All those questions and concerns about meeting his parents took a back seat to the heat in his eyes. I grinned and started the car.
* * *
My palm was sweaty and I tried to tug my hand away from Maurice’s as we walked toward his parents’ house, but he didn’t let go. My tie was slightly crooked and I stopped to straighten it, but in the end, he turned toward me to tighten the knot and smooth the green fabric down.
“I should’ve worn a nicer suit. This gray one is okay for the office, but I’m meeting your parents.” I slid his glasses up his nose.
He planted a soothing kiss on my cheek. “This fabric is already too much for the weather. You look great.” He’d been a good sport about me losing my mind when I was getting ready to go, and he also had on a light summer suit, but in a deep brown that was nearly black and made his eyes stand out. “You didn’t need a suit at all, I promise. They’re not that formal.”
“I want them to like me.” I tugged at the sleeves of my suit jacket, and he grabbed my hands to make me stop.
Maurice took a deep breath, then pressed his lips softly to mine. Unfortunately his mouth gently working me over made me think about the careful way he’d fucked my ass this afternoon—he’d taken his time and hammered my prostate until my cock burst like a fountain. I’d never had anyone take so much care with me, and I was starting to get addicted to how he focused on all the little things I needed.
“Help me make a good impression,” I begged.
“I’m telling you right now, they will have something annoying to say no matter what you look like, do, or think.” He ran a thumb over my right eyebrow, smoothing it down. “It doesn’t mean they don’t like you, it’s just who they are. There is a reason I wasn’t in a hurry for this. Don’t hate me when we’re done.”
“You aren’t making me less stressed.” I chuckled and it sounded as if I were choking.
One at a time he kissed the back of my hands, then kept hold of the right one and tugged me toward the front door again. The shotgun home wasn’t much different from Maurice’s, only the wooden siding was painted a brilliant white and the trim was an eye-bending lime.
“Isn’t this close to your house?”
“Yes.” He sighed. “I wanted to make sure I was nearby because Dad isn’t able to do much.”
Shaking my head, I gripped his hand a bit tighter.
When we reached the door, he didn’t bother to knock, simply opened it and led the way inside. The walls in here were the same vibrant green as the exterior trim and had me blinking. The smell in the living room reminded me of a bar because heavy cigarette stench lingered over everything. My nose twitched, but Maurice didn’t seem to notice. There was a TV on a stand across from a frail old man with buzzed gray hair sitting in a recliner. Gray shorts clung to his stick-thin legs and a white undershirt billowed around him. He had a cigarette hanging out of the side of his mouth, smoke curling in thin ribbons toward the ceiling as he frowned down at the Sunday paper. He held a pencil in one hand and scowled harder.
“What’s a four-letter word for passion?” he shot at us, without looking up.
Don’t say fuck.“I have no idea,” I murmured.
He glanced at us in surprise, as if maybe he hadn’t expected someone new to be in his home.
Maurice waved. “Good afternoon, Dad.”
A skinny woman in a floral dress bustled through the archway directly across from the door, and beyond her a stove was visible. I finally smelled the cooking meat that fought against the cigarette odor. I inhaled deeply. Maybe meatloaf was on the menu. We didn’t eat some of the homier meals a lot at my place, simply because Mrs. Riggins didn’t prepare them, and my mouth began to water. While she walked, Maurice’s mom patted her short gray curls, and she snagged her husband’s cigarette from his mouth as she passed, then took a drag from it.
“Maurice! Who is this?” She smiled and I could see some of where he’d gotten his looks. Her lips were curved like his and her brown eyes were the same shade, but that was where the similarities seemed to end, though her body shape was a bit like Lacey’s.
“His name is Fenwick Guidry, Mother.” I didn’t miss his shift to a more formal tone, and I wasn’t sure if he always spoke with his parents that way or if he was nervous.
I stepped closer to his mom and snagged her free hand, and she giggled as I pressed a kiss to the back. “You can call me Wick. If all goes well, you’ll be seeing a lot of me.”
She waved a hand and came dangerously close to burning me with the cigarette. Maurice sighed and took the smoking weapon from her fingers, and then she pulled me into a hug that took me by surprise. “Look at you! Such a gentleman. I love these suits.”
Maurice rolled his eyes behind her as he handed the cigarette off to his dad, who dumped it in an ashtray on an end table at his side.
“Dinner is ready.” She turned to snag Maurice’s attention by snapping her fingers at him. “We can eat, then take a nice long walk to burn it off.”
He sighed and nodded, shoulders slumping a bit.
Irritation wormed through me, but I kept my mouth shut because I didn’t want to start off on the wrong foot with his parents. “Sounds perfect, Mrs. Baranov.”
She laughed and patted my shoulder. “Call me Bertie. Bertie Baranov.”
Maurice’s dad grunted and put down the foot of his recliner, standing and scowling, then tossed the paper down on his seat as if it had offended him and shuffled toward the kitchen. He didn’t offer to introduce himself. Bertie bustled after him, her dress swishing in her wake, and Maurice snagged my hand as we followed them.
