Maliciously Obedient

Everything coalesced into a pinprick of a second, of now.



Her body fired up against his, every inch of flesh seeking out his own, her hands multiplying and seeming to be everywhere at once, stroking his cock through his trousers, his back muscles, trailing fingers down his biceps, one hand pressed against the bare skin at the neckline of his shirt. Soft curves met his own hands as he took in her hips, running up her waist and ribcage to find a handful of breast, his thumb tweaking a nipple that responded with a beaded hush, her breath hitching in her throat, a low purr like a gift as he kissed her, catching her lip between his teeth and breathing hard against her cheek. One hand slid down her leg to slither back up her thigh, seeking –



“Ahem,” a voice said, not even bothering to pretend to be discreet. Breaking away from Lydia, he turned to the left to find Krysta standing there, her hand in an “OK” gesture. “This is how you don't take advantage of her?”



“Then I want him not to have sex with me. Not to go down on me, not – ”



“I get it, I get it,” Krysta said, annoyed as she stepped between the two of them.



“You're not getting any,” Lydia snickered.



Mike stepped in. “Why don't we get something to eat? Lydia looks like she could use it.”



Standing on tiptoe, she whispered in his ear, “I know something I'd love to have in my mouth.” A rush of blood to his face – and cock – made the nightclub's heat unbearable.



“Let's go to Jeddy's,” Krysta suggested. Except it was an order; Mike could tell she was just about done with the two of them.



“Jeddy's? God, I haven't been there in...forever,” he said. Jeddy's was a Boston icon, a hangout where everyone practically lived after bar crawling. More a college-crowd place this time of night, it was a ratty old diner that had recently changed chefs, giving the menu a new lift that he liked. As he recalled, their Boston Cream Pie was magnificent. Jeddy's was absolutely, positively not the kind of dive Mike Bournham went to.



Which made it perfect for Matt Jones.



“Jeddy's!” Lydia cried, sprinting for the stairs.



He guessed they were all going down.



“Touch the balls, Lydia. Touch the balls,” the old waitress at Jeddy's croaked as he, Krysta and Lydia entered. The place smelled like maple and stale feet. Lydia did as instructed, cradling them in her hand and grinning like a fool.



“Grandma!” Lydia screamed, lunging at the woman, who looked like a raisin impersonating a human being. Mike did a double take. Hold on, Madge was Lydia’s grandmother? Years of popping in to Jeddy's in college and beyond meant he knew exactly who Madge was – who didn't? She'd probably served him enough bacon waffles to last a lifetime.



As the old woman tenderly hugged her limp granddaughter, she pulled Lydia back, hands on her shoulders, and took two sniffs. “Ah, God, Lydia you smell like you’re pickled.” She glared at Mike. “What the hell have you done to my granddaughter?”



“Nothing,” he protested, hands up.



“She did it to herself, Madge,” Krysta said. This was obviously a relationship that Mike didn’t quite understand, but he was quickly putting two and two together.



“This,” Lydia said, her hand slipping about his waist, making him hard instantly for the nineteenth time that night, “this is Matt. Matt Jones. He’s my new boss.”



Madge eyed him with suspicion, looking him up and down, surveying him in a way that women often did with his body. Sometimes he liked it, but right now it felt a bit like being looked over by Voldemort himself. She pursed her lips and cocked them to one side, talking out the other side of her mouth. “I know you,” she said.



“Yeah, I’ve been in here a million times. It’s kind of a Boston institution, you know?” he answered, hoping to God she didn’t realize who he really was. Of all the times to have his cover blown, this sure wasn’t it, and this sure wasn’t the place.



“Touch the balls,” she said and reflexively he reached over and fondled the warlock's balls. “There you go. Now come in and have some pie.”



Krysta laughed and she, too, reached over and fondled the most over-touched piece of plastic on the planet other than, perhaps, the letters on Perez Hilton’s keyboard.



His mouth started to water as he inhaled. “Pie night?”he asked. Madge nodded curtly. She didn’t even bother to grab menus and threw three glasses of water down on the chipped, Formica table top. The glasses were pebbly, beige plastic contraptions that somehow managed to persist well into the twenty-first century but that looked like something out of 1960.



Then again, so did Madge.



“We’ve got six kinds of pie. And all of it can come out nice and warm, with a big scoop of ice cream or a hunk of cheese, depending on what you want.”



“I want both,” Lydia demanded, chugging down her glass of water, banging the empty on the table, and moving on to steal Mike's. He didn't argue. She needed the hydration. Tomorrow morning she would have one hell of a headache. Too bad he couldn't wake up next to her to make it all better.



And now he was hard again, imagining her between fine, cotton sheets, her nude body pressed against his, hands –



“You can have both, Lydia,” Madge said, patting her on the head as if she were nine. It made Mike laugh; the easy familiarity between the two was cute to watch. He was still reeling from the fact that Madge – cranky old, bitter, dried-up Madge – was tender and sweet with Lydia, of all people.



“So...you guys – ”



“Hold on there. I’m taking your order. Order first, chit chat later. We’ve got Peanut Butter Toffee Coffee Crunch Pie.” Mike groaned. “We’ve got Coconut Cream Banana Lime Fennel Pie.”



“Ooh,” said Krysta.



“We’ve got boring, old Apple Pie with Cranberries and Lemon Glaze on top. Boston Cream Pie, of course. And then finally, we have a Key Lime Pie made with a crushed, flaked coconut crust.”



“That’s five, Grandma,” Lydia said, chugging back Krysta's glass of water.



“You’re right. I can’t do math at two in the morning, so there you go. Five kinds of pie.”



She took their orders, Mike opting for boring old Boston Cream, Lydia going for the Key Lime, and Krysta indulging in two pieces, one of the Chocolate Toffee Coffee thing and one Key Lime Pie.



As they waited, Krysta began to pepper him with questions. “Why are your eyes so green?” she asked.



“Yeah, why are your eyes so green?” When Lydia said it still sounded a little boozy, but when Krysta said it it sounded like an accusation from an NSA agent.



“They just...are,” he fumbled. This was a question he wasn’t prepared to answer. “Why are yours so brown?” he asked Krysta.



“That’s a stupid question.” He just stared at her, silent, his own volley obvious. She made a sour face and turned away. Having her like him wasn’t top on his list of priorities – getting Lydia home safe was, and this detour through Jeddy’s was really unexpected.



Madge brought the pie, covered in more ice cream than he could eat in three days; he found himself unloading the scoops off to the side so he could tackle it. Besides, ice cream with Boston Cream Pie? That was an odd one.



When he took a bite he understood. This was no regular ice cream. This was a Toffee Salted Caramel ice cream, and the flavor matched perfectly with some element in the pie. Was it a special kind of vanilla? Something exotic and spicy and just strangely unique enough to set his taste buds alight.



Madge flew past in a flurry of legs and arms and apron, and her little electronic ordering thing that was half iPhone, half magic wand. “Pie any good?” she asked.



“Yeah,” Lydia answered through a mouthful. “You ‘ave a oo-ah a ee?”



“Lydia, chew your cud, swallow and then say it again.” Madge stood, tapping her toe. Mike’s stomach clenched. This was not good pie eating karma.



Lydia swallowed hard, wiped her mouth and said, “Grandma, I forgot my keys. Do you have yours?”



“Oh...oh, yeah.” The older woman handed the younger one a set of keys, which puzzled Mike.



“Keys?”



Krysta gave him a withering look. “They live together. Lydia and her grandma are roommates.”



His eyebrows shot up. That’s a combo he’d never seen in all of his dating years. Plenty of women he saw had roommates, some of them even men he didn’t know about, but a grandma?



Krysta leaned forward and cupped her hand to cover her mouth and said with a conspirator’s smile, “Madge isn’t around that much. She actually spends most nights with her boyfriend.”



“She has a boyfriend?” he said loudly in surprise.



Another glare from Madge. “What? I probably get more than you do. When's the last time you had a threesome?” Whatever desire he'd had a moment ago vanished, the pie turning to garbage in his mouth.



A year ago, he wanted to say. But not to her.



Lydia erupted into peals of laughter. “Matt’s a really good kisser, but I don’t know about him in bed.” And then her hand made its way up his thigh and he realized how drunk she still was. “Yet,” she added.”



He stifled a growl.



Krysta’s phone buzzed and she pulled it out of her pocket, read the text, and alarm splashed across her face. “Excuse me,” she said and stepped out of the booth, going over to the back of the busy restaurant, covering one ear and smashing the phone against the other. Mike watched, curious, as she spoke in hushed tones, clearly agitated. Within a minute she was off the phone, came back and said, “I’m sorry, guys. I’ve gotta go.”



“At two in the morning?” he asked, appalled. Booty calls were one thing, but this took the cake.



“Well, yeah. Pretty much. Madge!” Krysta seemed incredibly distracted. She scratched her head, running one hand through her curly hair. “Madge, can you take Lydia home?”



“I’m not off shift until 7 a.m. Krysta, I can’t. Sally called off, so we're already short a waitress. You hit me at busy time – the bars all just closed.”



“Oh, man.” Krysta was on the verge of tears, panic brewing.



“I’ll take her home,” Mike interrupted, aware that something deeper than a drunk dial was going on, but respectful enough not to pry.



“Right.” Krysta rolled her eyes. “You’ll take her home and I know exactly what you’ll do, Matt.” She formed an “OK” sign that converted to a middle finger salute.



“I’ll take her home, I’ll put her to bed, I’ll take her shoes off so she’s comfortable and I’ll leave her safe and sound,” he promised.



“Right,” Madge said. “I know your type.”



“What’s my type?”



She just stared him down. Oh, he knew her type alright, and he met her eyes, staring back. It went on for over a minute until, finally, Krysta broke it all off and said, “I gotta go. You guys figure it out. No matter what, I want Lydia home safe – but I don’t have a choice on this.” She pointed to the text on her phone, and off she ran.