I add, “Just so you know, for this bullshit, you get no say in what we listen to in the van.”
Jason’s lack of response to the joke pulls at strings in my heart I didn’t even know existed.
How the hell can I care this much about not only some person I basically just met, but another guy? And why do I wanna protect him as much as Gwenny from any further pain? What happens when my aunt is right? What happens if I’m not the one who ends up sheltering them from it? What happens when I’m the reason they have more?
Fuck, I should really cut this shit off before I get in too deep.
During my search for the requested items, I give myself a tour of their one-story mansion. From the outside it looks a bit smaller than it actually is. The living room, which is a short distance past the open foyer by the front door, branches off in three directions. Directly behind it is their master bedroom where it takes no effort to find his tennis shoes in the closet, but I linger anyway in hopes of discovering a long-forgotten chest of sex toys. The ensuite bathroom is almost as big as the bedroom and leads to a walk-in closet filled with Gwenny’s belongings. Though tempted to sit on the chaise lounge she has inside and gawk at the rows of high heels I can’t wait to see flailing over my shoulder, I resist, and return to my hunt for the keys. The hallway nearest the front door leads to an office, an entertainment room, a library, three guest bedrooms and wraps around to an entrance of the kitchen. Knowing the entrance on the other side of the kitchen will lead me past the formal dining area, which has a set of glass doors that leads to the back yard, and straight into the living room, I take the corner exit to discover the laundry room as well as the garage entrance. Instantly spotting the keys hanging on the hook, I snatch them up and prepare for the much more difficult task.
After Jason fights with everything he has to stop me from putting his shoes on and is secured to the best of my knowledge in the white van, I back us out of the garage, silently cursing at how I look like a soccer mom in the damn thing.
At the first stop light, I manage to connect my phone to the controls and begin to enjoy one of my favorite playlists.
We only make three songs in before he’s complaining. “What the fuck are we listening to?”
“Fall Out Boy,” I proudly state, switching lanes.
“You really are a thirteen-year-old trapped in a grown man’s body….It’s just happens to be a thirteen year old girl.”
The jab receives a short laugh.
He’s obviously still pissed, but at least his humor is ready to show.
“You don’t like my music?”
“They probably don’t even like this shit anymore.”
I let go of another smile. “Not that your opinion matters, but if you were to pick the music, what would you wanna listen to?”
Jason sighs loudly, “I don’t know…country?”
“Not surprised.”
“That I have good taste? My wife proves that.”
Disagreeing isn’t possible.
Gwenny looks like a pin-up model and handles herself like she’s queen of the whole goddamn world whenever she’s a good distance from Donald Downer in the back seat. Still slightly amazed I’m gonna get to be balls deep in that shit.
“Good taste in pussy, yes. In music…? Eh.”
The offense is immediate. “Fuck you. I grew up listening to George Strait and Willie Nelson. Learned to serenade chicks to Tim McGraw and Keith Urban. I’ve got great fucking taste in music unlike you. No woman in her right mind would let you crawl between her legs after sitting around listening to this shit.”
“You are so very wrong, Blondie.” I pull onto the highway and proclaim, “In fact, back in the day I took many many v-cards with them playing as the soundtrack.”
“I don’t think you should be as proud of that as you are.”
“Probably not. But I am.” We laugh together for the first time all afternoon and a small relief is discovered.
Fuck, I didn’t realize how bad I needed that.
“What about Gwenny?” My desire to keep the conversation going prompts the question. “She into the ho-down lifestyle too?”
“She loves anything she can dance to….” The nostalgia in his voice causes me to steal a glimpse of him in the rearview mirror. Unlike earlier there’s not a line of stress or even a glimmer of a frown. His face is relaxed. Eyes soft. Smile adoring. It almost makes me wish I could pull over just to observe it without having to worry about crashing. “Man, I miss her dancing….She used to dance around the house all the time. Didn’t matter what the task was, she was singing and moving her hips. She used to do these little strip teases before starting a load of laundry….”
The idea encourages my already stirring cock to continue to rise. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” Unexpected excitement cakes his tone. “We actually met at a nightclub.”
“Bullshit.”
“Nope,” he lightly laughs. “My buddy, Tank, was sleeping with the bartender at some club downtown and wanted to surprise her while she was working but didn’t wanna look like a desperate asshole and go alone. Somehow he convinced me to go with him. I think he mentioned free drinks.”
“Drinks or shots?”
“Probably both.”
I don’t bother stifling my chuckle.
“Honestly can’t remember what he said to get me there, but he did, and Gwen was there working. She was stalking a basketball groupie for a piece of jewelry the chick had taken after a one nightstand with a married player. Let’s just say the necklace she was after wasn’t the only thing she successfully went home with that night.”
His phrasing shocks me. “No shit? She slept with you on the first night?”
There’s arrogance in his tone. “And never another guy since.”
This time when I steal a glance in the mirror I see him torn between glaring and hiding his growing guilt. Rather than tread in the murky territory, I let the music smother out the tension, and make the newfound silence somewhat bearable.
What the fuck am I doing? Is any of this really going to help this marriage or just destroy it faster?
I skip the original plan of stopping for gelato and take us straight to support group that’s being held in the meeting room of a church. Getting Jason out of the van proves to be just as difficult as it was getting him in. While I’m not expecting the meeting to be like a tailgate party, it’s even drearier than I pictured. There are fifteen people gathered, excluding me and the counselor, all with the same glum expression as Jason’s. For about an hour the twitchy guy, who looks like a young Chris Tucker, encourages the members in the group to share their experiences, their pains, and hopes. It isn’t nearly as effective as I’m sure he was hoping, but I imagine it probably takes time for people to open up. I picked this group because it seemed to be newly formed, meaning Jason wouldn’t come in automatically labeled “the new guy” or have all the attention focused on him for being the newest addition. The few people who are willing to share their experiences, tell tales about incidents from work mishaps, domestic relationship attacks, and tragic accidents.
Every story told is existence altering, leaving each individual unsure of how to cope with their new unwanted way of life. Some mention how alone they feel. Others how disgusted they are with their new limitations. Many of the emotions they claim have me wondering if that’s how Jason silently feels.
By the time we’re leaving, the sun has set, and the only thing I’m certain about is the truth in the closing statement Louis, the counselor, made. Life literally can change within the blink of an eye. It’s up to us to decide how to respond to it.
Dating the two of them already has me behaving in unusual ways and battling unusual feelings. How I respond to it is all on me. Where I let it lead me, if I let it lead me, is a choice. A choice I want to continue following…even if Jason continues to put up a bit of a battle. I think he needs me just as much as Gwenny does. Problem is.…I’m starting to think I might need them too.
Once I’m settled in the front seat of the van, I turn around and ask, “So? How do you feel?”
Jason’s fist strikes me with an overload of force right in the nose.
I grit my teeth in excruciating pain, yet don’t give him the satisfaction of verbally announcing my grievances.
“That’s how I feel.”
Pinching the bridge of my nose in an attempt to stop the throbbing, I make eye contact with him and grumble, “Fair enough.”
I turn back around to start the van, letting silence momentarily nestle between us.
Music tries to calm the tension and distract us from everything we’re not saying, but clearly want to. Occasionally, I look in the rearview mirror to assess the amount of anger still lingering on his face. Unlike our drive to group, which was filled with laughter and a mild case of flirting, this one is stiff and quiet.
We’re almost to their place when I declare in a low voice, “You have two choices here, Blondie. You can either start talking to Gwenny or…I guess me if you prefer, or we can keep going to those fucking meetings and you can talk to them. Either way, you have to start talking to someone ‘cause that shit you’re keeping locked up isn’t doing anything for you or anybody fucking else. I don’t give a fuck how much you loathe the life you have now, it’s yours. Deal with it. Stop punishing Gwenny for trying to help you adjust to it, and decide on a better way to respond to it before it costs you the only piece of your past life even worth giving a fuck about.” I pull up to a stoplight and look at him in the mirror. “And yeah. I’m talking about Gwenny.”
Jason doesn’t bother pulling his attention from where it is planted outside the window.
I mask my defeat by giving my sore nose a small, smoothing rub.
No more words are spoken for the short distance we have left to travel. After parking in the garage, I help him back inside.
Almost immediately, we’re greeted by a panic faced Gwenny. “Where the hell have you two been? And why didn’t either of you answer your phones?!”
Jason doesn’t answer as he rolls past her into the kitchen.
Her shoulders plunge at the lack of a greeting, yet she follows behind him anyway. “Are you gonna answer me?”
He doesn’t stop until he’s in the formal dining room struggling to pour himself a glass of whiskey. The minute Gwenny attempts to move closer to help, he coldly snaps, “I can do it my fucking self.”
She stumbles backwards right into my arms. They flex around her tightly, wanting to shield her from the anger radiating off of him. She leans back against me and relaxes into my touch. My lips press softly against her ear. “It’s not you he’s pissed at right now. It’s me.”
Gwenny glances over her shoulder. “What did you do?”
“We took a little bonding trip.” I turn my attention to Jason who is finishing his first gulp. “Isn’t that right, Blondie?”
He glares, grabs the bottle, and pours another.
“He’ll cool off eventually.” My eyes drink in the stunning, sweaty creation in my arms. “You look fucking sexy in these yoga pants. Tell me your self-defense instructor is a chick.”
“Nope. Male. And an ex-Navy Seal.”
“He interested?”
“You jealous?”
“Don’t think I won’t take on an ex-Seal for that pussy, Gwenny.”
She slightly snickers while Jason grumbles something most likely unpleasant.
“On that note, I’m gonna get going.”
Gwenny’s mouth parts to object when mine intervenes. Her tongue’s instant surrender shoots straight to my cock. The mixture of chocolate and lust in it hits mine with every twirl and has me hating the fact Jason’s pissy even more. Every time I get any piece of this woman, my body immediately goes into gluttony mode. I wanna spend hours swimming in the flavors between both sets of her lips. And then I want Jason to use his tongue to take the taste of her from mine. If he wasn’t being such a little bitch right now, it would be a very real possibility.
My cock knocks against Gwenny in agreement yet I pull back and sigh, “Goodnight, Gwenny.”
Her breathless response makes leaving even harder. “Night….”
“Hey Blondie.”
To my surprise he meets my eyes.
With a wide grin, I purse my lips together and blow him a kiss.
He flashes me the middle finger of his glass free hand.
I let out a chuckle as I turn on my heels to use the other exit.
He’ll get over it. It may take a couple of days for the severity of my words and the stories at the meeting to set in, but when they do I have no doubt, he’ll start to come around. Change isn’t always flashy and apparent. Sometimes it’s subtle. Sometimes you don’t even realize it’s happening until it’s already over and your life is suddenly somewhere you never imagined it would be.