Grin and Beard It(68)

See, we had a schedule. The schedule was sacred. If we didn’t adhere to the schedule, people were grumpy and chaos reigned. In truth, we only had three firm rules in the all-male Winston household:

One: Don’t eat someone else’s leftovers.

Two: Do your chores.

Three: Stick to the schedule.

Roscoe, being twenty-one and without a girl to call his own, had been messing up the schedule since his return. Duane didn’t care for obvious reasons. Billy hadn’t said a word, at least not to me. But Beau and Cletus were acting like Roscoe’s midnight masturbating was the end of days, like we were teetering on the collapse of polite society.

“He’s used all the tissues. Again,” Beau had accused in a harsh whisper last night after dinner, cornering me by the outside freezer. “And there I was, all finished, like an asshole with no means to clean up. You need to do something about it, Jethro.”

I’d rolled my eyes at their complaints, suggested they wash up instead of wipe up, and assured them they needed to exercise patience and restraint, but I knew I’d have to step in sooner or later and have a talk with my youngest brother. God forbid someone might have to walk downstairs to take a piss in the middle of the night. What was the world coming to?

But back to the dirty magazine on the counter.

The cover caught my attention. More precisely, the woman caught my attention. She was dark-haired, voluptuous, and something about her reminded me of Sienna at first glance.

Taking a second look, I realized any resemblance had been a trick of my imagination. This woman had big tits, but they were just big, not generous. And the proportion of her waist to her hips was all wrong. Her legs were too skinny. Her mouth wasn’t the right shape, not to mention her eyes being the wrong color, holding none of Sienna’s charm.

Realizing what I was doing, comparing some dirty magazine cover model to Sienna Diaz, I tucked the magazine under the counter with the others, where it belonged, and washed my hands.

Unfortunately, and not for the first time in recent weeks, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I couldn’t stop comparing the two women, with Sienna coming out vastly superior in every way.

Her legs were things of beauty. And her skin glowed gold and bronze, out of the sunlight and even in the dark. And her body was hot and soft and made my mouth water. Just thinking about her had my pulse beating double.

I held the physical memory of all the times she’d pressed against me, brought the sensation out and turned it around. I’d planned to inspect the recollections as an impartial observer, but I couldn’t. Soon I was pulled back in time.

Maybe it was the memory of her touch and the feel of her silky skin. Maybe it was middle-of-the-night wood. Maybe it was the way she’d looked at me, how she’d smiled, how remarkable she was. Or maybe it was merely frustrated need, but I was quite suddenly and epically hard, hot, and bothered.

Fucking hell, you’d think I was a teenager. I prided myself on self-control, five-plus years of it. I debated taking a cold shower.

Unbidden, a dream I’d had earlier in the week flashed like a dirty slide show in my mind. In the fantasy, Sienna had found me in the shower and alleviated my frustrations with her hands and mouth. But just as I was lifting her up against the tile wall and wrapping her legs around my waist, Cletus shoved a rooster in my face, waking me up and complaining, “The cock ain’t crowing!”

In a way I’d been grateful. Against my will, my body was acting like I was sixteen again, waking up to damp shorts and horny fictions.

But now, standing in the bathroom, gritting my teeth at my reflection, images of fantasy Sienna taking me in her mouth . . . the ache was real and inescapable.

Cursing under my breath, I closed the door, violently flicked off the light, and leaned against the countertop. I reached into my boxers and grabbed myself, hissing, keeping my grip tight and my strokes smooth.

Given my dry spell, I was a pro at this. Usually it took less than three minutes: all business, no fuss.

But not tonight. Tonight I had an acute desire to draw out the act, to immerse myself in the fantasy, because nothing else was helping.

My chaotic mind sorted through all the ways I wanted to claim her, all the ways I’d bring her satisfaction. I wanted her naked and pleading, pressing her backside to my front, standing before a mirror so she could watch me touch and stroke and pet her body. Our eyes would meet over her shoulder and she’d arch her back, begging me to bend her over and fill her up.

In the next second I wanted her delighted and laughing, because her laugh was the closest I’d come to believing in magic. I wanted her on top, chasing her pleasure as I rolled my hips beneath, gripping her ass, watching her tits sway and bounce, watching her gorgeous face above me.