She doesn’t hide it, either. It’s all right there in the open: “Accept my brand of crazy or get the hell out of my house.”
I like that she doesn’t seem to care what anybody thinks about her—not even me. Given the show I just saw at her parents’ kitchen table, it’s amazing to me that she managed to become such an independent woman.
She heads for the kitchen and takes a bottle of wine down from a high shelf along with a couple of wineglasses. “Have a seat,” she says.
I pick the recliner and stretch out on it. It’s set to face a medium-sized TV with a DVD player under it. There’s a selection of DVDs in the stand—the expected array of superhero movies, plus Star Wars and a few Star Trek box sets.
She brings the wine in and passes me a glass, then settles into the couch and puts her feet up on the coffee table. I love the way her body moves when she’s not tense and self-conscious. She’s almost sleek.
“So have your parents always been sexist assholes, or are they only just now jumping on the bandwagon?”
Maddy shakes her head a little, waving her wineglass. “Just the way they were raised, I guess. Grampa was a rich asshole, too.”
“Which one?”
“Both of them.” She takes a long drink of wine. “I’m not sure they’ll ever join the twenty-first century.”
“I guess some people never will.”
“Are your parents like that?” She draws her feet off the coffee table and curls them under her instead, sitting on them.
“No. My folks are pretty cool.”
“Do you talk to them?”
It’s an odd question. “Yeah. Pretty regularly. Why?”
“You said they were upset when you dropped out of college. I thought maybe…”
“No. No falling out. They understood the decision. I did it for Lacey. But they always wanted me to have a desk job. Didn’t want me to be blue collar, even though Dad was a fireman. They thought I should be administrating and organizing and not—”
“Rescuing cats from trees?” She giggles. I’m pretty sure she’s getting a little tipsy already. Her wineglass is empty; she grabs the bottle and fills it up again.
I smile. “Yeah. Exactly.” I hold my glass out so she can top me off, too. It’s good wine, though not a terribly expensive brand.
“I wish I got along better with my parents.” Her words are wistful.
“Not like they make that easy.”
“True. But it’d be nice.” Swirling her wine, she says, “Maybe I can meet them sometime.”
“Maybe.” I’m noncommittal. I’m not sure what it means that her words give me a warm, cozy feeling. Like taking her to meet my parents would be the right thing to do.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“What do you think of Christopher?”
It’s not what I expected, and I have to think about my answer for a second. When I don’t reply right away, she goes on, “I’m sorry Mom and Dad cornered you about that, but I really would like to know. It’s got to be weird for you, me being a mom and you being…not a…” She waves, vaguely indicating my entire person.
“Not a mom?”
“You know what I mean.”
Oddly enough, I do. We’re connecting. It’s one of those types of nights. I wonder if we’d be connecting quite so hard without the wine, but I decide it doesn’t matter. She’s tipsy, but she’s not exactly drunk.
“I like Christopher.” That’s the honest truth. “He’s a good kid.”
“Really?”
“Yes. And believe me—I’ve given firehouse tours to kindergarteners, so I know what I’m talking about.”
Maddy laughs. “That’s cool. I’m glad you like him.”
“I like you, Madison.”
The way I say her name rolls off her. She makes a little shudder and wets her lips. “Hmm. I hadn’t noticed.”
“Not until I forced my tongue down your throat, anyway. I don’t just want your body, Madison. I want you to be mine.”
She looks surprised. I’m surprised, too, to be honest. Both that I feel that way and that I told her about it.
The pink rises in her face, her eyes gone dark and liquid. There’s a tremor between us, and I know it comes from arousal. I want her; she wants me.
I slide off the recliner and move across the small living room to sit beside her on the couch. Our thighs touch. “I’ve wanted you since I wrapped my arms around you. Do you know how hard it was to keep myself from getting a boner in front of everyone?”
Her skin is getting even pinker now, the blush on her face spreading down onto her chest, to disappear beneath the neckline of her shirt. I keep going—I can tell she’s into this.
“I try to be professional when I have to do shit like that.” I reach up slowly and trace a curl of her reddish hair where it falls next to her face down to her shoulder. “That’s not the first time I’ve carried a naked woman out of a building, you know. But it was the first time I wanted to lay her down on the concrete and fuck her.”
“That’s definitely not professional.” Her voice is shallow. I can tell she’s breathing faster. I wonder if I’d feel her heart racing if I set my hand on her chest, right in the warm place between her breasts.
“No, it’s not.” I put thought to action and lay my fingers gently at the bottom of the deep “V” of her shirt’s collar. Sure enough, her heart is pitter-pattering like a bird’s.
I move closer and closer to her, until I catch her mouth with mine. She makes no attempt to move away, and kisses me back tentatively.
I tease her lips for a few seconds, then draw back and stroke her hair away from her face. My fingers comb into it and I clasp the back of her head, turning her face a little to the side before kissing her again, deeper and harder.
Her hands lift to my shoulders, settling there. She doesn’t try to push me away. I press into her mouth, stroking her tongue with mine. It’s a slow, easy rhythm, not hard and fast like I’d prefer. Hell, I’d prefer to have her naked under me while I pound into her with everything I’ve got. I want her tits in my mouth and my dick inside her.
Right now, though, I feel like that would probably scare her off. I’m not sure why I think that—it’s not like she’s a virgin or anything. But I get the sense it’s been a long time for her, so I’m figuring it can’t hurt to treat her like one. So instead I just kiss her, tasting every inch of her mouth, then easing down across her face, down her neck, over her shoulders.
She doesn’t protest when I move aside the soft fabric of her shirt to kiss across her collarbone. Or when I reach down to lift the shirt’s hem and pull it up over her head, then push the cups of her bra aside. Her breasts are full and soft, the bulk of them rolling into my hands.
I take them into my mouth, one at a time. Her nipples rise hard and firm against my tongue and I suckle at them, nip them gently. Back and forth, one breast and then the other, until her nails dig into my spine and she tosses her head back, her body shuddering. It’s not an orgasm—not yet—but she’s definitely enjoying herself.
I unclasp her bra and slip it off her, then ease her back onto the couch, rubbing my chest all along her soft, warm skin. It feels so good to have her under me. I want my skin against hers, though, so I yank my own shirt off, sending it flying across the living room.
When I ease back down on her again, it’s a whole new experience. She’s so soft, and her body yields under me. Her hands stroke across my back now, not digging in anymore. I miss the pricks of pain her nails left behind.
I trail my mouth down her belly. It’s soft like the rest of her. My tongue traces the silver lines of the stretch marks her pregnancy left behind. They’re wide and numerous, and I can see why she thinks they’d be a turn-off, but they’re not. Not to me. They’re battle scars, like the big, pink burn scar in the middle of my back where a hot piece of metal landed on me while I was hosing down a house fire. I recovered, and the kids all got out. I’m proud of that scar. She should be proud of hers, too.
Instead she makes a little noise in the back of her throat, like she knows exactly what I’m doing.
“Don’t,” she says.
“Why not?”
“I’m just… I’m a mess.”
I slide a finger along the widest of the scars, letting it lead me down toward the waistband of her low-cut jeans. “You had a baby,” I tell her. “It’s amazing.”
I don’t think I convinced her, but she stops protesting. I open the fly of her jeans and start to peel the denim back. As I pull them down, she lifts her hips and lets me. I take them all the way off her and let them drop to the floor, then go back to lick her stomach all along the hem of her panties. Her breath is coming fast and ragged, and she moans again when I nip at her.
I want her to do more than moan. I want her to scream. Preferably my name, but that would just be a bonus. Heat from between her legs washes over my face, and I can smell the musk of her arousal. My mouth is damn near watering at this point, I want her so badly.
The fabric of her panties is a soft cotton, and I can see the outline of her pussy through it. I stroke along the dark shadow of her cleft. The cotton is damp. Pushing it aside, I touch her there, stroking the red-gold curls. Her clit is hard and visible, white-pink against the darker labia. I touch it, and she shivers.