“T wo scoops of fudge! No, three! No, maybe two,” Teague debates with himself, standing on his tiptoes to peek over the counter.
He looks to me for permission, popping his lower lip out in that cute kid pout, and I ruffle his helmet hair. “You can get as many scoops as you want, Squirt,” I tell him.
Gage squats down—which seems to be less strenuous for him after all the sessions we’ve done together—and nearly explodes my ovaries with one of his famous, dimple-popping smiles. “Little Man, if you want an ice cream cake, I’ll buy you an ice cream cake,” he says to Teague.
Teague’s eyes turn into saucers. “Really??? Cali, can I pleeeaaaseee have an ice cream cake! Please, please, please.”
I frown. “Let’s just stick to one cup, okay? That’s a lot of sugar for someone as little as you.”
“I’m not little! I’m five feet tall!” he counters, huffing and turning his nose up.
“You’re four feet and seven inches.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, you’re a big poopy face!”
This little shit’s going to send me to an early grave, I swear. I lunge forward and dive my hands into his ticklish sides, scratching my fingers over his ribs as he collapses into a fit of screams and giggles.
“He’ll have three scoops!” I yell over the commotion, dodging an incoming elbow while he flails his limbs like he’s being kidnapped in broad
I’m so proud of how hard Teague’s worked over these past few months.
He scored the winning shot! Granted, it’ll cost me a stupid tattoo— which I’m definitely not getting—but if that empty promise tricked Gage into bargaining with him to score the last goal, then it was a sacrifice well made.
Gage rises to a stance and leans against the counter. “And two scoops of vanilla and two of rocky road,” he orders, fishing his wallet out from his pocket.
Teague squirms under my hands, trying to retaliate with a tickle strategy of his own, but his adorable, stubby little arms can’t reach me. I eventually grant him mercy and haul him up by his underarms, plopping him back on his feet.
“We don’t call others poopy faces in public,” I mock-chastise.
Nobody else is in the shop since it’s a little past five on a weekday, which gives us some much-needed quiet after the maelstrom of hockey that’s been ravaging the household this past week. Teague needed me to read him an extra story every night because he was so worried for the game today. And in the end, there was nothing for him to worry about. Gage has been telling me that scoring a winning shot is a very hard thing to do. I still don’t understand hockey. I don’t know if I ever will, but I’m pretty sure I can count on Gage to give me the CliffsNotes version of it.
The server deposits three cups onto the counter, all overflowing with miniature mountains of sugary decadence, and her ponytail bobs as she waits for Gage’s payment to go through.
“Fine. But can I call them cunts instead? That’s what Gage said I can call them!” Teague exclaims in his outdoor voice.
Oh my God.
My hand slaps instantly over Teague’s mouth as Gage chokes on his own spit, all while under the unamused eye of the girl slowly pushing buttons on the cash register.
“On second thought, poopy face is fine,” I rush out, still muzzling him in case a plethora of new curse words find their way out.
Gage quickly apologizes to the server before scooping our ice creams up in his arms and making a brisk walk toward the exit. Teague, like the little devil he is, runs ahead of us to a small knoll just outside of the quaint ice cream shop, plodding through fallen autumn leaves that cover the once-green grass.
“I can’t believe you said that in front of him!” I reprimand, and not in a mocking tone this time.
“I didn’t think he actually listened to me!” Gage defends, albeit poorly.
“You better hope he doesn’t say that out on the ice.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve heard far worse insults out there.”
I stubbornly take my ice cream from him, but I’ve gotten far worse at hiding my smile whenever he does something remotely stupid. I used to be so good about it too. He’s finally achieved his tireless venture in making me soft. Now I’m like, goo-puddle soft.
As we climb up the knoll, I bump my shoulder with his. “Thank you.
For the ice cream.”
“My dad was never around to buy me ice cream after games. I don’t want Teague growing up thinking his accomplishments aren’t acknowledged.”
It tears me up inside that Gage’s parents will never realize how amazing he’s turned out, despite their obvious lack of parenting. That’s every parent’s dream—for them to roll out a decent kid. I’d never tell Gage to his face, but I hope Teague grows up to be just like him one day. Caring, ambitious, courageous. Maybe minus the annoying part. But I’m pretty sure that’s just some deformed gene specific to Gage himself that won’t be passed down to anyone other than his offspring.
Ugh. Imagine having miniature Gages running around. Hold on a second. Why am I imagining that? And why, in my imagination, am I dressed in an apron and setting the dinner table like some kind of domestic housewife? Oh, God. I don’t want kids. Not even when I’m pushing fifty.
Get me out of here, brain!
“He appreciates it, even if he doesn’t say it,” I assure Gage. “You’re spoiling him, you know.”
Gage sits down on the desiccating land, brushing away some of the crisp leaves and making a poke-free seat for me. He hands Teague his tower of fudge ice cream, but he keeps his eyes firmly set on me.
“I like spoiling the people I care about.”
My entire body heats up, undoubtedly saturating my cheeks in a bold blush. The sun sags just beneath the shingled roof of the ice cream shop, pouring shades of orange and pink over the tinted sky. I can see glimpses of it through the sparse, flaxen-colored foliage hanging above us, attached to a grand oak that sways in the autumn breeze, lending its rustling susurrations
to the background of our conversation. The weather is still warm, not yet warranting the need for a sweater or a cardigan, and I let myself bask in it like a heated, golden-painted caress.
Teague digs into his treat right away, somehow getting chocolate all over his face within the first few bites. Gage volunteers to run back to grab some napkins, and I attempt to rub some of the filth off my brother’s face with a wet thumb.
“You know we’re helping Mom move into her new house tomorrow, right?” I remind him, surprised at how steady my voice sounds.
Teague continues to make a dent in his ice cream, unfazed like his usual self. “Yep! I hope she likes it. I heard they have a pool. That’s so cool! I wish we had a pool.”
I brush my hand down his head and chuckle. “You know, if you’re nice enough, I’ll put in a good word for you. Ask the nurses if you can go for a swim.”
“Really?”
“Of course, Squirt. But you have to promise to come visit Mom with me every Sunday, got it?” I stick my pinky out for a Cadwell pinky promise, wiggling it like that’ll entice him more.
I think I’ve been looking at this new chapter in our lives all wrong. This is a new beginning for my mother—a beginning that I could never offer her on my own. This is another chance at who knows how many years this place will gift her, giving her a life full of laughter and love and less pain.
This is a good thing. It’s scary and different, but it’s good.
My brother eagerly hooks our pinkies together. “Deal!”
Teague’s suddenly wrangled into Gage’s arms as Gage fruitlessly starts to wipe the fudge from my brother’s sticky skin with a napkin. “Hold still, bud.”
Teague kicks and squeals, moving his head around so that Gage’s efforts to clean him are useless, and he darts out of his grasp, choosing to barrel-roll down the small hill. His shirt and pants are covered in fragmented chunks of leaves, and he stays close by us as he runs aimlessly around and does whatever weird ritual eight-year-olds do when they experience a giant sugar high.
“If he pukes, I’m blaming you,” I growl, wiping my chocolate-stained fingers on the napkin.
Gage snorts. “He’ll be fine. Look at him! Kid’s on cloud nine.”
My brother does like to run around in circles when he’s happy. He even has his tongue lolling out of his mouth like a dog.
I take my ice cream cup in my hands and start to prod at the ice cream with my spoon before realizing that it’s completely white, save for a single, red gummy bear sitting in the drooping middle. Vanilla. Of course.
Gage pops a loaded spoonful of chocolate and marshmallow into his mouth. “The gummy bear’s me, obviously. And you’re the vanilla.”
“Boring, bland, white?”
“Reliable, well-liked, comforting, sweet, revolutionary, timeless. Need I go on?”
A smile turns up my lips, my blush probably still in full force. I abandon my spoon and begin to lick a groove through the slowly liquifying mound, immediately relaxing when the sugar clings to my tongue.
Gage and I eat for maybe a minute of uninterrupted silence, but then he clears his throat and takes a break from his demolished ice cream. “I wanted to ask you —”
I turn to give him my full attention, but instead of focusing on whatever it is that he’s saying—which I’m sure is important—I’m distracted by the drips of chocolate sliding down his knuckles.
Either my brain cells have deteriorated after my sugar consumption or my judgment has been heavily impaired by the freakishly good-looking man sitting next to me, but I don’t grab him a napkin. I don’t even remember that there’s an unused stack in arm’s reach.
“Gage, you’re dripping.” I grab his hand—which is still wrapped around his now-drenched cup—and lick the melted ice cream off his knuckles, cleaning his skin like some unspayed house cat.
It’s not until I’ve gotten every last drop that I fully realize what I’ve just done, and we both stare at each other, waiting silently for the other to say something.
Hey, Cali. Why did you do that? Why couldn’t you, I don’t know, just give him a napkin? Or better yet, don’t mention it at all! It clearly wasn’t bothering him. He would’ve cleaned it eventually.
I pick up the corner of a napkin and drape it over his knee, which is barely blocking the…um… situation taking place in his pants, and I avert my eyes out of…respect? My sincerest condolences?
“Sorry. That was…weird,” I apologize, my nerves sticking like a burr to the inside of my throat.
Gage blinks, the gravel in his voice splintering into glass. “I, uh, it’s fine. You’re fine.”
He sets down his cup, but he doesn’t cross his legs or bring his knees into his chest. Nope, his giant erection just kinda sits there, and I’ve never been more grateful for Teague’s situational unawareness.
My mouth waters, and it’s not some aftereffect of the ice cream. Fuck, I would give anything—and I mean anything—for him to take me right here, in public, while he splits me on his fat cock doggy-style, sliding so deep I can feel him in my guts. The first time we fucked, it was everything I’d ever fantasized about. It was sweet and gentle with just the right number of rough touches in between. But I need him. Again. Uncensored and unrestrained. Mounting me on that pierced monster between his legs until I’m crying and screaming and clawing at him for release.
I open my mouth—maybe to defuse the awkward tension with some out-of-pocket comment—but Gage beats me to it.
He fully struggles to get it out, neck thickly corded, eyes darkening in a lust-filled haze. “Calista, if Teague wasn’t with us, I’d bend your pretty little ass over my lap and slide my fingers down your pants until I get to that delicious fucking cunt.” He leans into me, whispering under his breath,
“And ask you again like I did that night at your apartment, how wet would you be?”
He runs his nose along my jawline, and my breath snags in my throat. I don’t have some witty remark poised on the tip of my tongue. All that exists inside me is pure hunger, and it responds to every touch and every tease that Gage dangles in front of my helpless body.
“Dripping,” I admit quietly, feeling arousal leak into the gusset of my panties.
Jesus Christ. I need him. Right now. Need every inch of him filling me up, pounding into me until I’m so sore I can’t walk for days. I don’t want to make passionate love. I want to fuck like primal animals, taste his flesh between my teeth, selfishly chase after that all-consuming satisfaction. I crave him like flowers long for sunlight, like deserts yearn for rainfall.
“Good girl,” he rumbles, sliding his hand over my thigh, just skirting along the denim seam that borders my wet center, and my pussy clenches at the phantom fullness of his fingers lodged inside me.
It’s been too long. God, I’m going to come in my underwear if he keeps touching me, be forced to sit in my sticky filth the whole ride home until I
can make a beeline for the bathroom and wash the embarrassing residue from my legs. This son of a bitch knows how sensitive I am.
In my head, I’m a badass who makes men beg on their knees for the tiniest scrap of attention. In reality—at least right now—I’m the one begging for his attention, whimpering for Gage to punish me for my smart mouth, to stuff it shut with his leaking cock.
“Not so hard to admit, was it?”
I shake my head, desire clawing at the depths of my stomach, urging me to align my hips with his fingers, to feel him cup my cunt through my jeans.
“Gage…” I whine, using superwoman levels of power to refrain from bucking against the air.
I’m ashamed. Trust me.
“When we get home, I’m going to fuck your throat, Spitfire. Gonna make you choke on my dick until there are tears in your eyes, and then I’m going to watch as you swallow down every last drop of my cum. We’re not stopping until you’ve milked me dry and I’ve bruised that jaw of yours.”
I’m shivering and shaking and seconds away from unraveling like a spool of thread when Teague bounds into my peripheral, sweaty faced with the faintest hint of brown still smudged over his lips.
“Cali, I’m tired,” he says, yawning and stretching his arms.
Gage scoots away from me immediately, ineffectively blocking his boner with his inadequately sized ice cream cup.
“Okay, Squirt. We’ll head home soon. Just…give Gage a minute.”
I glance at Gage, my confidence reappearing in the form of a coy grin.
“Or more like five.”
ALL’S FAIR IN LOVE AND GOOD HEAD
CALISTA
Getting Teague to bed was surprisingly quick and seamless. Thanks to the heaping amounts of sugar we gave him, he crashed pretty hard.
He probably— hopefully—won’t wake up in the middle of the night.
If he walks in on something he’s not supposed to see, I’ll personally pay for his therapy bills.
And now I have Gage all to myself. After a long, painful ride home, I sobered up enough to regain my bearings and form a plan of action. I’m not going to give in so easily. At least, not if I can help it. That sadistic side of me demands the wheel this time, and I’m going to have him on his knees so I can see how pretty he is when he begs.
Gage peers around the dark corner to make sure the coast is clear, forfeiting a sigh of relief. “God, that was close. I don’t think Teague would ever recover if he saw us playing tonsil hockey. I mean, I saw my parents groping each other once and it was truly scarring —”
I cut Gage off by pushing him up against the adjoining wall of the kitchen, drawing out an unmanly squeak in the process.
“Gage, shut up,” I growl, my palm pressed against the rapid thudding of his heart—which only quickens under my prolonged touch.
He’s staring at me with a measure of fear in his eyes, and blood floods to the surface of his cheeks, lightening his skin in a hue of pink. I take my index finger and drag it down his torso to the hard cut of his muscled stomach, then hook it into the loop of his pants and pull him closer to me. I
can already feel him filling out his pants with his erection, and his turgid length obtrudes against my belly, the weight of him incurring more liquid desire to saturate my already-damp panties.
I palm his generous bulge, making him hiss between gritted teeth. “You had your fun earlier, but that’s not how this night is going to go. I’m going to be the one in control, and you’re going to be the one begging me to touch you. Do I make myself clear?”
Gage nods wordlessly, the tendons in his neck quivering, the sturdiness of the wall the only thing keeping him upright. A rare nervousness rules his expression, but it’s combated with gut-wrenching anticipation.
I lightly pinch his cock through the material of his pants, and a shudder shimmies through his body as he throws his head back against the wall.
“It hurts, doesn’t it? All that pressure building inside, that painful strain in your cock, that insatiable ache in your balls. All you can think about is coming so hard you can’t see straight, right?”
“Fuck, yes,” he groans, a drop of briny sweat rolling down his temple, teeth scuffing his bottom lip until blood beads and congeals on cracked skin.
I slowly unzip his fly, but not far enough to let his dick spring out. Even swathed and safely contained, that thing is still intimidating. “You want me to make you feel better? You want me to take your cock out, rub it until you can’t take any more, and then shove it down my throat?” I drawl, all feminine wiles and “innocent” bats of lashes.
“Would give anything to fuck that gorgeous throat of yours, Spitfire. I’ll beg on my knees if I have to.”
“That’s a start.” I pull Gage’s pants down to his thighs, smacked with the droolworthy sight of that carved Adonis belt and the sexy strip of hair underneath his navel. His cock’s practically bursting at the seams, a sizeable spot of pre-cum seeping through the front of his boxers.
“Take your dick out,” I command, tracing my fingernail along that plunging V-line, savoring the way his stomach jumps—the way I hold the power of his orgasm in an expertly placed touch.
I’m expecting a slow buildup of obedience, a measured acceptance of defeat because of his God-like ego, but he fumbles with his underwear, hooking his fingers in the elastic band and pulling them down to blunt the pressure.
His long, forearm-thick cock stands at attention before me, a red, angry hue from this roulette game of teasing, curved just slightly to the right and drooping a little low from the heaviness of its own weight. His piercings glisten underneath the naked bulb in the kitchen, same with the milky dribble of pre-cum pearling at the tip, and little rivers of blue-grey veins feed into one larger one stemming along the underside of his shaft. The perfect detonation point.
I take an exploratory finger and follow the dominant vein, keeping the pressure featherlight, and Gage’s legs collapse for a second. A loud whimper gets caught somewhere in the back of his throat, as if he’s too proud to vocalize it but too weak to keep it confined to his chest.
“Sensitive?” I ask, ending my torturous trek at his sodden slit, where I swirl my digit around his arousal and electrify every nerve ending in the bulging head like a touch-activated sensor.
“You have no idea.” His voice is hoarse, his dick twitching and oozing more pre-cum onto the pads of my fingers, his thighs still shaking of their own volition. I can smell the ripeness of his musk, even the tinge of sweat underlying it, and my mouth waters to taste the saltiness of his cum, to drink it down until I’ve drained every drop from him.
With saliva clotting my mouth, I purse my cheeks and gather a wad of it on my tongue, parting my lips to allow a string of drool to lower to the ruddy tip, where it hits its target with an obscene splat.
“Rub my spit in, Gage. Rub it in with your cum like the good boy you are, then start stroking yourself.”
Another little whine. Another little wordless concession.
He takes his thumb and begins to mix my saliva with his spend, priming the head with a thin gloss of lubrication. There’s not enough spit to coat much of his length, but there’s enough to wet his palm so he can gain some traction.
“Calista,” he groans, struggling to keep his eyes open, just starting to stimulate himself with some half-hearted pumps, a slick noise pervading the kitchen. He performs every rub slowly, as if going too fast will augment the flowering pain.
“I know,” I purr. “You’re doing so well.”
His hand speeds up at my praise, and he bares his throat to me with a toss of his head, his Adam’s apple bobbing under tight skin. The muscles in
his arms pull impossibly tight, highlighting each protruding vein, and his chest rises and falls in uncontrollable heaves.
Something ferments in my belly, something I thought would be arousal but turns out to be a modicum of purebred jealousy. I’m jealous. Of his hand. Of the fact that I’m not the one making his eyes roll back.
I give him a few minutes of shallow breaths and grunts, his hand now falling into a steady rhythm as he rubs up and down, seeming to apply the most pressure at the base before wringing it up his length and letting it disperse at the top.
I fight the gush in my panties, fight the frisson of excitement swan diving to my toes, fight the way my thoughts cut in and out like the static of a radio. As much as I want to touch myself, I’m focused on pleasuring him, knowing that he’ll return the favor the minute he comes. But fuck, does everything burn. My pussy doesn’t cease its palpitating even when I force the reins from his hands, replacing his controlled strokes with my faster, rougher ones.
His hands slap loudly against the wall, and he cants his hips forward, his body purging a pornographic moan that practically rumbles through the foundation of the house. My fingers fail to close entirely around the circumference of his girth, but I squeeze lightly on a half-stroke anyways, distributing delicious pressure throughout his length, feeling the skin crease under my fingertips. When I get to his head, I smooth over the tip with my thumb, picking up the sticky excretion there, and I rip another noise of contentment from him.
“You want my mouth on your cock, Gage?” I ask in a patronizing tone.
“You want me to suck you dry while I gag on your giant dick? You want to fuck my throat until my jaw locks?”
Gage forces himself to look at me, all heavy-lidded and glassy-eyed, and he manages to find an ounce of control, that dominant side of him tearing through his soft and submissive underbelly. “Gonna look so pretty when you’re choking on my cock, Spitfire. Gonna fuck your tonsils until you can’t take it anymore, and then you’re gonna take every last drop from me because it’s all yours—my dick, my cum, everything.”
I slowly drop to my knees, facing his dick head-on, which is a lot scarier than I initially thought it would be. How is that thing supposed to fit in my mouth when it barely fit in my vagina? Have people actually died
from choking on dick? That’s literally the worst possible way anyone can go.
I table the little voice of caution in the back of my head and scrub the nervousness from my face. “You’re right. It is all mine. You belong to me.”
“Damn right I do. And I want everyone in the fucking world to know it.”
With one hand on the root to anchor myself, I part my lips and make way for the nine-inch intrusion, having to unhinge my jaw after I pass his head. His cold piercings tickle the walls of my mouth, and I swallow him down, inch by inch, my incisors brushing the thickness of him until his tip is finally settled at the back of my throat. And then I begin to milk him, hollowing my cheeks with a tight suction and bobbing my head back and forth. My hands work the base while my lips ascend his shaft, gripping around his cock in wet slurps, the overproduction of saliva slipping down my chin.
Gage begins to spear his dick against my tonsils, and he taps my gag reflex momentarily, the brunt of him causing the corners of my mouth to crackle a bit from the agape angle. I choke him down as tears pool in my eyes, adding to the already-slick mess on my face. The smell of him is overwhelming, and I’m stuffed to the point where all I can do is breathe through my nostrils. Once I adjust to his size, I slip up and down at a languid pace, taking my time to experiment with where he’s the most sensitive. I pop off him for a second to lick the throbbing head, and Gage’s hand flies out to nestle in a chunk of my hair, yanking so hard that it makes my neck crick.
“Cali,” he growls, but unlike his usual brassy warnings, this one holds no power.
I delicately skim my teeth over one of the metal knobs of his piercings, causing his hips to convulse and his expression to lose its set-in-steel control to irrepressible euphoria. His muscles can’t decide between being relaxed or strained, so I make the decision for him when I suckle only on the tip, doting on that slit with titillating laps.
“Good boys beg,” I say, sitting back on my haunches, waiting patiently for him to obey me.
“Please…”
I press a kiss to a vein traveling up his length. “I know you can do better than that.”
“Please, Cali. Fuck. I—please keep sucking. Need to come down your throat. Need to show you how much I appreciate you. I’ll be a good boy, I promise. I’ll do anything to have your incredible mouth on me,” he begs, a mess of a man with his pants down and cock out in my kitchen, six feet and one inch of honed muscle surrendering to a seductress in a five-foot-seven body.
I slowly—achingly slowly—reacquaint myself with his dick, switching between hand-curated pumps and earnest sucks, watching as his abdomen contracts and his thighs tauten, forewarning me of the last few stretches he has left in him before tipping over that precipice. And then I take him the farthest I can, deep-throating him, deriving a drawn-out groan that zaps straight to my pussy. He slams himself against the tight walls of my throat, rendering my tongue useless, and keeps a hand on the back of my head while he abuses my esophagus with thrust after agonizing thrust.
It’s a lot. The most intense sensation I’ve ever felt aside from him fucking me raw. Gage is in control now, deciding how rough to push, using the stutter of my gags to gauge when it’s too much. My nose is buried in his trimmed pubes, and my bottom lip skims the skin of his hair-matted balls.
“God, you feel fucking amazing,” he says, continuing to snap his hips against my face, this time repositioning his hand over my windpipe, fingers settled over the slight bulge of him stretching in my skin. “I love feeling myself inside you.”
He keeps his hand there, losing comprehensibility when he gets out the rest of his shunts, and finally, I feel his cockhead swell. Hot spurts of cum pulse down my throat in wave after endless wave, shooting straight into my stomach.
The minute Gage is done, he disengages from my mouth and slides his back down the wall, taking my face in his hands and wiping the spit from my lips. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” he asks.
“I’m okay,” I assure him, leaning into the palm caressing my cheek.
We’re both exhausted, nothing but the combined sound of uneven breaths to be heard over the silence of the apartment.
“Good, because I think I’d have a heart attack if I killed the love of my life with my cock.”
Ignoring the absurdity of his comment, the tail end of it manages to lure my attention, and it feels like a goddamn kill shot to my heart.
“What?”
“What?” Gage echoes, staring at me like he didn’t just drop the L-bomb and decimate my entire world.
“You just…you just said the L-word,” I sputter, blinking about fifteen times in thirty seconds, trying to keep a cool head when everything in my body is on fire and my emotions are running haywire.
“I did?”
“Yeah, you did. Literally a second ago.”
“Oh.”
Oh? OH? What in the hell does that mean?
I’m losing it. Like, Chuck Noland in Castaway losing it. Did he make a mistake? Was he only saying that because I gave him head? Why did he say it so casually? Am I missing something here? Am I overthinking? Isn’t it too soon for him to be saying that? Oh my God, we’re not even actually together.
“What the fuck, Gage?” I exclaim, anger broiling in my gut, confusion the only thing holding me back from whacking some sense into his fat head.
It takes a second for Gage to catch up to me, and I’m not sure how he understood my freakout—because I didn’t myself—but his eyes widen, and he imposes immediate damage control.
“Shit. I didn’t—I didn’t mean for it to come out that way. I mean, I did mean for it to come out eventually, but I was picturing like a thousand roses and a yacht. I think I’ve gotten so used to saying it in my head that it kind of just slipped out.”
I freeze, feeling a tsunami of suppressed emotions finally sneak up on me, rising too fast for me to scramble to higher ground. “You say that in your head…about me?” I whisper, trying to negotiate with the tears to subside.
Gage blushes, and I feel heat sear the back of my own neck.
“Yeah, I say it all the time,” he answers, characteristically clueless to the internal Mayday, Mayday! distress happening inside me right now.
I don’t have time for an internal monologue. I don’t have time to even catch my breath. This is—AHHH!
“I didn’t know you felt that way about me.”
He cracks his trademark smile—the one well-fitted to his perfect lips, the one that could stop traffic and probably the hearts of half the teenage girls across America. “Of course I do. I love you, Calista Cadwell. I’m in love with you. I’ll always be in love with you.”
The tears have revisited me in gradual drops, and I don’t bother with wiping them away. I don’t bother with quieting the volume of the sobs trying to make themselves known.
This is all so much. I know I feel the same way about him, but I can’t bring myself to say it. Why can’t I bring myself to say it?
“I—”
“Hey, I didn’t say it to hear you say it back. I said it because I wanted to.”
Gage takes my second of uncertainty to lean in and kiss me, sponging up the salty tears on my lips, cradling my face in his hands as if he doesn’t know when he’ll be able to hold me again. In this moment, nothing else exists except for him. No fears for my mother, no tireless duties of my daily life, no yawning hole of self-deprecation telling me I’ve failed or I’ll never be good enough. I give him my fears and he swallows them, locks them away so I’m able to breathe through the lifted smog that I’ve been used to all these years.
I scoot closer to him, not caring that we’re on the cold ground or that the sky’s splitting into a dark storm right outside the window. He readjusts his legs to make room for me, and when I’m close enough to squeeze between his thighs, I feel something hard poking me in the belly.
I look down at his already-swelling erection. “Already? I thought these things have, like, a cool-off period or something.”
He grimaces. “Kind of a permanent state when you’re around.”
“Oh, uh, I’m sorry for constantly making you hard?”
Gage pulls me onto his lap, his large hands clamping around my sides as his lips graze mine. “Never something you have to apologize for.”
I’m about to say something before he reroutes his attention to the tender spot on my neck, diving in and lavishing butterfly kisses over my still-aching throat, tickling me with the slight stubble sprouting on his jaw. I giggle and squirm in his grip as he attacks me with more playful nips, letting my laughter drown out the growls of thunder cruising overhead.
“Speaking of”—kiss—“life-changing declarations”—kiss—“will”—
kiss—“you”—kiss—“be”—kiss—“my”—kiss—“girlfriend?”
The smile that’s become a permanent fixture on my face sags. “What?”
I somehow flub over the single syllable, my stomach simmering with nervous acid instead of fluttering wings.
“I mean, I wanted to ask you with pants on, but here we are.” Gage’s expression is completely unafflicted by hesitancy, meaning that he’s probably thought long and hard about this.
I gulp. “You want me to be your girlfriend?”
“Of course,” he says confidently. “You don’t have to say yes, but it’d be great if you said yes. Really fucking great.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ve been chasing after you since the moment we met. I’ve never been surer of anything.”
“What if I don’t say yes?” I ask quietly, tenderizing my bottom lip with my teeth, knowing in my heart what my answer is but needing to seek confirmation all the same.
He sits back slightly, his eyes glinting in the snippets of lightning flashing through the agglomeration of storm clouds. “Then I would wait for you. Forever. I’d fucking wait for you, Cali. Until the day I die. When will you understand that it’s always going to be you?”
It’s always going to be me.
I close the ravine of space between us, kissing away one last fear that’s wriggled free—the fear of being alone. I may not have been ready to say those three big words, but this is a step I’m ready to take that doesn’t seem as scary.
“Of course I’ll be your girlfriend.”
Gage lights up like the city of Las Vegas at night, a gigantic, gum-showing smile pushing back his cheeks, dotting dimples, and forming complementary eye crinkles.
He pumps his fist into the air. “You said yes! Oh my God. I can’t believe…”
He stops himself after he notices the absolute bewilderment on my face, and then he clears his throat and lowers his arm. “I mean, I knew you were going to say yes.”
“You’re an idiot,” I laugh, but the excitement in his voice is like a soothing balm on the scars of my heart. He’s the one shining halo of sunlight breaking through an everlasting tempest, allowing me a circle of dryness amongst an unrelenting downpour.
“Yeah, but I’m your idiot now,” he emphasizes. “Hear that, everyone?
Gage Arlington is officially off the market! And he’s in love with Calista Cadwell!”
I have no idea who he’s talking to, but I don’t want to ruin the moment.
I’ve never seen Gage so happy before, and I’ve never felt this happy before.
I trusted my heart in his hands—even knowing how malleable it is—and he’s cradled it the entire time I’ve known him, keeping it safe. Not only protecting it but strengthening it with his own love. A simple thank-you won’t suffice. He made me fall back in love with life—with myself. And for that, I owe Gage everything I have. Everything I am.
He leans forward on his hands and knees, just a breath away from my face—an unpredictable breath that’s taunting me with a tango of his tongue.
“And as my first duty as your designated boyfriend, I’m going to have my fill of you right here on the kitchen floor.”
A surprised noise gets caged in my throat, and I feel my greedy cunt resume its throbbing, so damn insistent to the point where all the pressure localizes in my belly.
“Now lean back, Spitfire,” he orders, one hand pressed to my back to help lower me to the tiles. “It’s time for me to take care of you.”
DILF STATUS: LOADING
GAGE
I’ve always been afraid of growing old. Well, realistically, I’ll probably die in some freak accident before that seventy-year cutoff, but still. I’m afraid of getting wrinkly and not having my penis work and having to take TUMS after I eat anything mildly spicy. Bottom line, I view growing old as something negative.
But this nursing home is great. Not great. Great, as in, a new outlook on aging that I never would have discovered otherwise. These old people are thriving here. Is it insensitive to refer to them like that? Would they prefer
“elderly” people?
Teague runs ahead of us, circling some poor man in a wheelchair like the Tasmanian Devil from Looney Tunes, and he continues to giggle while he pops in and out of my peripheral.
“Little Man, stay close!” I shout, but I’m pretty sure my warning’s already fallen on deaf ears.
Cali clings to my arm as I wheel her mother to her room under the guidance of a nurse in bright yellow scrubs. The whole place is doused in vibrant colors and floor-to-ceiling windows, overlooking a flora-rich cliffside that’s home to the most perfect view of Riverside’s autumnal sunsets.
Cali’s mom was quiet the entire ride over from the hospital, and I didn’t try to make conversation with her because I didn’t know what to say. Cali hasn’t really told me much about her. It’s crazy how similar they look,
except her mother’s head of red—I’m assuming—hair has darkened over the years. She’s as beautiful as Cali, and all I can think about is how stunning Cali will be when she grows older.
Speaking of Cali, did I think she’d say yes to my proposal? Not at all.
But she did, and it feels like everything’s changed between us. I feel like I’m winning at life right now, like there’s nothing in this world that could bring me down. She’s mine. Even after all the depressing rejections and the
“we’re just friends” speeches she gave me, she’s finally mine. I can call her mine in public without her elbowing me in the ribs. I can scream that I’m hers from the rooftop and she won’t threaten to taser me!
When we round a corner and arrive at our destination, a spacious bedroom awaits the four of us, complete with a four-poster bed, a nightstand, a comfy chair in the corner, a flat-screen television, a large dresser, and a triple-paneled window that looks out over the adjoining garden. Red satin curtains hang from the bed as a matching plush bedspread accompanies floral-printed pillows with maroon accents. There’s a single lamp that illuminates the room, empty picture frames waiting for new photos to house, and a blooming orchid on the nightstand. The chair in the corner looks to be a recliner that I’d give anything to throw my aching feet up on.
“This is where Ms. Cadwell will be staying,” the nurse says in a cheery demeanor. “We’ll have her things moved in shortly while you get settled.”
She gives us the room while Cali and I help her mother into bed, Teague stomping his tiny feet in his usual giddy fashion, occasionally commenting on how cool his mom’s new place is and how boring their current apartment is.
When Ms. Cadwell settles into bed, we make way for a few of the nurses to haul in her luggage, and I snag Cali aside to check in with her.
“How are you doing?” I ask, surfing my hands up and down her arms.
She wedges her bottom lip between her teeth, nursing the tender spot there. “This place will be perfect for her,” she answers.
Her gaze flicks to her mother like a skipping stone, and there’s just the slightest bit of moisture warping her eyes.
I turn her chin back to face me, wishing she could use me as some magical conduit that transfers all her unwanted emotions to me. “No tears, remember?”
“No tears,” she parrots back, sporting a brave visage for her brother. I smooth out those creases on her forehead with a kiss, and the invisible pressure around my heart relents, ushering fresh breath into my lungs.
She looks up at me, long lashes flittering against her brow ridge.
“Thank you. I don’t know where I’d be without you.”
“Probably exactly where you are now but with a lot less orgasms,” I jest, elbowing her and wiggling my eyebrows, to which she surprisingly refrains from violence and settles for an eye roll.
The clanking of boxes and the crackle of chatter is the only reason I say what I say next, otherwise there might be a double death in Cali’s bloodline if I’m throwing filth around like I’m six beers in and half-naked at a Mardi Gras festival.
Warmth snares in my belly. “You keep rolling your eyes and I’ll give you a real reason for them to roll back.”
Still got it.
This time, Cali slaps me on the arm. “We’re not getting it on in the old folks’ home!” she hisses under her breath, offering a polite smile to the clueless caretakers as they begin to box-cut through packing tape.
“You seriously don’t think these guys are getting freaky under the sheets when the lights turn off?”
“Ugh! Oh, God. I don’t want to picture that. Ever.” Cali shudders in disgust, rubbing her eyes with balled fists like it’ll magically erase the image I’ve implanted in her head. “I need to find the nearest spoon and scoop my eyes out with it.”
I cock my head. “Are you saying that you won’t hide the salami with me when I’m old and have a shrunken, three-inch peen?”
She sticks her tongue out at me, and if there weren’t impressionable minds in the room, I’d go ahead and bite it. “You already have a three-inch peen.”
“I’d be offended if I didn’t walk straight into that one.”
“Just keeping you humble.”
“Yep, I’m aware. It’s what I both love and fear about you.”
Teague, who I’m assuming is already tuckered out from bouncing off the walls, tugs on Cali’s shirt with his perpetually sticky hands, doing that weird thing where kids just open mouth cough all the time.
“What are you guys taaalkiiing about?” he pesters.
Cali and I answer him at the same time.
“Where to eat lunch,” she says.
He jumps up and down excitedly, nearly throwing her off-kilter with the force of his yanks, hope and the promise of something cheesy glimmering in deep sea eyes. “Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! Can we pleeeaaaseee go to that Mexican restaurant where they deep-fry quesadillas?”
Dear God. I can feel it clogging my arteries as we speak. What happened to kids eating whatever food you accidentally dropped on the ground?
Cali licks the pad of her thumb and tries to tame Teague’s mess of flyaways, slicking some of his hair and pushing it out of his face. “What about something less…deep-fried?” she proposes, draping the ends of his long bangs behind his ear. “Like a regular quesadilla?”
Teague ponders her counteroffer, swishes it around in his mouth, then stubbornly spits it back out with exaggerated revulsion. “But I like when they deep-fry it! It’s so crunchy.”
Cali frowns, and I know that she’s going to continue arguing with Teague to ensure a stomachache-free afternoon, so I decide to throw my hat in the ring because Uncle Gage has great ideas. (I’ve taken the creative liberty of referring to myself as Uncle instead of Coach, since that seems more fitting, you know?)
“You know, Little Man. I’ve heard there’s this Hibachi restaurant downtown that cooks your food in front of you. Lots of fire. And the chefs do all sorts of food tricks while you wait.”
Teague immediately gives me his full attention, eyes doubling in size, so hilariously spellbound by the idea of chefs cooking outside of the kitchen. “That is so cool! I want to go there, Cali! Can we go there instead?
Please? Please? Please?”
Cali’s whole body jostles sideways as Teague continues his tugging onslaught, and the corners of her lips flex into a half-relieved and half-exhausted smile. “Sure, Squirt. Why don’t you go over and thank Gage for offering to take us.”
“That’s Uncle Gage,” I clarify.
Cali huffs out a snort, but deep down, I know I’m defrosting that cold, black, shriveled heart in the hollow chamber of her chest. I have a way of growing on people. Like barnacles. I get really deep in there until no amount of prying can uproot me.
“Uncle Gage,” she corrects, humoring me with a hand on her hip.
Teague skips over to me, a too-big smile on his face, but he doesn’t chant my new name.
He stares at me in a strange way, then his eyebrows lower with a squint of his eyes. “Shouldn’t I call you Daddy Gage?” he asks innocently.
Globs of saliva cluster in my trachea, pretty much choking me as I slam my fist against my chest a few times to loosen the impediment, all while Teague watches obliviously and Cali watches in high alert in case she needs to give me the Heimlich or some shit.
“Uh, Gage isn’t your dad, Squirt,” Cali amends quickly, whacking her hand against my back to help me eject Teague’s goddamn audacity out of my wheezing body.
“I know that, but he acts like my dad.”
Both Cali and I kind of just stare at Teague, not knowing what to say next, and still not knowing how to remedy the chokes and splutters.
Eventually—humiliatingly—one of the caretakers brings me a glass of water to ameliorate the irritation in my windpipe, and I thank them before greedily gulping down the entire drink.
“Come on, Cali. Try it! Call him Daddy Gage!” Teague giggles, blissfully spinning around himself.
“Teague, I’m not going to call Gage that.”
I set my glass down, leaning on the nearest flat surface for my signature cool-guy pose, my lips jerked into a disarming grin. “Yeah, Cali. Call me Daddy.”
“I should’ve let you choke,” she whispers threateningly to me.
I open my mouth to hit her with another Gage-specialized innuendo, but she doesn’t let me get a word in—which is probably for the best.
Although my brain’s definitely not used to the idea, I can’t believe I was so afraid of Teague looking up to me. No, I’m not the kid’s dad, but I’m the only male role model in his life. That’s a title I don’t take lightly. It’s a privilege to know a kid as extraordinary as Teague, and even more of a privilege to be a part of his family.
“Come on, T. Say goodbye to Mom. We need to let her get some rest.”
The caretakers hurry out of the room to allow us some privacy, and I stand by the doorway—just out of earshot—while Cali strokes her mother’s dark hair, whispering something to her with Teague smushed to the side of her leg.
I respectfully avert my eyes to the glistening, clean floor beneath me, so polished that I can just faintly see my reflection in the pristine surface. It only takes a few minutes for Cali to come out of the room with Teague tailing behind her, and to my utter joy, there are no tears in her eyes.
“You hungry?” Cali asks, giving my arm a soft squeeze.
My heart sprints under her touch, and still, after all this time, I’m unable to vanquish those Cali-specific nerves that love to worm into the most inconvenient of places.
“I could eat,” I reply, afraid that if I elaborate, she’ll tie my tongue too.
Teague’s already five strides ahead of us, and Cali rushes to catch up with him before he causes a three-way car crash. I’m right behind them when a hoarse voice deluges my ears.
Cali’s mother’s bony hand hangs over the side of her bed, clawing for the warmth of another living, breathing human, and her rheumy eyes pin me down, unblinking as she waits for me to connect our palms.
I’ve never talked to Cali’s mother before. I only met her today when we picked her up from the hospital. I slip back into the room without alerting Cali or her brother to my current whereabouts. When I rest my hand in hers, careful not to squeeze too tightly, she musters all her energy to give me a watery smile, emaciated fingers littered with varicose veins clinging to me.
She’s as cold as a walk-in freezer, and I feel my stomach violently collapse inwards, reeling the rest of my organs in with it.
“You’re good for her,” she breathes, tears already flecking her sallow cheeks, bloodshot eyes burdened with an equal measure of physical and emotional pain. Her voice is brittle, fluctuating unpredictably, and there’s a smoker-like rasp that ties off the ends of her words.
“I’m in love with your daughter, Ms. Cadwell,” I whisper, dropping to my knees beside her so she doesn’t have to crane her neck to look up at me.
My joints orchestrate a cracking crescendo, but the soreness pales in comparison to the ticking time bomb of my heart. “She’s my whole world.”
“I can see the love in your eyes,” she confirms, surprising me when she consolidates enough strength to crush my hand in hers. “Please make me a promise.”
Goose bumps respond to her weight-carrying words. “Anything.”
“I know my time is limited, but I need to know that she’ll be okay when I’m gone. Promise me you’ll take care of her,” she begs, more tears
trickling past the curve of her jawline, disappearing and reappearing in an infinite cycle.
Moisture condenses in my eyes, and I figuratively tuck her words against my chest for safekeeping, love filling every nook of my body. “I will. I promise.”