But nothing about us was regular.
Nothing.
At all.
My pussy was wet, desperate for his touch, his cock. So eager for it, I—
The thought occurred to me, and I didn’t know why it hadn’t until now.
I could touch him.
He didn’t have to touch me first.
He reared back like he knew what I was about, and I couldn’t stop myself. Connected with him through our gaze, I licked my lips and began to sink under the table.
The second he understood what I was doing, his nostrils flared and he ground out, “Stay where you are, Phoebe.”
I shook my head and disappeared under the tabletop. I felt his tension from afar, felt it and wondered at it.
Didn’t he want this?
Me?
Why wouldn’t he want me to touch him, to give him pleasure? After weeks of watching me satisfy myself, surely he needed more? Craved it as much as I did?
My own mind was working against me. I needed to touch him, needed him to feel as much as he made me feel.
It was a compulsion, a desire so strong that it was more than I’d ever felt with my ex. This was almost as heady as an orgasm, for God’s sake.
My hands rested on his thighs, and I felt the tension within him. What I also recognized, however, was that while he might claim he didn’t want me to do this, he wasn’t moving.
He hadn’t shifted out of the booth, and he was still sitting where he’d been.
Was that the green light?
Did I need one?
My nails dug into his crisply ironed dress pants. The man wore clothes that some might wear on a night out, and this was just to visit a crappy coffee shop in my neighborhood.
Part of me wondered what he’d look like on a date night, and another part of me didn’t give a fuck because all I really wanted was to see him naked. No clothes, no barriers, nothing between us.
Christ, I wanted that as much as I wanted his dick.
When my hands smoothed over his pants, his tension transmitted itself to me again, but I ignored it. I had to. I needed this more than he did.
As I reached his belly, I found his belt buckle and began to unwrap it. When I rubbed a hand over his shaft, feeling the thick bulge that was proof he wanted me, a sob of relief escaped me. I pressed my face to his leg, so fucking happy that this exquisite need wasn’t only felt by me.
He felt it too, but he was fighting it, and that was what I didn’t understand.
Maybe would never understand.
I shuddered as I started on the buckle once more, and just as I reached for the zipper, just as the tines began to part and the scent of him in these close confines overwhelmed me, the bell on the door sounded.
This time, my eyes did grow moist with tears, and I scurried out from under the table, terrified I’d be caught, but even more terrified at what I’d see in his eyes.
The craving for him was so powerful that my body ached with it, and I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, he was going to punish me today.
As I served the four customers who came in as a group, I wasn’t surprised when my phone buzzed in my pocket.
Maclean: Insert the vibrator.
It was in my bag as it always was. Charged and ready to go.
When I could, I headed to the bathroom and released a moan as my fingers slid through my slickness. I filled myself up with the silicone dick and thought of the heavy weight of his. How it would feel in my hand, skin to skin, how it would taste against my tongue.
I imagined his body atop mine, thrusting, rutting against me like a beast from what I made him feel.
My fingers slid against my clit, and just as I was seconds away from orgasm, the vibe started.
A startled gasp escaped me.
How did he know me so well?
It was like he was attuned to me. Like he knew my body better than I did.
I cried as I orgasmed then. Cried because it was either that or scream as the pleasure raked down my nerve endings.
It wasn’t enough. Wouldn’t be until he was there, inside me, not this fucking piece of plastic, but it took the edge off, and I was surprised, truth be told, because he wasn’t a kind man, and what surprised me all the more was the fact that I didn’t want him to be.
I liked him just as he was.
Weird and all.
❖
A few days into my new job, I had to admit a few things.
One, I felt guilty. Not only had I left Lorenzo and Maria in the lurch, even though it was with their blessing when I explained my situation, but Cheryl had looked like she was going to cry when I told her about the change of plans. That she needed the money as badly as I did was a given, but though my hands were tied, it didn’t stop me from feeling bad about it.
Two, I missed seeing the professor at the coffee shop in the morning. Without him to start my day, I felt like I was going into withdrawals. Like he was a drug I was addicted to, and didn’t know how to buy.
Three, I was loving the change in Scottie.
Working from home meant I could sit with him, and let him roam around my bedroom and his as he was refusing, more and more, to stay in his crib. I often sat on the floor, my laptop on my lap as I watched him. He seemed to be flourishing with how much time I could give him now, and considering he was missing Mrs. Linden as badly as I was, it made me feel like I was doing something right at the moment.
He had to stay in the crib while I was at school, and on the nights when I was at the bar, Mom was home. She wasn’t a responsible adult, and she spent half that time drunk off her ass, but he was asleep and she promised me she wouldn’t leave him.
I should have known she couldn’t even keep that simple promise.
A few nights after she’d repeated that promise to me over another payment of a six-pack of beer, I returned to find Scottie sobbing his heart out. He sounded like he was in agony, those tears were soul-deep, wounded, and they pained me. Physically. After a quick scan that showed me my mother had left him because she was nowhere to be found and hell, the apartment was tiny so hiding was out, I went into the bedroom, smelled crap, and saw his arm was torn up and bandaged badly. And for the first time in my life, I was at a loss.
I stared at him as he stared back at me, his cheeks bright red from the fury he’d worked himself into, his tiny hands curved into fists that were white from the strain.
Then, he broke my heart.
Literally burned it to ash.
“Ma-ma.”
His first word.
Was he calling me that or was he saying that Mom had done this to him?
Okay, that was allotting a lot of brainpower to an eleven-month-old, but he called me mama?
Oh, God.
And I’d left him.
I’d left him with that bitch who’d birthed us both.
My mouth quivered as I shot forward and hauled his stinky butt into my arms. Sure, he smelled of poop, but beneath it all, he smelled like mine.
And, for all intents and purposes, he was.
I was the one who’d rocked him to sleep, who’d fed him and burped him, who’d changed his diapers and cleaned up his puke. I’d been the one to fret over his vaccinations, who’d worried about daycare…
Me.
I was his mother, and I needed to start acting like one.
Staying here was a no-no. I saw that now. I’d been running on hope and a prayer as I had for the past twenty-one years of my life where my mother was concerned, and I knew that the time had come for me to break ties with her.