“Agreed.” My dad pats Braden on the back.
I have to stop myself from laughing. My father just patted Braden Black on the back! I can’t imagine Braden’s own father ever doing that. Of course, I only met Bobby Black once. He was charming…and dating someone my age…
I can’t imagine my dad doing that, either.
“After you, sweetie,” Dad says.
I nod and walk up the stairs to the dining room. Braden and Dad follow me.
“Dinner’s all ready,” Mom calls from the kitchen. “I’ll be right in with the meat.”
“Sounds good, Mags.”
Dad shows Braden where to sit, but first he holds my chair out for me.
Braden’s always done that. He’s a gentleman. But I can see Dad is suitably impressed. Braden and Dad both wait until Mom comes in. Dad holds the chair out for Mom, and once she’s seated, both he and Dad finally sit.
Dad says a quick grace, and then the silence ensues.
At least five minutes pass in this unbearable quiet. I take a serving of each dish that’s offered to me, my gaze focused on the plate of store-bought bread.
Until Braden grabs two slices. “This takes me back,” he says. “Sliced bread on the table every night. I grew accustomed to it.”
“Really? In Boston?” Dad says. “I thought it was a Midwestern thing.”
“It’s definitely a Boston thing, too,” he says. “Sometimes, bread was the only thing on our table.”
My eyes widen into circles. Did Braden just offer another clue to himself? First the food pantry. Now this?
Silence again. Neither of my parents seem to know how to respond to Braden’s revelation, and in truth, neither do I. His cheeks redden a bit, and I wonder if he regrets his words.
And then I get it.
Why he’s here.
Maybe he’s doing the same thing I am. Going back to his roots to figure things out. Only his roots don’t exist anymore. His family no longer lives in South Boston. He can’t “go home again” to start at the beginning like I did.
I was right.
He didn’t come here to figure me out.
He came here to figure himself out.
My father begins a conversation about the stock market, something my mother and I have no interest in, but it keeps Braden occupied. In the meantime, I devour my mom’s pot roast. Next to her stew, it’s my favorite home-cooked meal. The succotash is delicious, too. Nothing better than fresh corn and butter to make lima beans palatable.
When all the plates are empty, I stand to clear the table.
Mom stops me. “Sit down, Skye. I’ll take care of this.”
“That’s okay, Mom. I’m happy to help.” And happy to get out of the dining room for a few minutes. With my father and Braden discussing stock options, I feel like I’ve just landed in another galaxy.
My dad knows a fair amount about the market. He’s done well over the years, choosing stocks to invest in and making a modest profit. But his knowledge is nothing compared to Braden’s. Still, Braden listens intently, as if my father has something valuable to offer. I’m impressed.
I help Mom bring in her homemade elderberry pie. It’s one of my favorites and something I can’t find in Boston. Dad and I love it. The elderberries are about the size of BBs, and the seed takes up most of the berry. They’re delightfully tart and tannic, though, and the seeds aren’t any worse than eating blackberries or raspberries. Will Braden like it?
Even if he doesn’t, he’ll be polite.
I, for one, can’t wait. Mom also has homemade whipped cream flavored with vanilla and bourbon—the perfect complement.
“I hope you have room for dessert, Braden,” Mom says as she hands him a giant slice of pie topped with a large dollop of whipped cream.
“I always have room for dessert, Maggie.”
Though he’s addressing Mom, his gaze locks with mine.
Dessert, indeed.
Many times, Braden and I have indulged in dessert.
But if I think too much about that right now, I won’t be able to stop squirming against the tickle between my legs.
“Mom’s elderberry pie,” I say. “My favorite.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever had elderberry pie before,” he says, “though my mother made gooseberry pie once. I remember thinking it was kind of sour.”
Mom smiles. “Now that takes me back. I haven’t had gooseberry pie in years.”
“What’s a gooseberry?” I ask.
“It’s a green berry,” Mom says.
“Green? A berry?”
“Yeah. You can still find them in stores with the canned fruit sometimes, but I haven’t seen a fresh gooseberry since I was your age, Skye.” She turns to Braden. “Elderberries are tart as well, but don’t you worry. I use a fair amount of sugar in this pie, plus the whipped cream will add sweetness as well.”
“I’m sure it’s delicious. Something doesn’t have to be sweet for me to like it.” Braden smiles.
He’s smiling at my mother. That smile that I hardly ever get to see!
Calm down, Skye. Being jealous of your mother is all-out ridiculous.
He quickly maneuvers his gaze to mine, though. His words echo inside me.
Something doesn’t have to be sweet for me to like it.
He’s not talking about the elderberry pie. He’s not talking about my pussy, either, as he’s spoken soliloquies on how good I taste.
No. He’s talking about me.
My personality.
I’m not sweet.
Fine. Neither is he.
Braden takes a bite of the pie, chews, and swallows, never taking his eyes off me. “Delicious.”
“I’m glad you like it.” My mother grins.
But he’s really not talking about the pie.
I squirm. I’m tingling all over, and my heart is thundering. I take a piece of pie, hoping I can get it to my mouth without it landing in my lap. My hands are shaking.
The pie makes it past my lips, but it has no flavor. The only flavor on my tastebuds at the moment is Braden.
The texture of his full lips touching mine.
The spicy taste of his tongue entwining with mine.
The salty and musky flavor of his cock inside my mouth.
I’m as horny as I’ve ever been, almost near orgasm…and I’m sitting at dinner with my parents.