Page 60 of Pucked Up Plans
“I want you to kiss me too, but maybe it’s better if it’s just quick.”
His breaking point reached, he mumbles, “Fuck that.”
I’m in the air before I can process what’s happening as his lips cover mine. My legs wrap around his waist as I slacken into him and the kiss.
Every coherent thought escapes me, solely absorbed in Walsh. The way his mouth greedily devours mine. How his tongue thrusts into my mouth without permission. How our teeth nearly clash because the intensity of the kiss is so molten.
It continues in this manner for a few minutes. With each sweep of his tongue against some part of me, I loosen deeper and deeper. My arms behind his neck, I’m barely holding on. Thank goodness his hands cup my ass, not allowing me to fall.
When I can’t stand it any longer, I move my mouth away, filling my lungs with huge amounts of fresh air. While we recover from the kiss, Walsh doesn’t let me go, squeezing me tighter, taking away my option to untangle myself.
A few more minutes pass, our collective heavy panting the only sound in the room. My chin finds rest on his shoulder, and he somehow lays his forehead on mine.
“That was…” I begin, the words to finish the sentence evading me.
“As far as kisses go,” Walsh inserts, “perfection.”
Though he can’t see it, I smile. That sums it up extremely well.
I slide down his front, the fact he’s hard not eluding my notice. We don’t have time to remedy it.
My brain tries to find the words to thank him for today. “Thank you for orchestrating time alone for you to get me off” hardly seems appropriate, yet “thank you” doesn’t do it justice either. In the end, I say nothing. Not until I’ve had a chance to work through exactly what I want to say.
Wordlessly, we both head to the door, putting our feet into shoes, ready for this afternoon to be over. And though it’s the beginning of this between us, I can’t help but feel a little sad and unfulfilled.
Walsh must sense how I’m feeling or experiencing similar things. At the truck, he pulls me into his arms.
“Not to sound too cliché, but there’s something here to explore. You feel it too?”
“Yeah.”
With a final embrace, he releases me. “And now I have to pretend in front of our daughters I haven’t seen you naked. Or that I can’t wait until I get to see you again. This should be fun.”
I can’t help the snort at his expense. “Hope it won’t be toohardfor you.”
A guttural groan tears out of him. He mumbles something under his breath on his side of the truck. I only make out my name.
An unfamiliar emotion takes root. The satisfaction of the power I wield over him makes me giddy.
Walsh refuses to pick up my car on the way to his house. Outwardly, I pretend to fester, but inwardly I do cartwheels of joy getting to spend extra time with him later this evening.
He pulls up in front of his house, a medium Cape on a tree-lined street. Immediately, a sense of comfort washes over me with a glance at the outside. The paint peels in a few areas, but I like how it’s not perfect. It reminds me of home, not in style, but emanating a similar vibe to our rustic ranch.
I grew up in a blue-collar, working town. Almost everyone who lives in Cedarvale is roughly in the same tax bracket, a few outliers at either end are the only exception. My family is smack in the middle—we have enough without being extravagant or wanting for more. Our house is the same size as the rest of our neighbors, topping the scale at just under two thousand square feet. Mom uses the space the open floor plan provides well.
When Aubrey was born, neither of my parents batted an eye at losing out on the guest bedroom. Not like it was utilized often. In five years, they did more than accommodate our living space. Maybe one day, we’ll be able to go home, but for now, I’m living in the present.
“This is where you grew up?” I ask, taking in other features—the black door to match the black shutters, the patches of grass on both sides of the house, the two stairs up to the door.
“We moved here when I was in middle school.” His tone implies there’s more to the story, but I don’t press for an explanation. He’s already highly emotional. No need to poke the bear.
“It’s cozy.” After the words leave my mouth, I realize how that must sound. Except he’s been to my place—the rental I don’t pay for—so who am I to judge? Which I wasn’t doing by any means.
When he lets my comment go, I release the breath. “It was a hard change, but it’s home for now. At least until I graduate and find a job and get my own place.” Melancholy undertones layer his remarks. Again, I don’t push it. Not really my place, but I hope one day, it will be my place to learn more.
I climb out the passenger door. Stopping in front of the hood of the truck, I wait for Walsh. He joins me, but in fear of being caught in a compromising position, I don’t step too close.
“Before we go inside, I wanted to say another thanks. As much as it’s going to be difficult to pretend we didn’t do what we did, especially in front of your parents, I wouldn’t change anything about our afternoon.”
