Page 85 of Hideaway Whirlwind
“Not yet!”
Elliott whimpers, his knees knocking together. He’s had plenty of practice when it comes to controlling his release, but that hasn’t made it any easier.
My poor bear, I think with a wicked gleam. “Deeper, Daddy.”
Elliott shakes his head fast. “I’ll cum if I do.”
“No, you won’t,” I croon, letting go of my knees and lifting my T-shirt so I can cup my tits, making them jiggle just the way he likes. “I said I want you deeper, Daddy.”
Elliott clamps his bottom lip between his teeth, a low whine working its way up his throat when he slicks his cock with more lube. He moans, and I imagine just that little bit of contact with his hand almost had him spilling. He lifts my left leg, resting my ankle on his shoulder, takes a shuddering breath,then leans forward to feed me another inch of his shaft.
“Oh, oh!”
“Too deep?” he asks with a shrill tone, afraid he might have hurt me, his left hand stalling.
“No! But that’s good. That’s—” My whole body quakes. “I’m almost there.”
Elliott renews his attack on my pussy and clit, and when my back bows with my orgasm, my lips parted with a silent scream, Elliott turns his head and bites the inside of my ankle. “Tell me I can cum,” he begs with my flesh between his teeth.
“Cum in—”
Elliott’s cock jerks, his teeth nearly drawing blood when his warm, immediate release floods my backside. I shove his hand away from my pussy, my teeth clacking together as if I’m freezing with the rush of endorphins. His chest heaves as he comes down from his climax, and I brace myself when he shakes out a folded washcloth from the stack in the drawer and uses it to clean me after he pulls out with a hiss.
Sixteen years of marriage, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about any longer. We’ve seen each other in all manners of state, like when I became his full-time caretaker for three months following a terrible car accident a few years back that fractured his collar bones and totaled his blue Bronco. And he repaid the favor when another skier crashed into me when we were vacationing in Colorado, and I cracked my head against a tree trunk. For a few weeks, it was touch-and-go there for me. At the time, Elliott had said he’d have followed me into the afterlife if I left this world without him, but of course, I made him swear he wouldn’t. Our four children need their papa, the greatest who has ever lived.
Elliott recovers before I do, gathering me up in his burlyarms to carry me into our shower. His touch is soft and languid as he cleans between my legs, and I sigh, leaning back against his chest when he kisses his bite mark I long ago had tattooed on my neck. He’s added more than a few new tattoos, as well. His hands and fingers are decorated with our children’s names and important dates—when we met, when I said yes to his proposal, and the day we married. The only free skin he has left is his palms, the soles of his feet, and his face, though a few tiny tattoos have made their way there, too, like the raven’s feather across his temple.
“Come on, Mama,” he says, tapping my hip when we hear the household begin to stir, Kendall and Killian up and getting ready for school, with at least one dog scratching at the back door to be let out.
I almost beg for another few minutes, but a gunshot, followed by a frustrated scream from Kendall, has us both hustling out of the shower, tucking towels around us as we run into the kitchen.
Before either of us can ask what is going on, Kendall throws her hands up in front of her cherubic, round face. “Oh my god, ew, were y’all—never mind, I don’t want to know.” She’s eighteen years old but looks younger, especially with her being a “short-stack” like me. Her personality is all sharp edges, though, and people often underestimate her to their own detriment, which is just the way she likes it.
Another gunshot has Elliott flying out of the back door, his sawed-off shotgun aimed and at the ready. “What the—damn, son, it’s too early for this.”
Poking my head out the door, I’m just in time to see Killian loping across the hazily lit backyard with a rabbit in his hand. “Breakfast!” he says when I quickly scoot out of his way, andhe immediately goes to Kendall, shaking the animal in her face. She and I both gag at the sight and squeal, running away from him.
That only makes him give chase, taunting us until he laughs and says at last, “Kidding! It’s just a dog toy.” My son flicks his black bangs sideways out of his golden-brown eyes ringed in dark amber and tosses the fake, stuffed rabbit to the basset hound he named Rocky.
The hound had appeared on our property a few years ago when he was just a pup, crawling out from under the cabin stairs, as have many, many others. The dogs and even a few cats just keep sprouting up out of nowhere, and we keep letting them inside, earning us the exceedingly dramatic moniker of Hell’s Hounds Keepers by the townspeople. It’s why many are still nervous around us, even though we’ve been nothing but model citizens…as far as they know.
Elliott lets out a boisterous laugh, and I pin him with a look that saysyou deal with him. Elliott is quick to school his features, taking the gun he taught Killian how to shoot and hunt with—just as he’s done with all our kids—bound to give our son another lecture aboutnot scaring your mama and sisterwhile I get ready for work.
* * *
Dawn has broken into what is shaping up to be a gorgeous, sunny day, the brown Bronco’s windows rolled down to let in the lingering scent of petrichor after last night’s storm. It’s fifteen minutes after the two-lane roads open to four that I finish crossing the mostly still sleeping town and make the turn into the employees-only parking lot behind the red-brickstrip center with its faux vintage gas lanterns, hanging floral planters, and striped awnings out front for shade.
My ultrasound clinic, BERENSON IMAGING, bookends the women’s shelter on one side. On the other is a former feed-and-seed store that Goldie leased when her youngest child, Dahlia, started elementary school. She converted it to a donation center and thrift store entirely staffed by the women from the shelter when any of them need a job. She also pays them in cash if it’s too dangerous for her employees to deposit a check into their bank accounts—but don’t tell Sheriff Cooke-Greene that.
Zoey and Joshua married a year after she became our newly elected Sheriff, and so the only way you can tell them apart when speaking of them, since they hyphenated their last names, is by their titles. The Sheriff and The Deputy. What a duo and boon for our county.
I stretch when I hop out of my Bronco, which is still chugging along. I’m the first to arrive at work for the day, and I close my eyes, envisioning the gorgeous coast of California when we take our next family trip in the travel trailer to Big Sur in a few weeks’ time. I make sure to tuck my lint roller in my backpack before I zip it up and sling it over my shoulder, since my scrubs are black and I don’t need to be meeting with patients looking like I rolled around on the carpet with a pack of dogs, which I’ve done often enough.
Making my way across the recently repoured asphalt and fresh paint dividers to the clinic’s back entrance, I hold my key card between my teeth so I don’t lose track of it while I put my hair up. It’s shinier and healthier than ever, having refused to give it more than a trim until the ends reached the top of my ass, and it’s heavy as I twist it into a bun on top ofmy head.
“Aunt T?
I jolt, dropping the key card, and stop just short of reaching for my custom-made handgun holstered on my hip beneath my scrub top. Though it’s been years since Elliott and I have had any trouble of our own, there’s been a time or two I’ve been thankful to have my gun on me when the trouble some of the women at the shelter left behind came looking for them. It’s why gun safety is so important to us and why Killian’s papa gave him a mile-long list of chores to do around the BT warehouse after school.
