“No one,” I reply and side hug her. “Just happy you’re here.”
She kisses my forehead and pats my hair. “That’s a load of hooey, but I’ll get his name out of your sisters, don’t you worry.”
I laugh. “When it’s important, I promise I’ll tell you. This is nothing but a little fun.”
“Well, go have your fun.” My mom motions toward my phone as she pulls away. “I’m going to go check on your dad. Maybe catch a little nap next to him.”
I nod and watch her go before glancing at my screen again. I should tell him no, I can’t see him again. I can’t because my parents are living here now and my dad is dying and my work is about to get really intense with the prospect of this promotion and I don’t need his antics, as charming as they are, to distract me. But there’s time to be an adult later. I text him back.
You might not be Fred Flintstone but I’ll let you make my bed rock (again).
9
Elijah
I take the stairs two at a time but stop and give myself a second before I knock on her door. I can hear her inside as I run my hands through my hair and try to get my heart to stop hammering. She’s singing. Badly. Oh my God, so badly. I smile and try to make out the song. Selena Gomez, I think. Jesus, she soOunds like a dying cat, and it’s fucking awesome. I cover my mouth with my hand to keep from laughing out loud.
Dixie is such a dynamo and seems to be good at everything, but her singing proves that’s not true. Somehow, though, I’m totally attracted to her off-key silliness, which makes my heart hammer even harder. What the hell is with me that I am so flustered by a woman? I’ve never had this problem before in my life. I don’t know what it is about her, but she makes me so off-balance, and yet when I’m with her, I feel more grounded than I have since the accident.
She told me to come over at about seven and it’s six forty-five. I was sick of pacing her block, and I was getting strange looks from the barista at the Starbucks on the corner for milking my tall caramel macchiato for two hours. I should have just hung out at Levi’s, watched some sports or surfed the net, but I was antsy. I had this weird sensation like we were racing against a clock. If I didn’t see her as soon as I could, I felt like I wouldn’t get the chance. I would have been here the second she sent that Fred Flintstone text, but she said her family was in town and she needed to be with them until now.
I listen to her sing just a little bit longer and then try to cover the smirk on my face as I knock. She yells that it’s open, which I need to talk to her about. I don’t know San Fran well, but I know enough to know this isn’t a high-end area. Not horrible, but she should be keeping her door locked, even if she’s expecting company. I open the door and look around her apartment, something I didn’t do much of last night.
She’s got candles lit again, giving the place an intimate, warm feel. The bed is exactly where it was last night, in a nook by the window. There’s what look like two brand-new wide, comfortable armchairs across from the minuscule kitchen area, but no TV. Instead on the wall are a bunch of framed posters—words. Slogans or motivational sayings, I guess you’d call them. Things like “Celebrate Every Victory” and “If You Can’t Beat Fear, Do It Scared.” They’re all in simple dark wood frames, printed in different fonts on different-colored paper. They’d be crazy in any other chick’s apartment, but for Dixie, it works. Especially the one that says “Throw Sass Around Like Confetti.”
I’m smiling when she comes trotting out of her bathroom in nothing but heels and red lacy underwear and matching bra, holding a feather duster and a DustBuster. Holy shit. As my jaw drops, her smile grows. “Sorry. I was just tidying up.”
“No you weren’t,” I reply, my own smile starting to grow.
“You’re right. I wasn’t.” She laughs. “But you seem to like the hot housewife or naughty maid thing, so I thought I should run with it.”
“You’re incredible.” I shrug out of my coat and let it fall to the floor and then start toward her.
“I’m also a complete slob,” she confesses. “If you open my closet it’s just piles of clothes and junk I shoved in there last night so you wouldn’t know.”
“You’re also a terrible singer, and that wall of words says you’re a Tony Robbins wannabe too,” I tell her as I motion toward her wall.
She blinks but doesn’t look the least bit offended or embarrassed, which I love. “I believe in the power of positive thinking, and you were eavesdropping.”
“Hard not to hear that voice,” I quip.
She feigns indignation and points the feather duster at my face. “You don’t like it, you can buy earplugs.”
“But then I’d miss the way you pant my name when you come,” I say casually, but it gets the very uncasual reaction I’m looking for—she blushes.
I use her moment of astonishment to reach out and grab her, pulling her body flush with mine. It’s crazy how she fits, that petite frame of hers curls into me, rubbing and bumping all the right places. I dip my head, our lips brush. “I don’t do that,” she protests faintly, and it makes me pass my lips over hers again, teasingly.
“Oh, you do that,” I promise her. “And I want to make you do it again.”
“Well, hurry up then,” she goads, a smile on those naturally rosy lips. “I’ve got cleaning to do.”
My arms tighten around her waist, closing any gap between us, and my lips take hers. The kiss is deep and hard, and she gives as good as she gets, matching every pass of my tongue and every push of my lips against hers. She drops the feather duster and grabs my belt instead, twisting and yanking until it’s undone, never breaking the kiss or letting go of the DustBuster in her other hand. I move my lips to her ear, biting and sucking the lobe before telling her, “You might want to put down the vacuum.”
She smiles playfully and turns it on for a second, filling the room with a roaring sound. Then she steps back, out of my arms, and says, “If you insist.”
She bends right there in front of me, dropping to her knees, one hand undoing my button and pulling down my fly while the other gently places the mini vacuum on the floor. But she doesn’t stand up right away. Instead, she pushes my jeans over my hips, and then she does the same with my underwear, careful not to catch my completely solid dick, which is now level with her pretty blue eyes. She’s going to give me a blow job. I can tell by the smile curving the corners of her mouth and the way her tongue wets her lips. I somehow get harder at that revelation.
I move my hands to curl into her silky, straight hair and force my eyes to stay focused on her as she wraps a hand around the base of my cock and starts to slide her warm, wet mouth over the tip. Sweet mother of everything, this is incredible. Her mouth is firm, and her tongue swirls deliciously around my shaft as she goes straight for it—taking all of me in one long, unhurried movement.
