Page 90 of The Lineman

“Of course I have.” She huffed. “Not properly, mind you, but I did convince my late husband to wear one once. And let me tell you—” She cackled, wiggling her eyebrows. “That man took the ‘no underwear’ rule a little too seriously. And Lord, if he didn’t hang below—”

I choked, barely catching myself before I spewed potatoes across the table.

She thumped my back, laughing the entire time. “Oh, lad, you make it too easy.”

I groaned. “I walked right into that, didn’t I?”

“Now,” she said conversationally, “tell me about Elliot.”

I froze.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Don’t bring Him into it,” she said breezily. “I doubt He wants to hear about what you’ve been doing to that poor lineman either. Or should I say, what he’s been doing to you? That is how it works between you two, isn’t it? You’re the power bottom? The catcher? The receiver of all things splooge?”

My entire body caught fire. “Mrs. H!”

“Oh, come on, lad.” She turned, looking at me like a cat with a cornered mouse. “A woman needs to live vicariously where she can. You think I get any action these days? My puss dried out a dozen years ago. It’s like the Mojave Desert down there. I need you and Elliot to keep me young, get the oil in the motor again, if you get my meaning. The only thing keeping me warm at night is my electric blanket—and an occasional fling with that rabbit thing, which you should try sometime. Would you like to borrow it? Take it home after dinner and give it a ride?”

“Oh, God. I think I’m going to be sick.” I groaned, dragging my hands over my face. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Eat, boy. And talk.” She laughed, setting a plate in front of me. “You can fuck yourself silly later. Did I mention it vibrates in the nicest way?”

I looked down at the food, recognizing . . . well, not much. It looked like potatoes and meat, all mushed together in a thick, savory heap.

“Whatisthis?”

“We already went over this.” She gave me a stern look. “It’sstovies, you ignorant child. Potatoes, onions, beef drippings. A proper Scottish meal, not that processed shite you Americans call food.”

I took another bite, and—okay, fine—it was ridiculously good. Warm, rich, hearty, the perfect comfort food.

But I wasn’t going to tell her that again. She’d find some way to turn a soup compliment sexual. Instead, I just nodded and kept eating, hoping—praying—she’d let the subject of Elliot drop.

She did not.

“So,” she said, settling in across from me, resting her chin on her folded hands. “How was it?”

“How was what?” I asked reluctantly.

“His cock. The sex. The way he opened you up like a can of beans.”

I choked. Right there. Nearly died on a bite of potatoes.

Mrs. H reached over and thumped me on the back, laughing the entire time. “Oh, lad, we really do need to work on your swallowing skills, especially if you plan on taking Elliot’s monster cock down your throat.”

“You can’t just ask me . . . that,” I gasped, coughing.

“Why not?” she asked innocently. “I was young once, too, you know.”

“Yeah, I gathered from the fact that you’re alive.”

She smacked my arm.

“I’ll have you know I was quite the slut in my day. Men from all over came to sample my wares. Hell, I had to take weekends off just to knit things back together. Men don’t like it when you let things get too loose down there. You should remember that for Elliot.”

I groaned, shaking my head. “Mrs. H, I am not discussing my sex life with you.”

“Ach, fine.” She leaned back with a dramatic sigh. “Ruin my fun, why don’t you?”

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