Case in point.
Using the rest of the beans I ground earlier, I fill the bottom of the coffee press with grounds and add water to the kettle, leaving it over a burner, ready for the flame.
Setting out two mugs, I also wipe down the table and tie off the fresh garbage so the kitchen doesn’t smell like old sausages and cold peppers in the morning. And after I turn my clothes on the bricks to get an even dry and lay out Goldie’s coat to dry, too, I’m officially out of shit to tinker with.
I’m six four, so the idea of sleeping on an old cabin floor doesn’t do too much for me. My hips will hurt, my back will ache, and it’ll take me a day just to uncramp my body. But once I push into the bedroom and catch an eyeful of moonlight dripping over Goldie’s small body huddled up in the middle of the bed, I know I gotta sleep on the floor.
I told her I would. And I don’t know why a grown-ass woman is scared to sleep alone when she’s drinking, but I know enough about life to understand that her fear comes from something. Something happened to Goldie, and I said I’d sleep in here, so I will.
All I’m doin’ is keepin’ my word. Nothin’ more.
With a pillow from the couch and a flannel blanket from the foot of the bed, I lie down on the floor and close my eyes.
The last thing I think about before I go to sleep is how much Mere woulda liked this cabin. And that thought, as I’m dozing off, is the sharp reminder I need.
I don’t have any business getting interested in anybody. I know what my Mom wants, and I know she and my dad worry I’ll die alone. But if Mere died alone, maybe that’s what I deserve, too.
nine
goldie
I need privacy
I never thoughtI’d be saying this, but I miss my tiny apartment. My sliver of existence above Delilah’s Deli with exactly eight hundred square feet of privacy. Even though I’ve been wallowing about singledom for the last several months, being in this tiny cabin with Atticus has made me quite appreciative of the privacy I have back at my place.
Privacy is something I didn’t realize I wanted until spending this much time around him. The more time I spend with him, the more I get the warmth and tingles in my gut, that electricity pulsing through my veins, the insane and overwhelming desire to strip off those gray sweats and have myself a ride on the Atti monster down below.
See?I need privacy.
To smother this urge to fuck his brains out.
Once smothered, I can move on.
After waking, it takes me several blinks to calibrate to the small room I’m sleeping in. The window is covered in condensation, and even though there’s no heater in the cabin, the room still feels relatively warm. I don't feel another person when I stretch my arms through the sheets.
Atticus said he’d come back in here and sleep with me so I wouldn’t be alone.
I think he promised though truthfully, with all the wine I remember drinking, who knows what really went down.
What I do know is I’m alone in the center of this bed, the cabin is quiet, and it feels early. If I had any extra energy, I’d paw around for my phone and attempt to check the time. But pre-coffee me only has enough energy for one thing:smothering the urge.
I may have been drunk, but I remember laying eyes on his hard-on after falling off the chair like a complete wreck. I really eyed it, too. It was…substantial. Like, wide and meaty but also appeared to be quite generous in length. I squeeze my eyes shut, blinking out the bright snow glow from the window.
Reaching down, I slip a hand beneath my panties and drive my middle finger between my labia, sliding over my clit and dipping into my cunt. Everything is soft and wet, like my body has been marinating in the dream of Atticus overnight, and now she’s ready to go.
I got you, girl.
Adding my index finger, I begin making small circles around my clit, tight and fast. As the muscles in my legs awaken and my thighs begin their journey apart, my back arches off the bed, and my mouth falls open. Mixing it up, I drive my two fingers inside of myself, stroking in and out, imagining it’s not me at all.
It’s him.
He’s over me. His hand is down between us. The weight of his absolutely monstrous cock is heavy against my thigh. I can feel his precum smearing my flesh as he stares me down, fucking me hard with two thick fingers.
“Ooh,” I moan softly at the image and as I slide my fingers out of me with a wet pop, bringing the tips back to my swollen clit. I rub it faster, and the sound of my extremely wet pussy being abused fills the air, even through the cover of fleece and flannel blankets.
I wonder what that filthy, rude mouth of his would feel like dragging over my wet clit, sucking me onto his tongue. God it’s been so long since any man has eaten me out, I can hardly remember how good it feels.
And I don’t know why, but I bet Atticus really feasts when he goes down on a woman. Uses his nose and strains his neck, really fucking gets into it.