Mac slept in the rental's second bedroom last night, because the bride and the groom aren't supposed to see each other before the wedding.

You lasted a whole thirty minutes after your kiss goodnight before calling him. He answered on the first ring, because he couldn't sleep either. You told him to come to your room, but he refused. He said he'd had enough bad luck in marriage, and didn't want to take any chances. He stayed in his room on the other side of the house, and you talked on the phone until the early hours. You were barely awake when the call finally ended. And then, you dreamed about him.

He's literally the man of your dreams.

"Mom?" Travis asks, peeking inside the door.

You lift your head to show him that you're awake, even though it's just barely. He grins and bounds into the room, landing on his knees on your bed and making your whole world bounce.

"Mom, get up! It's your wedding day!"

Like you could go back to sleep with an excited eleven-year-old bouncing on your bed.

"It is?" you ask, playing dumb. "Can't believe I forgot."

"You did not," he scoffs, going still. "Here, Mac said to give this to you."

You lift your head now that he's stopped bouncing and see that he's holding out an envelope.

The day-of letters you'd agreed on, in lieu of personalized vows. You'd written to each other so much when he'd been deployed, this felt like a perfect way to start your wedding day.

"I've got one for him too," you remember, reaching for the large white envelope on the bedside table. "Deliver this for me?"

"On it, boss!" Travis salutes and scrambles back out the door, closing it behind him. One of his jobs today is making sure you and Mac don't see each other before the ceremony. You open the envelope and extract Mac's letter.

You always get misty when Mac pours his heart out. His letter touches on the day you met, the moment he knew he wanted to be together forever, his hopes for the future, his promise to love you until his dying breath and then some... and to love your son like his own. You're getting this framed. It's going to hang in your bedroom for the rest of your lives… next to the one you wrote for him, you suppose, that ends with "PS: You can't smoke this until I can watch you do it." You'd included a cigar as a gift, in a nod to an uncharacteristic evening of pleasure he swore never to forget.

You went different directions with your letters, but you ended up in the same place: you love each other more than you ever thought possible, and you can't wait to spend the rest of your lives together.

"You're not supposed to cry on your wedding day," Travis says, coming back in and gently kicking the door shut behind him. He's carrying a tray of food in both hands; eggs and bacon and toast. Mac must've made breakfast.

"Everybody cries on their wedding day," you argue, folding the letter and drying your eyes.

"That's weird."

"You're weird," you counter.

He grins at you and deposits the tray in your lap before crawling into bed to sit beside you.

"You gonna eat with me?" you ask, turning the plate so the bacon - his favorite - is closer to him.

"Me and Mac ate an hour ago," Travis shrugs, picking up a strip to nibble on anyway.

"Is he okay?"

"Why wouldn't he be?" Travis asks. "He gets to marry you."

It's going to be different this time. This is going to be a marriage based on love and trust and respect. Mac will never have to worry about being cheated on again. You won't have to do everything by yourself anymore. This is the last wedding either of you will ever have, because you've met the person you're going to spend the rest of your life with.

Your happily ever after officially begins in just a few hours.

"You ready for this, kid?"

"Yup."

"You've got a lot of responsibility today," you remind him. "Gopher, ring bearer, bride-escorter, best man, cake-eater."

"The things I do for cake," he sighs, lying down to munch on his bacon.

You laugh and dig into the breakfast your fiancé made for you.

At this time tomorrow, he'll be your husband.

"Hey, babe?"

You haven't heard his voice since you hung up the phone around two this morning, and your heart leaps.

But Travis leaps faster.

Your kid throws himself in front of the closed bedroom door, arms and legs spread and face squished against the wood. Like that would stop Mac if he really wanted to come in.

"You can't see her!" he shrieks. "It's bad luck!"

"I'm not coming in," Mac laughs from outside.

Luckily, you're able to snatch your phone and take a picture of Travis smushed up against the door before he retreats to the bed.

"David and Soleil are here," Mac says through the door. "Do you need anything?"

"I'm good," you call, glancing at the clock. You're showered and primped and ready to go. David the Chaplain is right on time, as is his wife and her camera. Mac acquired a location, an officiator, a photographer, and a witness in one conversation. You love an efficient man.

"We're gonna head on down," Mac says. "Don't rush, okay? I'm ready whenever you are."

"Okay," you breathe, panicking just a tiny bit.

"She said okay!" Travis relays for you.

"You sure you don't need anything?" Mac asks again.

"I'm okay," you assure him, more confidently this time. You take a step closer to the door. "All I need is you."

"Soon, you won't be able to take that back," he teases.

"Good," you smile.

"Travis, you got everything?"

"Ten-four, my good man," Travis responds, making you both laugh.

"I'm gonna head down," Mac repeats. "But take your time. I love you."

"I love you, too," you smile, blinking back tears.

The sound of Mac's footsteps fade.

"How do I look?" you ask the kid.

"Nervous."

"Hair and make-up wise," you chide, taking a playful swipe at him.

"Perfect," he grins, just out of reach.

You look in the mirror one last time, just to make sure. Hair, check. Makeup, check. Dress you bought online, check. You're ready.

"You ready for this?" you ask the kid who's gonna have a step-dad in a few minutes.

Travis nods and offers you his hand.

You step out of the bedroom and find David's wife, Soleil, standing in the living room. She claps a hand over her mouth at the sight of you in your dress and Travis in his little blue suit, which looks a lot like Mac's.

You decided that Mac's dress blues would be too formal for your tiny wedding on the dock. You helped the boys pick out suits in a shade of blue that matches the color of your accessories. (Old, new, borrowed, blue. Your bases are covered, thanks to the internet and Waylon's Mama.)

"I know I said it would be like I wasn't even here, but I thought you might like a few shots of just you and your escort," Soleil explains. "I do believe he's the most handsome one I've ever seen."

Travis looks to you, knowing better than to wrinkle his nose at her compliment, and you gratefully accept her offer.

"Do you have a bouquet?" she asks.

"THE FLOWERS!" Travis shrieks, racing back to the bedroom. You can't believe you forgot the flowers. You and Soleil laugh when he comes scrambling back with your pretty blue and white bouquet, and then it's photo time. You let her dictate a few poses, and Travis complies - slightly out of breath, but without complaint.

"You want more, or do you think that's enough?"

"I think we're good," you smile.

"Carry on," she smiles. "Pretend I'm not here. I'll annoy Mrs. MacDonald when it's over."

You pause for a second to process, and then grin when you realize she's talking about you: In a few minutes, you'll be Mrs. MacDonald.

"Mom," Travis tugs on your hand.

"Right," you nod, taking a deep breath. "Still look good?"

"Perfect," he answers, grinning up to you.

You walk out of the house, down the back steps, and onto the grass. It's been trimmed recently, and isn't hard to walk on, even in the shoes you're not used to. The lights that line the path to the dock are shining, despite the sun trying to peek through the clouds.

The only reason you didn't wait until sunset, like the night of your first date, is that you couldn't possibly stay away from Mac all day.

You step onto the wooden boards of the dock, holding onto your bouquet with one hand and Travis's hand with the other, and walk toward the rest of your life.

The water laps gently at the posts holding up the long wooden walkway. The smell of salt fills your nostrils. Travis's hand feels hot in yours. The wind blows your carefully styled hair. Strands begin to fly free.

But you forget about all of that when you get close enough to lock eyes with the love of your life. This is it. Finally.

His eyes look glassy when you come to a stop. A little red, like he's been rubbing them. Travis lets go of your hand.

"Thanks, bud," Mac whispers.

Travis grins and moves behind Mac, where the best man is supposed to stand.

You briefly panic about what to do with the flowers, until Soleil appears out of nowhere and takes them. You mouth a "thank you" to her and turn back to Mac. He takes your hands. You love the way they fit in his.

David says some nice things, and then he says some things for you and Mac to repeat, and before you know it… Travis has carefully extracted a pair of matching wedding bands from a pocket inside his suit, and you and Mac are wearing them.

You both cry through your first kiss as husband and wife.

A year-long deployment. A change of station and a lawsuit. Letters and phone calls and video messages and sleepless nights and buckets of tears. But now you're here. You're here, together. You're married to your best friend. The love of your life. Derrick MacDonald is yours, and you are his, and that's the way you'll always be.

"Who's ready to sign some papers?" David teases when you finally come up for air.

Papers are signed, by bride and groom and officiant, and witnessed by his wife, who puts her camera down just long enough to decorate a very important document with her sloped script.

"Can I get a few posed shots?" Soleil asks.

Fifteen minutes and two locations later, David clears his throat and taps his watch. She purses her lips at him, and he grins.

"Can you think of anything else you'd like to cover?" she asks you.

"I can't think of anything else," you answer truthfully.

You've got solo shots. Husband and wife. Husband and wife and child. Husband and child. Dock shots. Walking on the dock shots. Standing in the garden shots. You're willing to check off today as fully documented.

"It was a pleasure," she says, handing her camera to her husband and coming in for a hug. You only met her once before this, but you adore her. Soleil is sunshine personified, just like her name implies. She shakes Mac's hand, and Travis's. "I'll send these to you in a few days. Congratulations, and enjoy your weekend!"

"Congratulations," David echoes, coming in for a series of handshakes of his own.

Parting words are spoken, and you soon find yourself standing in the yard of a rental house on the beach with your son and husband.

Your husband.

You look to him with all the love in your heart.

He's really yours.

"What's for lunch?" Travis asks.

You grin at each other.

"Thought we'd order in," Mac informs him.

You've got the house until tomorrow afternoon, and you have no intention of leaving it before you pack up and go home. There's a drawer full of menus from places that deliver here in the kitchen. Beats spending thousands on a caterer.

You go in together, peruse the menus, and decide to order a pizza. Mac places the order over the phone while you all hover around the kitchen island. Still in your wedding clothes.

"It'll be half an hour," Mac informs you, hanging up and loosening his tie. "What do you wanna do until then?"

"Aren't you guys supposed to have a wedding party or something?" Travis asks, legs swinging from a bar stool.

"Is three people and an extra-large pizza not a party?" you tease.

Travis shrugs, looking kind of disappointed.

"What kind of party do you think we should have?"

"Iunno," he shrugs. "Thought you'd at least dance or something."

You look to Mac. You can't believe you didn't factor this into your wedding weekend plans.

"Travis?" you ask.

"Yeah?"

"You've got another responsibility."

He groans and flops onto the island, smacking his head dramatically against the tile. "Ow."

"You're a DJ now," you grin. "Put on some music."

"Really?" he asks, looking up and rubbing his forehead.

"Yup," you grin. "We're dancing until the pizza gets here. That okay with you, husband?"

"Absolutely, wife," Mac laughs. You love the way that word sounds.

Travis holds out his hands for your phone, and you drop it in them. His fingers fly, and you wait on bated breath to find out what kind of wedding music your son picks out.

You laugh when you realize it's Blink*182. It's his favorite band of all-time. He (wrongly) claims he was named after their drummer. Of course it's Blink*182.

Mac grins and reaches for your hand, dragging you to a spot where you're less likely to injure yourselves. You kick off your shoes, and halfway through the first song, Mac does too. You laugh and dance through several of Travis's favorites, dragging him over to join you for the more upbeat songs when he's not pressing buttons to get to the next track.

"Slow one," Mac pants after several minutes of dancing around the living room like maniacs. "For the love of God, put something slow on."

Travis cackles and puts on a slower one, at his step-dad's request.

You're dancing barefoot and feeling emotional over an old pop-punk song you've heard a thousand times before when the doorbell rings. Mac reaches for his wallet with one hand, lets you go long enough to extract a few bills, and holds them out to Travis.

"Tell the guy to keep the change," Mac instructs, stuffing his wallet back in his pocket. "I'm not done dancing with my wife yet."

Travis takes the cash and darts toward the door, and Mac holds you close while you finish your dance. Another song starts when the slow one ends, but you don't change your rhythm.

"I love you," Mac whispers, cheek resting against your hair.

"I love you, too," you whisper back. "Thanks for making me have a wedding. It was perfect."

Mac laughs, and you look up at him with a grin. He's the most beautiful man in the world. And he's all yours. Always.

"This thing is huge!" Travis exclaims, coming back with a giant pizza box as the song winds down.

"Jeez!" you and Mac say at the same time, finally pulling apart.

"There's other stuff at the door, I couldn't carry it all," Travis explains.

You and Mac go pick up bags of salads and drinks and utensils and bring them to the kitchen.

"Alright, everybody go change," you order. "I've met us, and we are not eating in wedding clothes."

You changed, and you ate half a pizza, and you were grateful for insisting on a wardrobe change; both boys ended up dripping pizza sauce on their t-shirts. You and Mac even did the thing where you fed each other cake, much to Travis's disgust. After you cleaned up, you went back outside. The clouds had rolled through, and the sun had finally come out. You and Mac got in the water for a little bit, then sat on the dock "being gross" while Travis jumped in, repeatedly, and swam back to do it again.

"Is he ever gonna get tired of this?" Mac whispers.

"That's the point," you whisper back. "He's been up all day. Lots of excitement. Lots of activity. This is the last of his energy. Which means as soon as his head hits that pillow, he's out for a solid 8-12 hours."

Mac raises an eyebrow. You lean close, to whisper in his ear: "You didn't think that dress was the only lacy white thing I ordered for our big day, did you?"

Mac gulps, and you smirk.

"You got so much more air that time!" you tell Travis enthusiastically as he climbs back onto the dock. "What'd you do differently?"

"I took off on my left foot instead of my right!"

"Try it again!"

Travis steps back and positions himself like a runner, then takes off and sails through the air again. You look to Mac and wink. He grins.

You sat on the dock until the sun went down. The sky turned vivid shades of pink and purple, and you leaned into your husband to take it all in. You hope you get to watch a million sunsets together.

Your kid was so tired by the time he finished playing, Mac offered to carry him back to the house. You insisted he walk. Travis grumbled and dragged his feet, but he got inside and wolfed down another slice of pizza and took a shower and fell into bed. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

You and Mac took a long and gentle shower together. He washed your hair, and you and the water pressure worked together to give him a massage. When the hot water ran cold, you kicked him out of the bathroom so you could get ready.

The lacy white number you chose for your wedding night was extremely different than the one hanging on the back of the bathroom door.

You'd asked Mac once before what kind of lingerie he liked. He'd refused to answer, assuring you that the sexiest thing you could possibly wear was one of his t-shirts. You love that about him, you really do.

But it's his wedding night. The last one he'll ever have.

The man deserves lingerie.

When you open the bathroom door and step out, wearing white lace that makes you look and feel phenomenal, it takes your eyes a few seconds to adjust. The lights are off, a few candles are lit, and the bed is covered in rose petals. You weren't expecting that. You locate Mac by the sound of his exhale; he's standing by the window. He must've been staring out it while he waited for you. His dark eyes rake up and down your figure, accentuated by lace and sheer fabric in all the right place. He stares hungrily.

"You like it?" you breathe, frozen in place.

Your husband takes three steps forward and drops to his knees, staring up at you like a goddess he intends to worship.

And he does.

Raymond Garraty is eight years old when he meets the girl he wants to marry. Before Connie Nesbitt—before her mousy brown hair and sparkling gray eyes—there was basketball and monster trucks and hot dog eating contests and other things that excited him. But the second he sees her across the playground, he abandons the idea that kissing is gross.

The odd thing about falling for someone at a tender age is that you suddenly notice everything about yourself. And you worry that the pretty girl in overall shorts and Mary Jane’s thinks you’re a loser. And to all his school bullies, he is. For the first time in his short life he’s self conscious of his orange hair and gapped teeth and freckles.

But when his future wife walks his way, she gives no indication that he’s the abomination his bullies tell him he is. She smiles. And when he stares too long, she waves.

“I like your shirt.”

It takes him a second to realize she’s speaking to him. For a moment he thinks he hears an angel. His breath picks up. He nearly forgets his entire existence, just staring at her perfect face.

“Hello? Did you hear me?” She laughs. “I said I like your shirt.”

He looks down at his chest. “You like X-Men?”

“Sure do.”

When he looks back up, she’s pulling down the top of her overalls to reveal a Jean Grey shirt. He swoons—whatever that means. He’d heard someone say it on TV before. But he feels it, something in his chest tightening and expanding with his heartbeats. She’s beautiful.

“Who’s your favorite superhero?” she asks.

“Wolverine.”

“He’s a mutant.”

Beautiful and smart, he thinks. “Fine. Spider-Man, I guess.”

Her pink lips stretch over perfect white teeth. “Me too.”

Something builds within him, a great swelling of heat he’s never felt before. He thinks of it like riding a roller coaster and the rush you get when you go over a huge crest. He wants to feel it again and again and again.

They continue their conversation about Marvel cartoons and then switch to talking about school and hobbies and what they want to be when they grow up. But he keeps the part where he wants to marry her to himself. He doesn’t want to scare her away with something like that. What if she doesn’t even like gingers?

He can tell she likes talking to him. Or at least, likes to talk. And he listens because he likes to hear her talk too. He could fall asleep to the sound of her voice.

“Do you wanna come over after school and see my beanie baby collection?” she asks, leaning closer. “Well, it’s really my big sister’s but I’m gonna steal it when she goes to college.”

He perks up and leans in, smelling her strawberry shampoo. “Uh-huh. Totally.”

“Well, I’ll see you then. I gotta go.” Her warmth withdraws and he sighs leaning further into her empty space. “Bye, Ray.”

“Bye.”

I love you, he thinks. But what the hell does he know about any of it? He’s just the older schoolkids’ punching bag with a crush that may knock him off his feet before they do.

The back of her sister Denise’s Buick stinks like feet and listerine but there is nowhere else he’d rather be. The Wicker Man was a total drag. He spent half his time getting up the nerve to put an arm around Connie’s shoulder and the other half listening to people snore over the movie. If he had to choose this minty gymsock smelling bench seat over that, he would every time. At least then, when his knee brushes against hers, he can pass it off as an accident.

She’s wearing a blue dress that falls just above her knee, even higher than that when she’s sitting, and for the umpteenth time tonight he thinks of her thighs. He can see them clearly every time they pass under a street lamp. His hand inches closer across the seat vinyl. Nope, he knows better than that.

Teenagehood has been rough. All the new things he has to get used to because soon enough he’ll be out of school and on his own. But most of all, this nagging tingle in the base of his spine every time the wind blows wrong. Of course, now that he’s thought about it, he’s hard again. He shifts, the vinyl squeaking under him.

Connie looks at him. Through him, really. “Are you alright?” she asks, scooting closer to whisper.

If his ears weren’t specifically attuned to the sound of her perfect voice, he might not hear her over the sound of Denise and her muttonchopped boyfriend fighting in the front seat.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m right as rain.”

“You look uncomfortable.”

He is. Boy, he is. The front of his corduroy pants stretches obscenely as he leans forward to hide any evidence of his stupid little friend. “No, I’m good. It’s just hot in here.”

Denise smacks her gum loudly. “Not my fault I inherited a car without AC, bud.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t listen to her,” Connie says with a roll of her eyes. She slumps back into the seat and her dress rides higher. “She’s a cranky bitch.”

He licks his lips and stays quiet. He knows well enough not to get between them. His eyes shoot to Connie’s thighs, bare and white. Between them. The phrase repeats over and over in his mind and his mouth goes dry.

The car jolts to a stop and he nearly hits the head rest with his face.

“Why don’t you two get out and go suck each other's face off somewhere else?” Denise says, still gum-smacking, still a cranky bitch.

Connie huffs and kicks her door open. “Ugh. You are so rude!” She gets out and all he can see is legs. “Come on, Ray. She just wants to apologize to her boyfriend with her vagina.”

Ray side-eyes Denise warily and scoots out the open door as fast as he can, scared he’ll be the one getting the beating she wants to give her sister.

“Have fun walking home, brat!” The Buick roars as Denise peels out and Ray watches her boyfriend throw his head back with obnoxious laughter as they disappear in a plume of dust.

Now he feels like a jerk. If it weren’t for the disgusting thing in his pants they’d be riding comfortably back to Happy Land. He curses himself. He didn’t put his arm around her in that theater because he’s a coward and now he’s an asshole pervert who is making her walk home in the dark in her cute little cream heels.

She sways and paces. And his dick throbs.

Get it together, Garraty, he tells himself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Save it. She’s a c-u-n-t.”

He snorts. She’s so cute she can’t even say the word out loud.

Things have been going wrong in the Nesbitt household since Denise dropped out of college. The two girls are rarely not at each other's throats so tonight was supposedly a lucky occurrence. Although it had been forced on them by their parents. And he is the sonofabitch blessed enough to be asked out like he’s wanted for almost a decade now. Even when he knows it doesn’t mean anything.

He and Connie have been good friends. Only friends. But he’s still working on his plan to take her from good friend to wife. He’s gotta get his shit together first. Right now all he has to offer is gangly teenage limbs and a dumb sense of humor.

“Ray?”

He looks up and realizes she’s walked away. “I’m here,” he says, jogging to catch up. “I’m still sorry we have to walk.”

Her gray eyes twinkle when she beams at him. “I don’t mind walking with you.” Her cool fingertips crawl across his sweaty palm and weave between his own fingers.

Three words circle his mind—the same ones he thought about saying at eight years old on that very first day—but he doesn’t say them. Can’t. Not yet.

His heart throbs. His hard-on throbs. He doesn’t know it now but he’ll think of this moment in a few years, on a night much different than this, surrounded by boys that smell like Denise’s Buick, on a walk that only ends one way.

The first time he thinks about someone dying, it’s by his own hands. It’s ridiculous. Rash. But he fantasizes about choking the life out of Edmund Crowley for doing the exact thing he’s never gotten the nerve to do.

He watches from the corner of the restaurant bar and seethes. Connie puts her hand on Ed’s chest as he dips her, laughing, and they go on dancing and playing pool.

Rage burns in his gut so hot he tastes bile every time he belches the beer he isn’t old enough for. Talk of the town says they’re getting married. A wave of nausea roils his stomach. Who the fuck gets married at 18?

His buddies jest and talk around the table but all he sees is her. Long flowing strands of tawny hair flip back and forth as she moves and he can almost smell the strawberry shampoo from here. What a sick joke.

“Hey, I gotta go to the bathroom,” he says, scooting his friend out of the booth.

“Yeah, sure, Ray. Nothing to do with the happy couple by the pool table,” Kyle says with a laugh that makes Ray want to punch him.

“Should’ve bagged that when you had the chance.” Lee chuckles.

“Fuck you guys,” is all he manages before he takes off.

The cool night air stings his skin as he paces outside the restaurant. He can’t drive home, he’s too drunk. He can’t stay either. His fingers ache as he clenches them into fists. He wants to hurt something. Someone. And in his booze haze he thinks he might just up and do that.

The bell rings as he swings the door open and storms back inside. He stalks over to the pool table but doesn’t find anyone to punch. What reason would he have anyway? Just a real stupid excuse to go to jail tonight. And for her he would.

The restaurant and bar is a blur as he stumbles around, looking for Connie and her fiancé. The word alone forces vomit up his gorge. So he sprints uncoordinated down the hall toward the bathrooms.

Only before he can expel his dinner and three quarters case of beer, he spots them at the end of the hall, in the fuzzy dark. Their voices are low secretive murmurs and he can’t make out what either of them are saying so he steps closer. They don’t notice him.

Connie tries to walk away but Ed grabs her upper arm. She shakes him off with a yelp. Then a sudden snap, like dry lightning, ricochets in the empty hallway. Ray can’t believe his eyes. He just fucking slapped her.

He’s feet away but he only takes two steps and has Ed in his grip. He might just get his wish tonight. “If I ever see you put your hands on her again, I will kill you, mother fucker,” he says and tastes metal. Adrenaline. Venom.

Connie’s fingers dig into the arm that holds Ed, struggling, against the wall. He gurgles and chokes.

“Ray! Please!” She tugs frantically. “He didn’t mean it!”

“The hell he didn’t!”

“Ray, stop!”

Her voice loosens his grasp like his body is possessed by it . . . her words . . . her mouth. God, that stupid fucking mouth. How wrong it is. He lets go and Ed slumps forward. And there is stillness, quiet, for only a split second before his own face hits the floor.

Ed flips him over by the skin of his neck and lays him flat out on his back. Meaty fists bash into his face like cannon fire. He hears Connie’s angelic voice screaming for Ed to stop but to him it sounds like singing, the tinkling of silver bells. His vision blurs and he spits blood.

I love you, he thinks. This is what I’m willing to do for you—die. Don’t you see that? His breath leaves his lungs as Ed’s fist wallops his stomach and finally his dinner and rancid alcohol spews out of his mouth like a ruptured spigot. I love you!

He hasn’t spoken to Connie in a year and half, which is why he’s surprised when she shows up at the bowling alley where he works one day out of the blue. Her hair is cut short, a few inches above her shoulders, and she looks matured, adult. There’s the shadow of an old bruise under her eye and it makes the muscle in his jaw tick. Because it’s not from Edmund Crowley this time but some other asshole she’s seeing that she doesn’t want to be saved from.

She storms into the lobby in her bell bottoms and reaches across the pay counters to hit him. His face burns as her hand collides with his cheek and he stands there dumbfounded, letting it happen.

“What is wrong with you!”

He doesn’t know what she’s referring to. “What’s not?”

“Don’t be funny. You know what I mean.”

He really doesn’t.

She places a big caramel-colored boot up on the counter and climbs over. Then shoves his chest and stumbles him backward into the break room. She doesn’t stop until he’s flopped against the wooden bench. Her figure hovers over him like a veiled wraith, sad eyes boring into him.

She bursts into tears and he feels sick shame chill him through. “What? What did I do?”

“I don’t want you to go,” she cries.

Oh. He’s done a damn good job of ignoring it for the past few weeks. He hadn’t planned on thinking of The Long Walk until he was physically foot in shoe on the road. But the list of applicants was put up all over town last night. And Maine's Own Ray Garraty is at the very top.

He pulls her down onto the bench beside him and rubs her arms hesitantly. It seems to console her somewhat.

“Why would you do that?” she asks.

“I have my reasons.”

She looks defeated beyond words. “I don’t get to know them? For some peace of mind or maybe I’ll understand why you’d be so goddamn stupid.”

He smiles. She finally learned to curse. “I’m gonna win, Con. And I’m gonna change things.”

Her brows furrow but she doesn’t question him. She must think he’s gone crazy but she relaxes into his touch and moves forward until her head is on his shoulder.

Strawberry shampoo. He takes a long breath, inhaling her scent, committing it to memory. Some things never change.

“Can I help you pack?” she asks.

“Not much to pack.”

“Can I make you something?”

“My mom’s already baking cookies.”

With a huff, she looks up at him, face so close to his that he can feel her breath. “Can I come and send you off then?”

“You’re not gonna talk me out of it?”

“Would it work?”

A smile tugs at his lips. “No.”

Another huff and her arms wrap around his midsection. He feels inadequate and unattractive like moldy bread but she doesn’t run away repulsed so he lets her hug him. It’s the closest he’s been to her in a long time. Maybe ever.

That feeling from 3rd grade comes back like a pipe bomb, tightening and exploding and shrapneling in his chest. All those feelings for her are still fresh. He can’t help it. Even when she chose meaty-fisted Ed Crowley over him and got his melon beat in. Even when all she did was call and say she was sorry before going radio silent for a year. Even when she comes into his job today and slaps him in the face. He has feelings for her, no matter how unrequited.

A lump forms in his throat. The Long Walk is a reality he will be facing very soon and it makes him want to puke knowing he might get his ticket never having told her. I love you. He screams it in his mind. I love you, damn you. But he doesn’t open his mouth.

Connie comes to help him pack his bag anyway. It’s the night before his mother drives him up to the starting line and he’s anxious. Unfortunately, the anxiety is only heightened by having her here. She’s anxious too and he can smell the heady fear-sweat from where he’s standing across the room.

“You really didn’t have to come,” he says, gesturing vaguely and rubbing the back of his neck.

“Well,” she starts, out of breath from nerves. “I wanted to make sure you didn’t forget anything.”

“I won’t.”

He pulls his pack out of the back of his closet and dusts off cobwebs. The thing hasn’t seen the light of day since he went camping as a kid. A sudden vision of the bottom ripping open while he’s walking strikes him and his heart turns over.

Connie notices and takes the bag. “What’s first? A jacket in case of rain?”

He nods.

She stuffs his green fatigue jacket inside and smiles stiffly. “Then what?”

“I don’t know.”

Her faux positive attitude slips for a moment as she struggles to swallow what he assumes to be fear. But she packs it down and goes over to his dresser. “What about this?” She holds up his baseball.

“I don’t think I’ll have much time to be hitting balls out there,” he says, irritably.

“Just for throwing. Maybe you’ll meet another Knicks fan.”

“That’s basketball.”

She sighs heavily.

“Look, I really don’t need your help. It’s not a hard job.” He says and his teeth grind. Why the hell is he so angry all of a sudden? “I’ll just see you tomorrow before I leave.”

“What?”

“You can go.” His cheeks catch heat like a wild fire, burning hot in an instant.

“I thought we could spend some time together.” The waver in tone gives away her hurt. “And I’d feel better knowing you had what you needed. I mean did you even think about sun screen or, I dunno, a fucking hat?”

His nails dig into his palm, knuckles popping. “Did you ever think maybe I don’t give a shit?”

She pulls a face that makes him want to hang himself. “Why are you being like this?” she asks, a deeper tremble in that beautiful voice now.

He can’t stop himself. It all explodes out of him at once. “Because I have no idea what I’m doing! You know what The Long Walk is, Con. You know what they do. That’s why you came crying to me when you found out. You think I’m immune to that knowledge?”

“No, of course not.”

“I know what I’m gonna see and I can’t fathom it. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I know what could happen to me. Which is all just fine and dandy,” he says, voice high, a hysterical laugh on its heels. “I’m gonna die a fucking virgin and for what? A pipe dream? A death wish? I don’t know!”

He looks at her, rant reaching peak, and he watches grimly as her face goes dull and her body shrinks away from him. “God. Shit . . . Fuck!” He panics. “I didn’t mean to say that.”

He reaches for her but doesn't touch her. Her eyes scan his body, chin wobbling as she takes him all in. Everything he hates about himself. “Are you trying to kill yourself, Ray?” she asks and it shocks her too. Her hand flies over her mouth with a cry.

“No!” He bolts forward and grabs her then, pulling her in. He’s not much taller than her but somehow she’s shrunken, small and weak in his arms. And she cries, heavy and loud, against his chest.

He pets her head and sucks in deep breaths through his nose. Strawberry shampoo. He wants to go back—to 3rd grade, that night in her sister's car, when he had his hand around Ed Crowley’s throat—any time but this. Because he’s at this precipice now, one step from falling.

“You’re gonna win, Ray.” Her voice is distant. Wind chimes. Heavenly. “You have to.”

He has to.

For a brief moment she’s unmoving, so still that he almost doesn’t notice her trying to pull away when she does. He’s lost in the feeling of her in his arms. How could it be that this is the first time he’s held her like this?

He meets her eyes and his chest does the funny thing again. Her lips open, she looks at his lips, licks her own. And his dick does the other funny thing. Those gray eyes don’t look so scared anymore when they’re half lidded with lust. Not that he knows what it looks like on a woman but he’s known many expressions on Connie Nesbitt and this isn’t one he’s familiar with.

Her hand is cool when it touches his cheek and he just about doubles over backward. The blood rushes completely out of his brain and below his belt.

“When will your mother get back?” she asks, still staring at his lips.

“Uhm. A few hours maybe.” He almost short circuits. “Like n-nine. . . o’clock.”

A shiver rolls through him. He knows why she’s asking. But who is he kidding? Maybe she just wants to know how long she has to stay with him so he won’t be alone and try to off himself. And God, if she’d really left, maybe he would.

“You know I care about you, don’t you, Ray?” she asks, voice lilting, almost seductive. Her thumb slides down his cheek and brushes over the stubble on his upper lip. “You know that?”

“Sure.” It’s nearly punched out of him. He can’t breathe.

“You should know that. I know you care about me.” Her hand keeps traveling. Down his neck, his chest. “You know I care.” Down his belly. Down . . .

“Yes,” he rasps, and closes his eyes as her fingers press against his stiffening dick.

Stars start to dance in his vision as he loses all his oxygen and shutters into the pressure forming around his erection. Her hand seems to pulsate. Oh, god. Oh, GOD.

His eyes snap open and he grabs her wrist a bit more forcefully than intended. “I shouldn’t have said that. About. . .”

“It’s okay if you're a—”

“I don’t want you to think—”

Their words overlap, clashing. He looks at her, terrified, to tell the God’s honest truth. This isn’t how it was supposed to go. They were supposed to experiment together or whatever and then get married and make babies and do the whole white picket fence bullshit. But she dates men who beat on her, and he isn’t. . . Whatever that is. He can be an asshole but he isn’t that.

“You don’t have to pity fuck me.”

Somehow this doesn’t even make her blink. “Damn, I’ve really been bad about sharing my feelings with you, haven't I?” She sighs heavily.

“What?”

“I care about you. I like you, idiot.”

His breath catches. Say it, he chants to himself in his mind. Say it. The bravery ebbs and flows. He opens his mouth. “I. . .” And the confession dies on his lips.

Her expression grows more confused by the second. “Do you really think I would only have sex with you because I feel sorry or something?”

Yes. Yes, he does. But he can’t say that because then that icy shame will bite at him again, like a little rat terrier shackled to his leg. Biting. Biting. Gnaw to the bone. But not saying anything is just as bad, the silence speaks his answer for him.

“Don’t make me feel crazy now.” She turns slightly and crosses her arms over her chest. Her cleavage bulges in the low cut of her dress and the guilt behind his zipper aches. Pulses, much like her hand did. Jesus. He closes his eyes again. “Wake up!” she snaps.

He startles then shrugs. “What do you want me to say?”

“Every time we were alone I waited for you to make a move. I wore the shortest dresses I was allowed to leave the house in. Hell, I would watch you across a room while I was with other guys trying to make you jealous. But you never took any bait.”

His mouth falls open. Holy goddam motherfucking shit. If the stupidest person on this planet was in the room right this minute, he’d still be stupider.

“I. . . I did,” he says lamely.

“When?”

“I let Ed Crowley ring my bell pretty fucking good.” Her frown softens and he sees the realization form. “Yeah. Was tryna tell you something.”

She stays silent, looking at him with Drama Queen eyes and it pisses him off. All this time he stopped himself from wanting her, having her, because he thought she didn’t want him. And she didn’t, at least not that bad, because how could she go out with other guys? His stomach churns.

“You let him ring yours, too. More ways than one,” he adds.

“That’s not fair.”

The defeat in her voice dampens the angry heat burning in his chest . . . slightly. “No. It’s not.”

There’s a broad silence and she can’t look at him. That's the worst of all. Because if it ends here, this will be the image he has for those days on the road. The Long Walk to his probable death. And he’ll die with that last snapshot in his mind's eye and a belly full of rotting shame.

He steps forward and hovers over her shoulder as she turns further away. “Why do you let them hurt you like that?” he asks.

Tear rimmed eyes shoot daggers at him. “I guess I was just waiting for you to come save me. And that was wrong of me, so then I thought maybe that’s my punishment. Maybe I deserve it.”

He grabs her face in both his hands, turning her toward him, and looks her dead in the eye. “You’re not going to go back to any man like that ever again. Do you understand me?”

Her answer comes in a whisper. “Yes.”

Before she can say anymore, he crashes his lips down into hers. He tastes the salt of her tears, the sugar of a hard candy she’d been sucking on when she arrived. The smell of her shampoo and her body wash and her perfume mixes, throwing him into intoxication. His body is alive with sensation and he takes it all in at once. Every careful touch, every sound she makes. He has to bottle this. He has to keep it.

His hands pull at her, anywhere he can grab ahold. And she’s burning hot under his palms, like she has a fever. But he makes no mistake, this is much more than simple sickness. He shivers and groans, mouth breaking free.

Her soft female form presses against him and he’s painfully aware of how hard he is. Every heart beat thrums in his cockhead and he’s sure any minute now he could ruin this.

As if aware of it too, Connie reaches for his belt and shucks it off quickly. His zipper is next and the vibration of it damn near cripples him as she pulls it down slowly. Then pops the button. He’s so sensitive he could cry. Every jolt and jostle rubs him to overstimulation inside his boxers.

“Please,” he says and sounds foreign to his own ears.

Her deft fingers slide inside the chafing fabric and wrap around him delicately. His hips jump. His next breath is gasped. Oh, shit. Oh, god. The muscles of his thighs and ass tighten and he starts praying mindlessly as the pressure wanes. He’s so close. How pathetic.

The light outside is starting to disappear, bathing the room in twilight. His mom will be getting home soon. Damn it, he’s losing time.

She seems to realize this as well and throws his pants and boxers to the floor with a comical thud. “We have to hurry,” she says, breathless. Then her lips find his jugular and he almost loses it.

He grabs fistfuls of her dress skirt and yanks it up so he can find her underwear. His thumbs hook lace and bingo! They slip down her thighs with no effort and puddle at her socked feet.

“Jesus,” he groans, moving his fingers across the thatch of hair between her legs. “I’ve wanted this forever.”

Her body shakes as he plays with her and he likes the way it feels when she tightens her arms around his neck to stop herself from falling, as if he’s her lifeline. Her hips roll and his fingers slide into wetness. Oh. This is going to totally kill him.

“You know what to do,” she whispers.

He’s never done this but she’s right, that animal part of himself designed for rutting and breeding surfaces. It’s scary how well he knows what to do. How easy it is to find the groove of her thighs with his hips as he bends to a better angle. She wraps a leg around his knee and he takes his cock in hand like a man for the first time. Feels it pump with blood. Virility.

“Ray, it’s 8:30,” she whines and he plunges inside her. Their shared moan is so loud his ears ring and he almost loses balance.

Notched inside her now, he takes both hands and lifts her under her ass. She whines again and wraps her legs around him. Her tight, hot depth takes him to full capacity and he almost loses it again. He stumbles into the dresser and holds her there.

She arches and throws her head back. The only logical thing to do is bury his face against her breast and groan. Her nipple hardens under his mouth and he can feel how it responds to his warm breath. He sucks her through the ribbed fabric of her dress top until it darkens. Her hips pitch and he weakens to the onslaught of pleasure it causes.

Her fingers curl into the hair at the back of his head and she moves down on him, slipping almost out of his grasp. Her slick heat tightens and he hisses—scared to thrust. It’s too much. But a dull aching builds until he can’t stop himself, his hips move anyway because they’re supposed to, it’s automatic.

His cheeks burn, his thighs burn, he’s struggling to keep her up. And every time she slips unexpectedly, he sinks so deep they both cry out. He can’t last much longer like this.

His forehead falls against her collarbone and he pistons shakily, unlearned, inexperienced. But this is it, he’s sure of it. The mechanics are second nature. He almost thinks he could go on like this forever, in the space between nothing and pure thunderous release.

Her body seems to be in on the joke though, it clenches and unclenches around him as he thrusts her into his old wood dresser. Frustrated, overwrought, and out of his mind. The sounds of her moaning and her body taking him over and over is so obscene and absurd to him at the moment that he almost laughs.

He leans back slightly to readjust and finds a small resistance inside her, the angle tightening her depth around him until it’s suffocating. Sweat trickles off his brow and he dissolves into whimpers, jerking his hips with untamed and uncoordinated impulse.

He loses control and she slides down his thighs. His grip goes. His knees buckle. And they both go to the floor with a heavy grunt.

Connie’s hands claw him back on top of her and he slides into her so fast his breath puffs out of him. She sobs with joy. And he almost comes.

He has to focus on how they’re laying in his dirty laundry on the floor. Focus on the birds chirping outside his window. Focus on the cramp threatening the bottom of his foot. Focus on anything but how fucking good her pussy feels.

He goes boneless on top of her, feeling his energy draining, his weight dropping. But god, she sobs again and he’s right there. So close. He doesn’t want to come. He doesn’t want this to end. He strains and sobs himself. Panting. Whimpering. “Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.” He trembles and moans wetly, open mouthed, as she cradles him against her breast.

At the height of it all, those three words come to his mind again. A nasty ear worm since he was eight years old. I love you, I love you, I love you. His thrusts punctuate the thought. He’s never wanted to say something so bad in his life.

Connie’s thighs squeeze his hips until he’s sure his pelvis is blushing her with bruises. She hums. And sucks in a breath. “I missed you.”

A tingle of pleasure turns his body to stone. And it shoots down his spine and into his thighs. They feel weakened from her words. It rips through him so quickly, so violently. Tears prick his eyes. The tension mounts and he feels his balls pull up like never before.

He comes so hard he almost loses consciousness. Feels it shooting, that flow of sensation, tugging, twitching. And he cries into Connie’s neck then, like he just lost everything. She holds him, petting his damp head like a mother does a child. The pathetic hiccup and crack of his own voice stops him. And he lies, panting, waiting for the sensory overload to pass.

A blanket of sleepiness falls over him so he nuzzles her neck trying to rouse himself but he can’t open his eyes. “I missed you.” He repeats her words back to her.

She tilts her head down and their noses bump. “I’m gonna miss you more,” she says and sounds sad. He knows why but he puts it away somewhere else in his mind. Not now, Major, don’t you even fucking knock.

He dozes slightly and awakens to her finger tracing his lips. Back and forth, the shape of a wide M. He smiles and her pattern flattens out.

“Are you gonna miss me?” she asks, so quiet he almost doesn’t hear.

Of course, he will. How could he not? He would’ve missed her before but now it’s gonna be torture. Shit, maybe the Major will have to release him instead because he’s pretty sure he can’t walk now. The laugh he wants to have never materializes. He knows come tomorrow he’ll have his energy back and he’ll be in his mothers car heading upstate.

He sighs into the soft skin of her chest. “I will try,” he jokes and his face shimmies with her laughter. “I know, I know, I’m an asshole.”

She pushes him off of her into the bigger heap of his dirty clothes and he turns onto his back to watch her. She leaps off the floor like a jungle cat and sways those gorgeous hips back into her underwear. Her gray eyes hypnotize him and he swears blood begins to swell his dick again. God, he’s totally fucked.

The sound of tires on the driveway startles him and he’s barely off the floor before the first car door slams. Mom’ll have groceries. Right? He doesn’t remember. He picks up his pants and stumbles into them, forgoing the boxers, as the second car door sounds. Please, have more in the trunk, he begs some force bigger than himself.

Connie laughs at him knowingly. If he could just shove her out the window, he would. He can’t look his mother in the eye after that, not while Connie is still here.

The front door opens and closes but Connie ignores it, grabbing his shirt collar and kissing him deeply with tongue. He’s definitely hard again. So hard.

“Should I go help Ginnie with the groceries?” She raises an eyebrow and he whines dramatically. “You stay up here and recover.”

“Ha. Ha.”

He smiles mockingly at her when she laughs heartily, then watches her leave. He wipes his face and fans his shirt, trying to cool down and get rid of the stubborn stiffy. Trying desperately to go back to being normal. But he doesn’t think he ever will be again.

The morning dawns and he curses God that he didn’t wake up dead. Oh, soon, boy, the evil voice in his mind whispers. He goes through breakfast on auto pilot. Checks his bag, adds sunscreen and his hat. It’s almost time to leave and he’s starting to disassociate.

His shoes feel abnormally heavy as he steps onto the front lawn. He slept like shit. Maybe that’ll be the thing that gets him. Tick, tock, tick, tock. The hour strikes and the car engine revs.

Connie slides across the dew-covered grass in her Mary Jane’s and right into him, arms thrown around his neck and tightened like a boa constrictor. He glances at his mother, who looks quietly irritable.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Connie tells him, voice pitched high and wet with sorrow. “I just . . .”

She thought about not coming. He’s sure. But she did, so he tries not to think like that. He knows it’s hard. She’s sending him off to the cemetery essentially, he doesn’t expect complete composure.

He pulls her away so he can look at her, good and hard, really commit every mole, blemish and pore to memory. “I’m gonna miss you,” he says, but it feels hollow. Not enough.

“You’re gonna win this, Ray. And I’m gonna make you the happiest man alive when you get back. Just one more tomorrow, that’s what I want you to think of every day. One more tomorrow. It’ll go fast.”

His mother tuts and honks the horn.

“I’m coming!” Ray shouts, then turns in on himself. Unraveling. Begging. “Just a minute.” That’s all he asks, all the whispered prayer amounts to. He rubs Connie’s arms up and down and his heart breaks for the tears in her eyes. “You’re gonna be okay.”

Her mouth opens, chin trembling. He knows she wants to say it back, to echo his words and have them be true. But it feels like a jinx. She doesn’t say it.

He squeezes her shoulder and nods, tight lipped, then turns around. His footsteps drag as he makes his way to the car. His mother puts it into gear prematurely. He grimaces. He falters.

Jesus, what is wrong with him!

He turns around and sprints back to Connie, grabbing her up and kissing her until he’s out of air. He wants to taste her. Breathe her. Take her with him. But he can’t.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he murmurs against her lips. “I love you.”

And that’s all he can do. He rushes back off, tears streaming down his face faster than he can wipe them off. He gets in the car and slams the door but Connie’s voice is still there, like a bell, like heavenly angels singing.

“I love you! I love you, Ray Garraty! I love you, too!”

The car begins to roll and his mother clicks her tongue again at the rear view mirror as they drive away. He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t even glance at the mirror. He can’t. It’s all he can do to keep from blowing this whole thing.

He thinks about her voice, that chant of confession and yearning. It’s a song he’s waited for his entire life. He hears it as his mother drops him off. He hears it on the front line. He hears it in the first few miles. But when McVries turns and asks him about his girl, he tells him a lie. No one else gets to have her in this place, on this godforsaken road, on the descent into hell. Only him.

And she walks with him. With that lilting, wind chime voice. I love you, I love you, Ray. It stays even when his exhausted mind can think no more, when his feet can do nothing else but walk. Walk. Walk. And at the very end, her voice is clearest. When he’s stumbling, falling down, and getting the last of his warnings. He’s not afraid to say it anymore. I love you. When the guns draw and he passes the point of no return. Her voice is what he hears when it happens.

He turns onto his back, still asleep, and his thick, naked upper body is so warm when she slides in next to him. It makes her shiver deliciously having come out of the cool spring weather. He breathes deeply but doesn’t snore and is so still she thinks he must die when he sleeps only to rise again seven or eight hours later. So she allows herself to get comfortable.

She’d taken her heels off at the front door for this reason and chose a wrap dress so she wouldn’t be hindered by restrictive fabric. Although, she doesn’t plan to do all that much, other than surprise him with the knowledge of waking up to her in his bed. It won’t become a habit—if she can help it—but it is very nice to tease.

There’s certainly a bit of a lapse in her self control, she admits, because she shouldn’t even do this once. And she really shouldn’t peek under the covers to see if Daniel’s lower half is as nude as the top. Disappointingly, it’s not. She shouldn’t walk her fingertips over his arm to rouse him either. But in his bed, there is no should or shouldn’t. There is only what she wants.

He turns slightly, almost waking. This new position brings new sights and she has to bite her lip to keep from making any noise. His chest is covered in dark hair. It makes her giggle because for some reason she’d figured he couldn’t grow any. The covers shift and she follows the hair down his stomach. The throb between her legs starts early. There must be a God, because otherwise, how did she get this blessed?

He makes a muffled mewling noise and turns toward her. His heat is almost suffocating under the covers but she wants to curl up in it and fade away. Damn it, maybe this will become a habit. A very bad, very addicting habit. But she supposes she might as well enjoy it.

There’s a peaceful look on his face and for a moment she can envision how he looked as a child. His hair is a mess across the pillow, pink lips slightly open, and the view of him alone causes some great feeling to swell in Teresa’s chest. Something she can’t name. Something that isn’t just attraction. A new feeling, a scary one.

She ignores it and brushes the locks of hair off his forehead gently. Then reaches down and runs her knuckles across his chest, thumb over his nipple. Her hands must be cold because he stirs at that feeling. His eyes flutter open and she does it again.

“Whatdaya—how,” he mumbles, trying to grasp onto reality. His face scrunches up and he looks so adorable she chuckles at him. “You’re not in my bed.”

She pets his chest and arm as he stares at her, still coming around. “I am in your bed.”

“Oh.” His lids slowly flutter and fall closed and he moves closer under the covers. “That’s good. I like that.” His eyes shoot open. “I’m naked.”

A laugh breaks free. “Not completely.”

He makes a face. “You checked? How long have you been here?”

“Only a few minutes.”

“Why are you here? In my bed, I mean. Not to sound ungrateful because I don’t mind.” He cringes at his own rambling. “I’m just curious.”

“Curious. That’s a good word. Maybe that’s the answer.” She sits and gathers her dress up, pushing him onto his back and slinging a leg over his hips. “But you’re gonna have to get a better security system if little ol’ me is able to break in.”

He’s gone completely silent and looks uncomfortably stiff like he’s trying not to move.

“You okay?” she asks, smiling because she knows. The heat of his body seeps through her clothes and the hottest part is between her legs, in the shape of something suggestive, right against the two pieces of thin fabric that separate them. “Am I ruining your beauty sleep?”

He trembles, not breathing. “No, ma’am.”

She settles a little, slowly easing her weight onto the blatant arousal between them. They both take a shuddering breath as she lines her cleft perfectly against him. He’s extremely hot and hard through the barrier of their underwear.

His hands fly to her hips. “No,” he whines.

“No?” She laughs, reveling in the way he jumps and throbs right against her center. It makes her throb too, soaking the little patch of fabric between them.

“Please, don’t make me—holy shit—” He moans as she rolls her hips. “Don’t make me come in my boxers again. Please. I can—”

She puts her finger to his lips. “I didn’t make you do anything, Mr. Blake. Buuut . . . That does sound very tempting.”

The second she begins to move, his mouth is open and bargaining. “Please. Anywhere you want. Anywhere!” But she doesn’t stop, holding him down by the shoulders, tormenting him with the rhythm of her hips and the lure of how close the wet haven of her body is to his aching erection. “Please, not, not . . . I’ll—ohmygod—please—Anything! I’ll do anything you want. I promise. I’ll make you come instead. I will eat your pussy so good. Oh, Christ, please! I promise!”

She slaps a hand over his mouth and slows despite loving the way those dirty words come unfiltered from his pretty lips. “You’re that close already?”

“No, I just . . .” But his cheeks betray him, blood blooming into his face instantly.

“Aw.” She leans down and kisses him, her dark hair falling around them like a veil. “Does that feel good?”

“Yes,” he answers on a hiccuped breath.

“You’ve never done this before, have you?”

“I . . . I’ve done . . .”

She grins against his lips before sitting up and letting herself sink back over his hardness. She knows the answer but wants to hear it anyway. “Tell me.”

“I mean, I don’t know. I’ve had, like, handjobs or whatever. I’ve touched a girl before, sorta. And I’ve had my mouth on a woman . . . You, I mean. I had my mouth on you.” He shakes underneath her, hardly able to breathe for his own rambling and the constant pressure over his cock. “But I can keep up. I can do it any way that you like it, if you tell me how.”

Oh, yes. The boy is very astute. And she knew she was his first the very second his tongue touched the tender flesh between her legs. Men who’ve had it all are never eager to please. But she never imagined she’d get to be his first in more ways than one. Now that she knows she has to savor it and take things slow for him.

She draws her fingertips over his chest. “Would you like to take my instructions, Daniel?”

His cock jerks as if answering. “Hell yeah,” he says so softly she almost misses it.

The bed sways as she throws off the blanket and swings her leg over the side to stand. She pulls him up with her and mourns the loss of contact between her legs. This’ll be as much a torture for her as it will be for him.

All she wants to do is reach out to the tented front of his boxers and tug him to completion. Ruin those underwear, she wants to say, come for me like you did, untouched. But she must have some self discipline. More fun comes to those who wait.

He stands there confused, hands lifted slightly like he wants to touch her. And boy, does she want to let him. Too bad. She has other plans.

“Where’s your bathroom?”

“Uh, that door there.” He points.

She slips her hand into his and leads him to it. When she pushes open the door, she’s amazed at how spacious it actually is—much larger than her own despite his place being mostly unimpressive. White tile lines the wall all the way into the shower and the glossy tub is huge, cut in half by a pane of glass. This’ll be perfect. Some day she’s going to come back to take a nice long soak in this gorgeous place. But right now, all she wants is her boy naked and in the shower.

She turns and goes for his underwear, dipping her fingers under the waistband and squeezing his ass. He laughs and falls into her a little but groans when she does it again.

“Let’s get you out of these,” she says.

“You helping me?” He laughs again. “Feels like you’re just stalling.”

She takes them down quickly, sinking onto her knee. With lips nearly touching his leaking tip, she looks up. “Maybe you’re impatient.”

He sucks in a breath, shaking his head.

“You didn’t mention whether you’d had a woman in this position before.” She blows along his shaft as she leans in to kiss his stomach. Her hands roam up his shaking calves to his thick thighs. If he thinks she’s teasing him, she’s really only teasing herself. “Have you, Daniel?”

“I . . . I haven’t.”

“So you’ve never ever been inside a woman?”

“No.”

Teresa stands, licking her lips as she devours him with her eyes. She would’ve lost her edge if she let herself taste him. She would’ve folded and let him take her right here on the edge of the sink. The fun would be lost to both of their impatience. Sometimes it’s good to look and not touch. Yet.

“Okay,” she says with another hum. “You can get in the shower.”

He glances at the stall and half smirks, half furrows his brow. Knowing him he’s thinking about bending her over and having her up against the glass but he will be doing no such thing. He trips out of the boxers hooked at his ankles and climbs into the tub.

“Turn on the water,” she tells him.

There isn’t an ounce of hesitation in his movements. He turns the tap and a generous spray shoots from the silver head above him. It hits his shoulder, rivulets running down his chest and soaking the hair. Down, down the water flows and her eyes follow the droplets to the evidence of how aroused he is.

He waits, patient and still. But she can’t stop staring and admiring his beautiful, thick body. Her nails dig into her own thighs to stop herself from moving.

“You aren’t joining me,” he says in realization instead of questioning.

“No, Daniel.” She strides over and sits on the edge of the tub, leaning back against the tiled wall to get comfortable and stretch out. “I want to watch.”

“Is this because . . . I almost came?”

She smiles but she’s surprised. “You think this is punishment?”

He looks down and scratches the back of his head. Warm water sprinkles over her legs with the movement of his arm. It feels nice. So she gives in halfway, putting one foot in the tub so she’s straddling the edge, and starts working open the knot at the front of her dress. Daniel watches, abandoning his borderline pout for aroused intrigue.

They meet eyes and she decides maybe he deserves a little something. “Do you want to undo this for me?” she asks, playing with the long strings that keep the dress closed and decent.

He nods, coming to kneel in front of her. His wet body drips all over her but she doesn’t care, she brought a change of clothes for the shooting range anyway. And the way he’s getting her soaked is having the same effect between her legs. She’d love to give in so very badly.

His shaking fingers fumble with the tie. “Can I touch you when it’s off?” he asks, pulling the loops apart so forcibly she’s yanked toward him.

Oh, he’s eager.

“It will be open, not off,” she gives him a non-answer to see what he does.

He glances up as he undoes the last loop. “But I’m getting you all wet,” he says, practically salivating with anticipation.

“Yes, you are.”

He looks up again and licks his lips. “Can I please kiss your pussy again?”

“No.” She shakes her head, smiling. “You can open my dress but my panties stay on.”

The edge of his mouth turns up slightly and she knows he’s about to lose his good boy privileges before he even speaks. “I could still kiss you with your panties on.”

She runs her fingers into his hair and tugs a little. “No. I said I want to watch, not feel.”

A crease appears between his brows but he nods. Slowly, with the hesitance of someone trying not to rouse a sleeping tiger, he unlaces the two strings and sets them aside. The fabric parts slightly on its own, revealing a sliver of skin between her breasts, down her stomach, to the stark white of her panties. His hands are unmoving, probably because he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to help it along or touch her.

She leans back against the tiled wall and spreads her legs apart, drawing the fabric away with it. It opens like a robe, inching away until more and more of her is bared to his unfed gaze. She lets him look, relishing the way he can’t find a place to put his eyes.

“What do you want, Daniel?”

He sighs heavily. “Can I please touch you?”

“Where?”

“Anywhere you want me to.”

“Where do you want to touch me?”

“Your tits, uh, your . . . your breasts.”

Teresa tries not to laugh. He seems dumbfounded by his own simple guy brain but it’s adorable so she doesn’t discipline him for it. “With your mouth or your hands?”

He smiles bashfully, cheeks pretty pink. “Both.” He remembers his manners. “Please.”

She cracks a smile. Might as well have a little fun. “Go nuts.”

He laughs on the descent to her chest, open mouthed and greedy as he kisses the bottom of her throat, her collarbone, the swell of her bosom. He grabs a handful of her breast and she shivers as his cool, wet fingers squeeze and caress. Then his warm, slick mouth finds the other side and she comes undone.

Her head falls back against the wall and she arches into the feeling of him hungrily pressing his face against her. She moans as his tongue slides over her nipple and he answers with a moan of his own. It’s as if he wants her pleasure more, like he can't help but feel it when she voices her enjoyment of something he’s doing to her. That alone makes her hum dreamily again.

He pins the tip of her nipple between his fingers and massages her with one hand, while the other hand toys with the elastic of her underwear at her hip. His mouth moves in unison with his undulating grasp on the other breast, kissing and licking. The sensations make her stomach free fall and the unattended center of her arousal pulsates ravenously.

“Oh, yes,” she mewls, thinking how easily he could make her come if he so much as brushed a knuckle against her right now. But she doesn’t clue him in. She likes to ride the wave as it builds, going nowhere but always rising.

He sucks her sensitive bud a little harder and pulls away with an audible noise. They both groan excitedly at that.

He pulls in a lungful of air. “Does it feel good?”

“You make me feel very good, Daniel.”

He keeps his eyes on hers as he dips his head back down and wiggles his tongue over her tender nipple.

“Yes,” she whines, wrapping her fingers around his hair. She tugs and his lips latch around her, suckling. “Good boy. Oh, God, yes, Daniel. Don’t stop. You’re so good at this.”

His eyes roll back in his head as his lids close and he lets out a sound like he’s been kicked in the stomach. But it doesn’t deter him one bit from the service he’s providing.

“You’re so handsome, loving on me like this,” she whispers, moving to caress his face and nape of his neck. She’s losing her mind. “My sweet boy. So good.”

He whimpers and tries exceedingly hard to earn more moans, more praises. And he does. Everything he does is perfect.

Her sex throbs until it aches. She wants him inside her so bad she’s willing to break all her rules. But one thing keeps her from doing it—she wants him to give his virginity somewhere safe and warm and special. This isn’t it. So it has to end before one more of his beautiful sounds turns her into the version of Teresa who caves.

She tugs him by his hair until he releases her and comes away with a glossy wet mouth. “Okay, get off. You’re wasting water.”

He blinks at her and is slow to stand. His cock looks so pathetically and painfully unused, the flushed tip weeping, that she feels sort of bad for it. But she needs a minute to come down.

“Wash your hair,” she tells him.

He makes a humph kind of noise as he moves backward into the stream and tilts his head back. His neck looks delicious. Hell, his entire body does. It’s no help with the high still buzzing through her from his mouth on her. Watching was supposed to be the goal and now the watching is torture.

He lathers his hands with shampoo and she shudders as he lifts his arms to scrub his scalp—even his damn armpits are keeping her turned on. She’s sure her panties are soaked through by now. But she keeps watching, an ultimate test of control, as he rinses and repeats the motion with the conditioner.

When he’s done he shakes his hands, wipes the water out of his eyes, and frowns. “You know what, my dick hurts. I successfully kept my shit together this time but it’s . . . very hard.”

She laughs. “I never said you couldn’t touch yourself.”

He sighs heavily. “You’re torturing me.”

“I’m sorry. Am I being mean?” Her voice dips into seductress territory. His eyes fall from her lips to between her legs. “What are you looking at, Daniel?”

“The best thing I’ve ever tasted.” His voice turns from eager to frustrated when he adds, “The place I’m dying to be inside of.”

Her depths clench around nothing, yearning, aching. “You can have that. Someday. But you gotta listen to me first.”

For a moment, she thinks he may be done with behaving. She thinks he might be fed up with the humiliation of standing here in front of her, naked and so hard he’s about to cry about it. It seems he only needs a minute to recover from that lapse of sudden rebellion. But his voice is still bratty when he says, “Whatever you say.”

“That’s a cute tone on you.”

He smiles incredulously. “I am simply awaiting instruction, mistress.”

She lets out a cackle at that. “Oh, okay. Then you can wash your body now, my servant.”

To her surprise, he actually grabs the bar of soap and does exactly as she says. At this point she doesn’t care if it’s spite or obedience, she’s impressed. She watches with a swell of pride and admiration in her chest as he soaps his entire body, never breaking eye contact.

“Rinse off,” she demands.

“Yes, ma’am.” Still, his eyes remain on hers.

Once she’s decided he’s had enough, she relaxes against the cool tiled wall and takes a deep breath. “Touch yourself, baby. Show me how you get off when you’re alone.”

He sighs, defeat and relief both coloring his features. She knows how badly he wants it to be her hands on him instead. In time, sweet Daniel, she thinks, I will give you everything you want.

“May I make one request?”

His voice is so precious she has to comply or she’ll combust. “Yes, you may.”

“Please, do it with me.” He wraps his fingers around himself and does one slow tug. “I wanna watch you too, not just imagine it for the millionth time.”

There is no need to think about it but she wants him to wait. She hums and sways her leg back and forth, pretending to ponder his request. When she looks up at him, he’s breathing shallowly, trying so damn hard to be patient.

“Do you want my panties on or off?”

He nearly shakes as he makes another pull off that gorgeous cock. “Off,” he says, then quickly adds, “Please.”

The room is filled with steam so her skin is moist when she lifts up and rolls her panties down her thighs. Daniel watches with an intensity she’s never seen on another man. His hand moves languidly, fingers barely curled around his length. It has her pausing momentarily on her way getting out of her underwear. He’s so beautiful it hurts and she knows he has absolutely no clue.

With her back against the wall again, she angles herself toward him so he can see what he asked for and he doesn’t take his eyes off of her for a second. He’s been a good sport about everything so far so she decides to loosen the reins a little.

“What do you want me to do?” she asks, running a hand down her stomach.

His gaze moves back and forth from her face to between her legs. “You want me to tell you?”

“Yes.” She laughs.

He swallows harshly and steps forward, wasting no time. “Take your left hand and play with your tits,” he says, eyes wild as they search for a place to focus and can’t find one. She has to smile, it sounds so silly coming from him, yet the dirty command makes her tingle. She goes to touch herself. “My left,” he corrects.

“Oh, of course. My bad.” She switches to her right hand and squeezes each breast for him. “Like this?”

The pace of his tugging quickens, which is an answer enough without his words. “Fuck yes. Holy shit . . . You are so fuckin’ hot.”

A little thrill goes through her that this alone has him worked up. “And what would you have me do with this hand, Mr. Blake,” she teases, drumming her fingers over her lower belly.

He looks at her as if he’s forgotten it’s his choice and seems overwhelmed by possibility. “Uh . . . Suck your fingers and then . . .” He must lose his train of thought when she does exactly that, his eyes going glassy at the mere sight of her with her fingers in her mouth.

The whole broad frame of his body trembles and the hand on his cock tightens. Sleepy, approving eyes bore into hers suddenly. “Rub your pussy for me, Teresa.”

Oh. Kay. This is a Daniel she’s never met. His request is firm but not at all dominant. The ‘for me’ sounds more like a plea than a demand. Coming from his sweet mouth it’s all desperation. And she does it, all for him.

She sighs shakily and presses her fingers over her wet sex, spreading herself and finding the swollen bundle of nerves that keeps throbbing miserably from lack of attention. The first touch almost hurts and it makes her whine. With two fingers, she draws lazy circles over the most sensitive part of herself and bites back the sounds that want to break free at how good it feels to finally let go.

Daniel goes with her rhythm, trying to match every move. He groans on each pull. It’s almost too much for her to bear—those thick thighs tensing to hold him upright, the hair on his chest and stomach darkened by the water, the muscles in his arm working as he strokes himself. His other hand slides over his stomach and down to cup his sac. It’s the most arousing thing she’s ever seen in her life.

Her head falls back against the wall with a thud and she keens like she’s in heat. Her sex feels raw and overstimulated but she can’t stop, won’t stop from doing what he wants. It works her up knowing how hard this is going to make him come. As predicted, Daniel moans in response and she can hear the sounds of his wet cock in his hand now.

“Please,” he rasps, panting. “Put your—oh, Christ, fuck—put your fingers inside.”

Her head swims as she slides her hand down and takes two digits no problem. There’s never been a time in her life she’s done that on the first try. “God, Daniel, you’d love how this feels.”

His hand stutters. “I can’t wait.”

She keeps her eyes locked on his as she pumps her fingers in and out, her other hand grasping her breast roughly. Her back arches against the slick tile and she cants her hips forward so he gets even more visual access.

He moans like he’s about to go off like a gun and his fist tightens so hard on the next few strokes his knuckles turn white.

“Careful with my cock,” she blurts, thinking selfishly, only I get to bully that beautiful part of you.

“Then tell your cock not to come yet,” he says breathlessly, holding the base with one hand and tugging with the other.

It strikes her then that he’s edging himself and it has her clenching around her own fingers. His thighs shake from the force of his self control. Without warning her own will snaps. The feeling erupts until she sees white and she just keeps coming and coming in quivering waves, crying out again and again.

When her eyes open, she finds him standing so still, both hands wrapped around himself, his poor florid cockhead dripping hopelessly. Every inch of him shakes and shudders like he’s about to lose himself to the pleasure before he’s ready.

“Please,” is all he says and she’s off the edge of the tub before she can even form a thought.

She wraps an arm around his neck and pushes him back into the warm spray of the shower and against the shower wall. Her dress is drenched instantly and the weight of it molds her against him. Her other hand pries his rigid fingers away from himself.

“Are you going to learn to be nice to my cock?” She brushes her lips against his and he chases her mouth for a kiss. “Tell me with your words, Daniel.”

“Yes,” he agrees desperately, eyes closed, still waiting for her to put her mouth on him. “I’ll be good to your cock from now on. Promise.”

“You promise to be a good boy?”

“Yes. I do. Please.”

She takes him in her hand and he hisses at the contact. He’s so overstimulated this will be easier than breathing for both of them. Very slowly she begins to stroke him, pulsating the loop she’s made with her fingers up and down the hard stalk jutting from his body. He shivers and groans, head tilting back and forth like he can’t control the way his body moves anymore.

“Fuck, oh, fuck.” He takes harsh and uneven breaths and trembles so violently she’s afraid he’ll collapse. But she doesn’t stop. “Please . . . Please . . . Please . . .” he starts repeating the mantra over and over, dissolving into whimpers.

“Move into my hand, Daniel,” she whispers and licks the water from his neck before sucking the skin. “You’re doing so good. Go ahead, baby, let yourself come.”

“Ah . . . Shit,” he gasps and moans woefully. “No, I . . . Fuck, I don’t want . . . Oh, God.”

She’s completely fascinated, damn near drugged, by the sight of him fighting it. His face is screwed up in pain but also pleasure and it shocks her to see actual tears rolling down his cheeks. It turns her into another person.

She caresses his face, wiping away his tears. “Look at me,” she tells him and waits until he does. His teary sparkling eyes stab her right through. Oh, look at her pretty boy. “Relax. All I want is for you to let go now. I don’t need you to last. Will you do that for me?”

He nods. Even his open mouth trembles. And as her hand begins to quicken, his hips follow suit. “That’s good. Fuck my hand. Just like that,” she coaches and he leans his head back against the tiles but keeps those heavy eyes on hers. His mouth stays open in one continuous whimper as they work together to get him there.

The fight leaves him and the rush of his orgasm comes quick, mounting fast under her fingers until his rigid flesh is pulsating and tightening. The seconds tick by and she waits for the perfect moment.

“Come for me.”

His hips jerk his cock through her fist in one swift motion and she feels warmth spatter across her stomach. He sobs, his head falling back as he humps into her hand. She looks down and moans herself. The desperate, idle thrusting makes her dizzy with want and it takes everything in her not to ruin his orgasm.

He comes to and grabs the sides of her face, kissing her and moaning into her mouth. If it were any other time he’d need to be disciplined but right now she allows it. Because she wants it too. He kisses her until she is breathless and needy again.

When he pulls away and looks between them, he grunts unhappily. “I didn’t mean to get it on you,” he says, voice sleepy and worn. “I’m sorry.”

She ruffles his wet hair back off his face. “It’s alright, handsome.” He closes his eyes and leans into the comfort of her caress. “In a minute, you can go get dressed. I’ll wash off.”

He hangs his head against her shoulder, still catching his breath, then looks at her longingly with those sweet puppydog eyes.

“What is it?”

“You’re . . . I dunno.”

“Am I overwhelming you?” she asks seriously. She doesn’t want to push his boundaries too far and she hasn't been that good about recognizing where his line is yet.

“Not in a bad way.” He heaves a sigh. “I’ve just never . . .”

“I know.” She smiles and rubs his cheek with her knuckles. “You tell me if I’m too much.”

He shakes his head. “You’re not.”

“But you will tell me if I am,” she demands instead of asking. He nods swiftly. “Daniel.”

“Yes,” he all but whimpers.

“I think you redeemed yourself.”

He lets out a rough laugh. “Yeah, I did.”

“Yes, you did.”

Another laugh tumbles out of him as he leans his head back and closes his eyes. This is a big deal for him so she just leans in and kisses on his neck, running her hands up and down his body as a way to bring him back to reality softly. She won’t rush him because he deserves the aftercare.

She’s been in that sort of headspace before and it can be emotional. Extremely exhausting as well. That’s why she prefers the inverse. The hand that guides instead of the one who follows. Although, she feels his weariness. They’ve done something that binds them, that changes them, and it’ll hit her later, the responsibility of that.

“Go get dressed,” she finally tells him.

He rinses and grabs a towel from the rack. While he dries off, he watches her through the glass. She strips off her dress and hands it to him. He stares. “You are so fuckin’ gorgeous.”

She shakes her head with a laugh and shoos him. “Go. Get. Dressed.”

“I’m going!” He raises his hands in mock surrender and pads out of the bathroom with the towel around his waist and a giddy smile on his face.

Her own smile fades as he leaves her alone in the running shower. This is the most her that she’s ever felt and the simplicity is new. Nothing this good has ever come easy and when it did there was always a catch. She could pretend that they’re only having fun, that it all comes down to sex, but it would be a lie. She has feelings for Daniel. And whatever they are, they scare her.

She rinses off and pats dry with one of his towels before throwing it and her underwear into his laundry basket. When she peeks into his room, he isn’t there. His phone is buzzing on the nightstand so she picks it up. A notification reads LAUNDRY. Well, the basket was full so she’ll have to add that to the list of to-dos today.

When he doesn’t return fast enough, she ventures out into the apartment. They meet in the middle. He’s dressed now in some black joggers and a Steely Dan t-shirt.

“You’re . . . naked in my hallway,” he says with a huge grin.

“I will continue to be naked unless you go out to my car and grab my bag.” His smile is contagious so she lets her own form. She pokes his chest where a year is printed on the shirt. “You weren’t even alive in ‘93, were you?”

He smirks. “I have a lot of old shirts. They’re vintage. Kinda like you.” Before she can even react, he’s sprinting away from her and out the door, laughing his ass off.

If it were anyone else she’d have to kill them but instead, she stands there naked and cold and laughing in disbelief.

When he comes back in with her duffle, he looks like he’s trying not to laugh but also a little guilty. “I didn’t mean that,” he offers and extends the bag to her as he looks her up and down. “You’re gonna punish me for it, aren’t you?”

She takes the bag and narrows her eyes. “Hmm. Define punish.”

“To cause suffering for a crime or to enforce disciplinary action,” he jokes but he’s not laughing. He nods solemnly. “I deserve it.”

She smiles and puts her arm around his neck, leading him back into the bedroom. He humphs like he’s about to get spanked and has accepted it. It almost makes her cackle. “Okay, Mr. Blake, it’s laundry day,” she says, and lets go of him. “Gather everything up while I get dressed.”

He’s confused until he sees his phone flashing. “This isn’t a punishment though, this is a responsibility.”

Now she laughs. “I never said I was going to punish you. Do you want me to?”

“No. Nope. You’re a fuckin’ goddess and I am totally unworthy of even being in your presence,” he says without a beat. And somehow she knows he means that.