Teach Me(57)

“Only if you’re very detailed.” With one hand, I brace her against the mirror, cupping her ass tight, while my other hand fumbles with the zipper on these suit pants.

“Well, it starts with me, dripping wet.” She runs a hand slowly down her body to brush against her panties, before she slips a finger beneath to touch herself. I’m practically panting, watching her. “And you getting too hard to stand it . . . ” She drops her other hand down to touch mine against my fly, which I’ve forgotten about. With a sharp tug from her fingers I spring free, my cock pressed against her now-bare arse.

“And the ending, well . . . ” She bites her lip. “That part is just punishing.”

I close my mouth over hers to bite it for her instead, all while I lift her body higher against the mirror. “You’re a glutton for punishment, aren’t you.” I catch her gaze, watch her baby blues go wide with pleasure as I drive deep into her pussy. She moans against my mouth, clenching tight around me.

Fuck, she feels so goddamn good.

“Jack . . . ”

Especially when she moans my name like that, helpless beneath me.

I brace her small, deliciously curved body against the mirror and thrust up into her, slow at first, building faster and faster, my hands biting deep into her thighs, her ass red from slapping against the mirror, until the whole mirror starts to rock with us. Her breath comes hard, and I can tell she’s about to lose control, so I press one hand over her mouth, covering it to muffle her keening cry when she comes, her whole body tightening around me.

Moments later I’m finishing too, and I dig my teeth into her shoulder to suppress my own grunt of pleasure. When I release her legs, she keeps leaning against the mirror for a moment, trying to regain control of her knees, while I slide the suit pants off.

“Not sure about this one,” I say, trying not to enjoy her obvious shakiness too much. “I’m going to pick another pair . . . ”



#



Before I know it, my phone’s going off, reminding me that if we don’t catch the bus now, we won’t make it to the funeral home in time. Kat told me about a hundred times to be early, since it would be weird for guests to arrive before the family itself.

Now dressed in a much nicer suit than the one I’d planned to don, and after leaving a hefty tip for the obviously annoyed clerk at the store, I have no excuses to linger anymore. It’s time to get this over with.

“Come on.” I tug on Harper’s hand to lead her toward the bus terminal, where we shuffle into the queue. Unfortunately, the bus takes longer than even I guessed, and I’m used to the delays on this particular line. We listen to the dispatcher explain to three people in a row that he’s not sure why the bus is fifteen—no, twenty—no, thirty minutes late.

Well, I listen to him. Harper mostly squints in confusion the way she’s been doing when talking to 90 percent of the people since we arrived here. I hadn’t noticed how my accent was changing, melding into a more southern British sound (or, you know, as southern as Oxford gets), until we came back. But watching her try to understand my fellow Geordies, I realize my voice has changed considerably since I left home ten years ago.

That’s also a strange feeling.

Finally, the bus arrives and we settle in behind an elderly woman lugging about 100 pounds of groceries, which she politely declines my offer to help with, and an eighteen-year-old kid whose music blasts so loud we can hear every word from our seats.

The kid gets off first, thank god, and the old lady exits the bus a stop before us. With every mile that we crawl closer to my hometown—my real hometown, not the city I adopted as mine because it was the nearest thing to better than what I had—my stomach clenches tighter. I’ve always hated this part. Arriving to see what’s changed while I was away. It’s only been a week since I was here last, but that time was a quick one-day visit, and I barely even stopped to think. I drove straight to the hospital, didn’t make a pass by the house or anything.

Now, through the trees, one stop away from the funeral home where my father lies in wait, I catch a glimpse of our townhouse row, and I clutch Harper’s hand tighter, not offering her any sort of explanation.

This time, more than I could possibly imagined has changed. Not for anyone else in the neighborhood, but for me? Everything is different.

Even the trees, which have shed their fall foliage just since last weekend, it seems, have gotten worse. They look naked against the cold, darkening gray sky, a symbol of the winter to come.

The bus wheezes as it arrives at our stop, a lonely little corner on a windswept side street. Just the funeral home, a hair dresser’s, and a sad looking corner bar across the street, its windows shaded even though it’s dark now.