Her brows rise to her hairline. “Have you looked in the mirror lately? You
are
older.”
“I’m in my prime.”
“That’s kind of my point.”
I stand up. “The bottom line is, everything’s on the table. If proposing to Jenny keeps her from marrying Sausage Link—then I’ll do what I have to do.”
“Wow.” Sofia snorts. “You’re so romantic. How could any woman resist that?”
I flip her the bird and smirk. “The romance is in the doing—not the talking.”
With that case closed, I hit the shower.
• • •
When I emerge from the steamy bathroom, Sofia’s already under the covers. The light of the late-night news muted on the television casts the room in a quiet, shadowy glow. I drop the towel from around my hips on the floor and slide between the sheets.
She’s facing away from me, her brown hair fanned out across the pillow. And it occurs to me that we had dinner—but no dessert.
Dessert was always my favorite.
I slip down the bed, taking the covers with me, and come eye level with the silk-covered swell of Sofia’s ass. I skim the material up to her waist, baring smooth skin unhindered by panties. My heart beats faster, pumping blood lower, and I press my lips to one cheek, nipping playfully with my teeth.
“Stanton.”
It’s not an urging moan, but a crisp statement. A no.
I pull back. “What’s wrong?”
She pushes her nightshirt back down, covering herself, and turns my way. I slide back up, resting my head on the pillow, just inches from her beautiful face.
“I don’t think we should have sex while I’m home with you.”
Disappointment crashes in, like the roof of an abandoned house. “Why not?”
The possibility that Sofia might be uncomfortable about my feelings for Jenny flickers briefly, but I discount it. She’s always known about Jenn, even before we hooked up that first time, and it’s never bothered her before. Plus, the way I see it, Sofia has nothing to do with Jenny—they’re like two completely different rooms. Buildings, even. Like a barn and a house. Both important but unconnected, serving totally separate purposes.
In the dim light of the room, her eyes look darker, shiny. She opens her mouth to say something, but then closes it. She thinks for a few beats and then starts again. “You should . . . save up that passion, you know? Like a quarterback before the big game?”
I push her hair behind her ear. “And what about you?”
Sofia’s sex drive is as healthy and demanding as my own. We’ve been screwing three to four times a week for the last six months. Doesn’t seem fair that she should have to go cold turkey for the next two weeks.
Her ripe lips stretch into a smile. “I can . . . take care of myself.”
The visual that statement brings with it has my cock straining.
“You’re killing me, darlin’,” I groan.
Her hand rests on my collarbone, then slides up to my jaw, caressing the stubble. “Sorry.”
I mimic her actions, not yet ready to give up on dessert—not entirely sure she wants what she’s suggesting. I cup her cheek, then slide down to where her pulse throbs under my palm.
“Aren’t you going to miss it?” I ask.
“Miss it?”
I take her hand from my jaw and scrape the sensitive tip of her finger with my teeth before sucking it into my mouth, swirling with my tongue. I slide it out with a pop. “Aren’t you going to miss my mouth on you? The way my tongue licks you? The way I spread your legs wide, so I can slide my cock in slow—inch by inch—and you dig your nails into my leg ’cause you need it just that bad?”
She breathes heavy and quick. And she stutters, “Um . . . yes, I guess I’ll miss it.”
“What if I told you I just wanted one last kiss?” I lean closer and run my tongue across her lower lip. “One last taste of your mouth? Could I have it?”
Her eyes glaze over, seeing us behind them, entranced by my words, remembering each moan we’ve shared. Every touch.
“Yes. I’d let you have one more kiss.”
I nip at her chin, her jaw. And whisper, “What if I told you I needed one last taste? One last lick of your sweet, tight cunt? I wouldn’t make you come if you didn’t want me to . . . or I could. Would you let me?”
“Oh God . . .” she moans, but it’s all pleasure. All yearning desire. “Yes . . . yes . . . I’d let you.”
I move down her body, heating the silk with warm breath. I kiss the taut skin on her stomach, I lick the soft flesh at her inner thigh. Then I look up at her—watching her watch me.
And when I speak, there’s a desperate edge to my soft voice.
“What if I told you I had to have you again? Feel you clamping down around me so hard I see heaven. That I can’t stand the thought of not fucking those hot, breathy sounds out of you, until you scream my name? Would you let us do that one more time, even if it’s the last?”
Before I finish, her fingers are running through my hair. Tenderly pushing it back, on the brink of pulling me up to her. “Yes, Stanton, I want that too.”
I smile. “Good. ’Cause we’re not even close to home yet—so we’ve got lots of time.”
Sofia’s smile turns into a relieved giggle. She crooks her finger at me—beckoning. “Get up here and kiss me.”
• • •
Hours later, my hands grasp Sofia’s hips, my fingertips dig into her ass, helping her ride me. I suck on her tits, ’cause they’re beautiful and because they’re in such close proximity to my mouth.
“That’s it, baby . . . ride my cock,” I tell her, loving how it makes her gasp. I slide my hand down the tight crevice between us, to her clit—swollen and slick. I rub it slow, with just enough pressure to keep her teetering on that edge, to make her hotter, wetter all around me. Her breath hitches, and her hips thrust against my hand.
“Harder,” I order with smooth authority that doesn’t leave room for argument—even if she’d want to. I raise my hips, meeting her more than halfway. “Fuck me harder . . .”
My head presses back into the mattress as Sofia does what she’s told. For a woman who likes to be top dog at the office, she takes directions amazingly fucking well.
With her fingers in my hair, she pulls my lips up to meet hers. Then, looking into my eyes, she asks, “Is it like this with her?”
“What?” I ask, mindless, as she squeezes around my dick.
But then she stops, stills, seems more serious, tracing my jaw with her fingertip. “Is it like this with Jenny? Do you look like this?”
She places her palm on my chest, where my heartbeat goes wild.
“Do you feel like this when you’re with her?”
There’s something about the dark that makes honesty easier. And something about being surrounded by a woman, filling her, lost in her—that makes lying impossible.
“No. Not like this.”
She waits a second. The corners of her mouth pull up ever so slightly.
“Good.”
Then she starts moving her hips again, and everything else fades to black.
10
Sofia
“I
really have to go.” I wiggle in my seat like a child who . . . well, who has to pee.
Stanton grumbles. “We’ll be at the house soon.”
“
Soon’s
too long—stop at the next Starbucks.”
He looks at me like I suggested going for a dip in the ocean—on the moon.
“We don’t have a Starbucks here.”
I look from left to right, suspecting he’s messing with me. “What kind of godforsaken place is this?”
Over the course of our two-day cross-country trek, the strip malls and tall buildings have come fewer and farther between, replaced with cornfields and lonely houses set back from the road. A few miles back, Stanton pointed out the Welcome to Sunshine sign, but all that I’ve seen since are trees and empty fields. Soon I’ll be desperate enough to use one of the trees.
We pull onto a quiet street, sparse with cars. “A restaurant then,” I plead, trying to think of anything besides the incessant pressure on my bladder. “When we pass through the business district.”
That has him laughing, but I don’t get the joke.
“Ah¸ Soph? We’re in the business district.”
I look around. There’s only a few two-story buildings. The rest are small, one-story structures—a post office, a pharmacy, a barber shop, a bookstore—each with quaint awnings, not a chain name in sight.
“How can you tell?’
Stanton points to the red stoplight we’re waiting in front of. “The stoplight.”
“
The
stoplight?”
He smiles broader. “Yep . . . just the one.”
We drive down the street and I’m struck by how empty it seems, especially on a Saturday morning. I shiver as I think of
Children of the Corn
, an eighties flick that scared the shit out of me when I was ten years old.
I didn’t eat corn again for months.
Stanton pulls into a parking spot and motions to the door in front of us. “Diner. You can piss here.”
I get out of the car before he makes it around to open my door. “I’ll wait out here,” he tells me. “If I go in with you, we’ll get stuck in a dozen different conversations and it’ll be fucking ages before we get to my house.”
I rush through the door, a bell above my head chiming a welcome. And the eyes of every patron stare. At me.
There are a few middle-aged men in trucker caps, a few in cowboy hats, two little old ladies in floral dresses with thick glasses, and one young brown-haired woman—struggling with two toddlers bouncing in a booth.
I arch my hand in a wave. “Howdy, y’all.”
Most greet me with a nod, and I ask the short-haired brunette behind the counter where the restroom is. She directs me to the one unisex bathroom in the back.
Feeling the sweet relief of being five pounds lighter, I wash my hands, pull off a sheet from the paper towel roll to dry them, and toss it
into the coverless garbage can. I exit the bathroom door and run smack into the person waiting to enter.
A tall guy with a beer belly, black T-shirt, and cowboy hat, smelling of stale cigarettes, with dark gunk under his fingernails. He grasps my arms, to keep me from bouncing back like a pinball after colliding with the gelatinous mass of his midsection. A lifetime of city living has me automatically uttering an insincere “Sorry.”
But as I go to step around him, he matches my move, blocking my way.
“Slow down there, honey. What’s your hurry?” he drawls, looking me up and down before his gaze gets too well acquainted with my chest.
“Hey—cowboy,” I snap. “Lose something? My eyes are up here.”
He licks his lips slowly. “Yeah, I know where your eyes are.”
But he doesn’t look at them.
“Nice. So much for southern hospitality.”
He tips his hat back, finally looking up. “You passin’ through? Need a ride? My backseat is mighty hospitable.”
“No . . . and ew.”
Using my shoulder, I force my way past the randy cowboy and walk back out onto the sidewalk. I find Stanton by the car, chatting with a diminutive older woman with poofy gray hair. Well . . . listening may be more accurate, as Stanton’s just nodding—seemingly unable to get a word in edgewise.
He looks relieved when I step up, but his face has a pink tinge that wasn’t there before and the tips of his ears are glowing red. “Miss Bea,” he introduces, “this is Sofia Santos.”
“Hello.”
“It’s so nice to meet you, Sofia. Aren’t you pretty!”
I smile. “Thank you.”
“And so tall. It must be nice to stand out in a crowd—I’ve never known that feelin’ myself.”
“Haven’t thought about it like that but, yes, I guess it is.”
Stanton clears his throat. “Well, we should get going.”
“Oh yes,” Miss Bea agrees. But then keeps talking. “Your momma is goin’ to be so happy to see you. I have to be on my way also, stoppin’ by the pharmacy to get Mr. Ellington the laxative. He’s constipatin’ somethin’ fierce. Hasn’t moved his bowels in four days, the poor dear. He’s grumpy as an ole bear.”
Stanton nods. “I bet.”
“It was nice meetin’ you, Sofia.”
“You too, Miss Bea—hope to see you again.”
She gets about three paces away, then turns back around, calling out, “And Stanton, don’t forget to tell your momma I’m bringin’ roast chicken to the card came on Wednesday.”
“Yes, ma’am, I’ll tell her.”
Once we’re both in the car, I ask, “What’s with your face? Are you . . . are you blushing?”
I didn’t know a guy who used his dirty mouth as well as Stanton was capable of blushing.
He nods his head, confessing, “Miss Bea was my schoolteacher, in ninth grade.”
“Okay.”
“One day, someone pulled the fire alarm and she went into the boy’s bathroom to make sure it was clear—looking under all the stall doors to be sure.”
I think I know where this is going. But I’m hilariously wrong.
“And I was in one of those stalls . . . jerkin’ off.”
My jaw drops. “No!”
He groans. “I haven’t been able to look at her since without turning red as a baboon’s ass.”
I cover my mouth, laughing. “That’s hysterical!”
He chuckles, scratching his eyebrow. “Glad I amuse you. My momma thought it was hysterical too—when Miss Bea called that afternoon to tell her all about it.”
And I laugh louder. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was.”
“Oh no!” I laugh, running my hand down the back of his head, rubbing his neck in sympathy. “You poor thing. You must be so scarred.”
He smirks my favorite smirk. “Welcome to Sunshine, Soph—the place where privacy comes to die.”
Stanton backs out and as we resume our journey to his parents’ farm, I see the skeevy cowboy strutting down the sidewalk. “Who’s that?”
Stanton’s eyes harden and his jaw clenches.
It’s pretty hot.
“Dallas Henry,” he growls before looking me over from head to toe. “Did he bother you?”
“He groped me with his eyes—nothing I couldn’t handle.”
With a curse he tells me, “He comes near you again, just tell him you’re with me. He won’t look at you again after that.”
“Friend of yours?”
Shrugging, he tells me, “I broke his jaw a couple years ago.”
“Why’d you do that?”
Stanton’s jade eyes look into mine. “He tried taken somethin’ that didn’t belong to him.”
• • •
When Stanton told me he grew up on a farm, I had a certain picture in my head. A big farmhouse, a red barn, trees. But that mental image pales in comparison to the real thing—to the sheer size and grandeur of the Shaw family ranch. The Porsche kicks up dirt as we cruise up the tree-lined driveway that’s so long, you can’t see the house from the road. The white house is large, with a pointed roof, a welcoming porch, green shutters, and huge windows. Ten red outbuildings are scattered out behind it, interspersed with large pens of brown wood fencing. Up
the gentle slope from the house, farther than I can see, are pastures covered with a blanket of lush, emerald grass.
I stand next to the car, turning in a slow circle. “Stanton . . . it’s beautiful here.”
There’s a breathless pride in his voice when he answers. “Yeah, it is.”
“How many acres do your parents have?”
“Three thousand seven hundred and eighty-six.”
“Wow.” My brothers could barely remember to trim the potted hedges my mother grew on our balcony. “How do they take care of it all?”
“From sunup to sundown.”
Together we walk up the gravel path to the front door. Before we reach it, a young man comes around the side of the house, intercepting us. “Looks like someone remembers where we live after all.”
During our trip, Stanton talked about his family—we both did. This blond, handsome boy would be Marshall, one of the twins—eighteen years old and a high school senior. I smile as they hug and laugh and smack each other on the back.
When Stanton introduces us, his younger brother squints shyly, greeting me with a simple “Hey.”
The resemblance is shocking—the same bright green eyes, the same strong jaw and thick golden-blond hair. Marshall’s not as broad in the shoulders, his neck is thinner with youth, but if he wants to see what he’ll look like in ten years, he doesn’t have to look any further than the man beside him.
Stanton lifts his chin, asking, “Where’s my truck?”
Marshall rests his open hand on his own chest. “You mean
my
truck?” Then pointing near one of the barns to a black pickup with orange flames painted on the rear sides, “She’s right there.”
Stanton grimaces. “What the hell’d you do to it?”
We walk closer.
“Souped it up, bro. Custom paint, new speakers—gotta have the
bass.” He demonstrates by reaching in and turning the key—nodding his head in time to the booming music that’s vibrating the ground beneath our feet.
“Tha’s Jay-Z,” he tells us, in case we’re too old to know.
Just then, a blue-and-white older pickup rumbles up to the front of the house, with several boys about Marshall’s age riding in back. He turns off the music. “I gotta go, I got practice.” He taps his brother’s arm. “We’ll catch up later.”
Stanton nods as I call, “Nice meeting you.”
After his brother’s gone, Stanton looks at the truck another minute, shaking his head.
Then we walk around the house through the side door, into the large, bright kitchen. Butcher-block counters, white cabinets, and sage-colored walls make for a warm but simple room. On the wall there’s an antique clock and a framed crocheted piece that reads: Home Is Where the Heart Is.
Stanton’s mother is a beautiful woman, thin, tall, and younger looking than I’d imagined. Her honey-colored hair is tied up, a few strands swinging as she scrubs a black pot in the large sink. Her nose is tiny, her chin the point of her heart-shaped face. When she hears us come in and looks our way, I realize Stanton and Marshall must have their father’s eyes—their mother’s are warm brown.
Her smile is large and wide and she doesn’t bother to dry her hands as she engulfs her son in a hug. Stanton lifts her off her feet and spins her around. “Hey, Momma.”
When she squeals, he sets her down and she leans back. “Let me look at you.” She brushes his forehead, his jaw, and his shoulder lovingly. Then she steps back. “You look good. Tired but good.”
“It was a long drive.”
Stanton gestures to me. “Momma, this is my . . . this is Sofia.”
Before I can extend my hand, Mrs. Shaw wraps surprisingly strong arms around me. “It’s so nice to meet you, Sofia. Stanton’s
talked about you—what a talented lawyer you are, how well you two work together.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Shaw, it’s great to meet you too. I’m so happy to be here.”
And what hits me straight between the eyes is, I truly am happy. Seeing where he grew up, meeting the people who made him into the man he is now, fills me with a joy. A sweet excitement that has my feet tapping and a permanent smile on my lips.
“Call me Momma, everyone does. You call me Mrs. Shaw, I won’t even look.”
“Okay.”
She shoos us to the table. “Sit down, sit down, y’all must be starvin’.”
“And so it begins,” Stanton whispers, his breath on the back of my neck giving me goose bumps.
As his mother cracks and scrambles eggs, Stanton asks about his father.
“Up in the north field,” she explains. “For the rest of the day and then some. Mendin’ the fence that was taken out in the last storm.”
Within fifteen minutes there are plates of eggs, bacon, and warm biscuits with butter. “This is delicious, Mrs.— Momma,” I correct myself with an awkward chuckle.
“Thank you, Sofia.”
“Now you’ve done it.” Stanton grins, his mouth full of biscuit. “She’s gonna be stuffin’ your face the whole time we’re here. You’ve heard the freshmen fifteen? Be prepared for the Shaw twenty.”
“Oh my word!” From down the back stairs, into the kitchen skips Stanton’s sister, Mary, Marshall’s twin. With shoulder length blond hair, and her mother’s sherry colored eyes, there’s no doubt she’s part of the Shaw clan.
Being the youngest with three brothers myself, I feel an immediate kinship with her.
She leans down and kisses Stanton’s cheek, teasing, “I’m gonna
start callin’ you the Grey Ghost, ’cause you played football, and you’re never here jus’ like a ghost, and ’cause you’re gettin’ gray in your whiskers.”
Stanton pinches her chin sweetly, then rubs his jaw. “There’s no gray in my whiskers.”
“Not yet,” Mary agrees. “You just wait until Presley’s my age—she’ll have you grayer than Daddy.”
Mary introduces herself, then immediately professes her love for my nail polish. And my lipstick. And my silver sleeveless top and black slacks.
“Momma,” she whines. “Can we go shoppin’? Please?”
Stanton’s mother starts to clear the table. “Do you still have last week’s allowance?”
“No, I spent it at the movies.”
She gives Mary a shrug. “There’s your answer, then.”
“I’m goin’ to Haddie’s,” she announces with a pout.
“Not until you feed those calves in the weanin’ paddock, you’re not.”
Mary opens her mouth to complain . . . then bites her lip hopefully. “Unless . . . the best big brother in the whole world would do it for me?”