Chapter THREE
Scherri
I'm all giddy. So euphoric I don't know how my feet are still glued to the ground, because the rest of me is up there doing whirligigs across the ceiling, like a bat flown in through the window.
Stick is here.
We're standing together in the same spacious kitchen. Although it looks very different since my mother married Stick's dad. As does Stick.
My mother just got through telling me how he left just a couple weeks after she and his dad got married. Their secret affair had been the cause of her snippy attitude to her family all along. The thing that broke us so my Dad moved away. Not that she owned to any of that, but the timeline makes sense to me now.
I get it. This big house is everything she ever wanted for herself and nothing that my dad could provide on his fireman's salary. Daddy worked so hard and faced such danger with courage every day he left the house, there was no way I could let him move across the State alone. He'd done nothing wrong and didn't deserve to lose his family because his wife happened to be a -
“You haven't told us what you're doing here.”
I'm jolted out of the memory of all the tough times behind us by the rudeness of my mother's tone.
“Mom, this is Stick's family home. He doesn't need a reason to visit.”
“No. I guess he doesn't. I just mean I haven't made up the bed in the guest room.”
“He doesn't need to use the guest room either. He has his own room.”
“His old room was made into a guest room,” she says and I don't like the hint of victory in her voice.
“That's perfect,” Stick says.
I feel his eyes burning into my face while I stare at my mother on the other side of the breakfast bar in shock. Even having all the luxury she ever desired, living in this house with the man she must have wanted more than she wanted her own family, she still hasn't changed one iota.
“It's perfect,” he says to me his eyes brimming with meaning.
I can hardly bear to meet his gaze, it's so intense. I'd feel stripped down and naked if it wasn't Stick doing the staring.
Oh god oh god, I should not have had that thought. The hot surge in my cheeks means I must be redder than a corny box of Valentines candy. Oh crap, why am I conjugating the day of romance and my childhood friend?
I must be living in a girlish fantasy. It sure seems unreal to be standing here staring at him half dumb in the same kitchen we used to make peanut butter sandwiches and pop tarts for dinner in his room. Of course, it's not the same room since my mother had the idea to do a complete makeover.
But Stick is still the boy I knew years ago and yet he isn't. He'd already filled out into quite a hunk at sixteen. But it was a pale indicator of the tower of solid man he was to become. The Stick that planted my fist kiss on my lips has grown to at least six feet, maybe a couple inches more. His chest is a solid mass of flexing, bulging power beneath his tight pale khaki tee. The biceps seem to burst loose from the constriction of the short sleeves and I can't stop looking at them, desperate to touch them. Feel the smooth leathery skin and the solid bulk of power right underneath.
“Things didn't exactly go well last time you were here,” my mom's saying. Still treating Stick like a guest in hos own home. “I don't know what your Dad will say when he gets home.”
“Mom,” I say, ignoring her spiteful eye flash at me.
“It's okay,” Stick tells me, ever the peacemaker. “It's why I'm here. It's perfect that we're all here right now.”
“Okay, let me make up the room to save you the effort,” I tell my mother.
Anything to get out from under her gaze and run away from my embarrassment at the heated feelings for the stunning man Stick's become.
“Do you remember where the linens are kept?” I ask him.
Before he can answer my mother butts into the smile we're sharing in our eyes.
“I bought an antique press to replace that nasty closet,” she informs us. I can tell though she's relieved to be spared any work on our behalf. “It's on the hallway beside the family bath.”
“Got it,” I grab Stick's hand to lead him out of the kitchen and up the stairs.
And then it hits me. This is his house and I'm leading him around. And we're walking up the stairs to the second floor that we walked up so many times together. Except one other is missing this time and that saddens me.
I let go of his hand like it's on fire, same as my cheeks. He gives me a grin and continues up the steps to the top. His huge feet fill each tread, his thighs so thick and loaded with strength in the army-style pants. I wonder where he's been since he left.
“How've you been, Scher?” he asks as he rummages through the linen press.
“Okay, I guess. Oh crap -”
A pile of fancy lace edged linen that I know is the pricey 800-thread kind tumbles off the shelf to the ground. My mother will get crazy about that and we must have the same thought because we both drop to our knees to pick up the mess of linen.
“You guess?”
I look up from my attempts to smooth out the sheets to their original state of perfection and find Stick's eyes delving hard into me. Questioning, ravaging – and, and, I see something else filling his pupils.
My heart does that crazy leap into my throat thing and it suddenly feels hot in the hallway, like there's no air at all. My breath hitches with every inhalation, trying to keep pace with my racing heart beat. I notice Stick, fit as he is, is also hitching for air. I swallow hard and the tingles in my body move all the way down to my thighs where they alert me to the pronounced throbbing buried in the folds.
Good god, what's happening here?
Stick's eyes never shift so much as an inch. I'm held captivated in his gaze as he trawls through my soul. Like he's trying to determine if it's still me. My tits heave up and down rapidly. They're filled with pressure and the desire for him to cup one in his huge hand.
I shouldn't be feeling this but my body is doing its own thing. I've had no control over this insane rush of feeling flooding every cell since I opened the door to him. Inside I'm shaking violently but on the outside I'm absolutely still, held mesmerized by the depth in Stick's eyes.
The world goes silent, fragile. Only the loud thump of my heart disturbs the moment.
“I missed you,” I whisper before I realize the words have left my lips.
“I missed you too, crazy bad,” Stick husks.
I'm not wrong here. His eyelids are half-lowered with lusty desire. I'm not so delusional and needy as to mistake that. With every breath his lips seem to move an infinitesimal amount closer to mine.
If he kisses me here, now, I have no idea what will happen. Because the way my pussy is clamoring for him, I might just drag him down on top of me, here in the hall, right beside the infamous antique linen press.
“Dammit, what the hell are you two doing?” my mother's harsh voice cracks from the end of the hall.
And right behind her, coming up the stairs is Stick's father, just back from work.
“My God, Son, you've grown. Come here, lemme look at you.”
Our secret moment of being lost inside the other is over as Stick powers his thighs to get to his feet, then helps me rise. His huge hand is clasped around mine for a searing second, before he goes to greet his father.