Chapter 34: Cat-and-Mouse

God, I look fat.

I must have spent hours in the boutique, surrounded by and wading through the vast selection of wedding dresses of all sizes, trains, and silhouettes. The one that finally called my name was of an A-line silhouette, the hem stopping just above my knees with a mini train. The neckline curved off my shoulders, dipping into the valley of my breasts, accentuated with laced long-sleeves and tulle.

I couldn't count the times on my hand how often I'd envisioned my wedding. I don't think any woman could. By the time we were 12, we'd already had our bouquets chosen, the venue idealized, and the song to which we'd walk down the aisle decided on before we had even started dating.

What I hadn't imagined was how I'd look the day before the wedding. Standing in front of a floor length mirror, I couldn't get past the fact that I looked chubbier this time around.

The dress looked better on the fucking mannequin—What on Earth was I thinking…?

Maybe the service woman had seen my thoughts play out through my expressions because she said assuredly, "The mirror doesn't do you any justice, sweetie."

She was an elderly woman, likely in her 60's. It was as though the moment a woman reached that age, they were excellent spinsters, fantastic cooks, and they always made the bride-to-be feel good in her own skin—Mark had done that thus far, but it was reassuring to have this woman who regularly saw girls in dresses give me such a nice compliment.

"Where's the lucky groom?" Her polished but subtle British accent seemed to sell the dresses around here, but her curiosity seemed genuine.

I turned around, glancing at my reflection, smiling when I saw how great my butt looked.

"Finishing up at work." I answered distractedly.

"Oh? What does he do?"

"He's a detective."

"How nice." Her placating tone was docile at least. "Are you satisfied with the alterations?"

"I'm sure I'll feel a lot better once I'm walking down the aisle. Is it bad that I kind of want to get it over with?"

She laughed, "It's just nerves. No second thoughts, I hope?"

"None at all." And I believed it. "It's just that everything's been building up to this point, you know? I just want everything to go the way we've planned."

"I'm sure it will, sweetie."

"Do you care if I spent a little more time…?" I gestured to the mirror.

I just needed a second to decide whether this dress was my friend or my enemy—as weird as that sounded.

"Of course. Let me know if you need any help. Come to the check-out counter when you're ready."

"Thank you," I said gratefully.

I looked back at the mirror, consciously running my hands down my stomach, and wondering whether I should have her take in another inch. Just as I considered asking her to make the last-minute change, my purse (or rather my phone) started ringing. I ungracefully stepped off the stool, nearly falling over as I grabbed the phone, seeing that it was Mark calling.

"Hey, honey." I greeted.

"Hey." He sounded content. "What are you doing?"

"I'm trying on my wedding gown."

"Oh, really."

I smirked, hearing his tone suddenly pique with interest. "Get your mind out of the gutter, Detective—I'm fully dressed."

"You sound breathless."

"Oh, heh—I fell off a stool earlier."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I just saw my life flash before my eyes, and I was admittedly a little bored."

"Maybe I can change that."

"You're suddenly going to make my life exciting, are you?"

"You could say that."

"From all the way at the precinct?"

"You know I'm more than capable."

"Oh, I know. You don't have to tell me twice."

I bit my bottom lip, already imagining the kind of chaos he could create with his voice alone. Phone sex was on my agenda, but not while I was standing in the middle of a boutique in my wedding dress.

"Sounds like you've been making plans." I said sneakily.

"You could say that."

"So cryptic. I wonder what those plans might entail."

"No need to wonder. Tell me something—have you ever spent a week out in a beach house before?"

"I can't say I have."

"Is that something you would like to do?"

"The beach has its benefits. Although, I'd be less inclined to fuck in the sand…once you get it in, you can't get it out. Socks, shoes…ass cracks; it's impossible."

"That's why I like beach towels."

"Well, when you put it like that." I grinned. "The beach doesn't sound like a bad idea."

"My thought exactly."

"You want to talk about it right now?"

"We can talk more about it when I get home."

"You mean, you want to discuss everything you plan on doing?"

"Every single detail. Preferably sooner than later."

His voice was intentionally soft, full of innuendo, as if someone might have been overhearing him on his side and it sent tingles throughout my entire body.

"You'll have to behave." I warned. "My dad is spending the night, taking the guest bedroom, remember? He's literally one room away."

"He could be sleeping six feet away—that won't stop me from touching every inch of you."

I closed my eyes as a flush of heat grounded itself deep inside my cunt. That tingle had developed into a throbbing that I could barely ignore. The promise in his voice drove his intentions home.

"In case you didn't already know, the walls aren't sound-proof."

"Well, then." I could practically him smiling on the phone. "We'll just have to try and be quiet, won't we?"

I glanced at the mirror, seeing how flustered my reflection appeared to be as my heart pounded and my breathing hitched.

He said softly, "I have to get back to work. I'll see you soon."

"Yes, you will."

"Love you."

"I love you too." I hung up and quickly headed to the changing rooms to undress.

I didn't feel fat anymore. Now, I just felt really horny, which was a plus in my book. And likely a plus-plus in his.

When I came out, I approached the counter, smiling. "I'm ready to check-out."

After depositing last week's profits at the bank, stopping by the pharmacy, and checking back with the church to make sure our reservation was still in order, I'd gotten home a little past seven o'clock. As I parked in the driveway, two squad cars and a truck were parked outside of Drew's house with three officers in blue posted around while I counted nearly 10 moving throughout, picking out anything that resembled evidence. They carried boxes upon boxes to the squad truck.

I presumed that once everything was taken out, odds are the bank would take the house since Drew was going to be in jail for the next three life sentences (ideally and presumably). Someone would inevitably buy it on a foreclosure.

One of the officers saw me, tilting his head politely in my direction. I smiled in response, not being able to wave as I was holding my dress on a hanger beneath plastic covering as well as the brown paper bag that held my father's prescriptions.

Once getting in the house, I was greeted by an aroma of macaroni and cheese and green beans, noticing seconds later that the door to the backyard was propped open with a kitchen chair.

"Mark?" I called out. "Dad!"

"Out here, baby doll!" Mark called back.

I moved to the bedroom, hanging my dress up in the closet before walking out to the backyard, shaking my head when I saw my father drinking a beer with my fiancé; the two were gathered around the charcoal grill, steaks sizzling on the surface.

"How was work?" Dad asked congenially.

"Busy. Should you really be drinking?"

"It's only a couple beers."

"Mixing alcohol and pain medication is dangerous."

"Well, I'm not going to live forever. How I see it, I might as well enjoy the simple pleasures in life." He raised his glass bottle to me with an encouraging smile.

I didn't return it in the slightest.

As if to ease some of the tension between our stalemate, Mark said playfully, "This has to be a first."

I looked at him. "What is?"

"I got home before you."

"I was tied up at the restaurant." I couldn't hide the annoyance from my voice.

"No luck with the applicants?" Dad asked curiously, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.

"I interviewed 10 people."

"None passed, hm?"

"Nope."

"You know, not everyone is capable of meeting your glittery standards."

"Ally did."

"Allison set the bar too high."

"Well…" I took his arm off my shoulder. "I'm not settling either."

"I'm not saying you should settle."

"Aren't you?"

"Skimming the surface is one thing; scraping the bottom of the barrel is another." He took a long swig, finishing the rest of his beer, adding, "Speaking of 'the bottom of the barrel'…I'm going to get me another. Mark, son, mind taking over the grill? I'll be right back."

He oddly moved to the right, nearly missing three or four steps before he refocused and headed back inside the house, holding onto the door and then the wall as he carefully marched to the kitchen.

A 'couple of beers', my ass.

I sent an accusatory glance after him before turning to Mark, ready to inquire.

"Before you ask," He said preemptively, "he was drinking when I came home."

"When did you get home?"

"About an hour ago."

"Hm."

He looked me over briefly and asked with concern, "Are you feeling alright?"

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not." He called me out real quick. "Want to tell me what's bothering you?"

I shifted uncomfortably on my feet. "I just don't think he should be drinking and taking pain medication. He could do a lot more damage to himself."

"I don't think he's concerned with that."

"Well, I am."

"He's just taking the edge off."

"That's what the painkillers are for."

"It's a different kind of edge."

"So you say." I said tersely, glancing back at the house. "Frankly, I think it's all the same."

"Perhaps the 'damage' done by mixing medication and alcohol is redundant to a cancer patient."

I let out a scathing noise, "Do you ever stop playing devil's advocate? Would you mind playing on my team for a minute or two?"

Mark said lightly, "On your team? I'll want more than a minute."

The both of us heard Dad humming off-key from the kitchen.

He added casually, "Your father's a lot more lax when he's had a few."

"His lips are looser too." I lowered my arms to my side, adding, "It's the only time I've ever seen him act so casual."

"Frankly, he's a lot tamer than I thought he'd be," Mark said smoothly, taking the spatula from the side and flipping the steaks over.

"As compared to whom?"

"I was expecting him to be more of a fighter like his daughter, not a peace maker."

"You've not seen what he's like when he's drunk and angry."

"What does that entail?"

"A lot more crying than you'd expect. And he can be talked into anything. With you as his company, I'm actually surprised he isn't more juiced up, to be fair."

"You caught me," He joked. "I was going to convince him to do a round of shots, but I didn't think it was in his best interest. Or mine."

I smiled a little. "Why take the high road?"

"I didn't think his daughter would approve."

"His daughter just wants what's best for him."

"Honestly, I think he's just trying to find some normalcy."

"Why do you think that?"

"It was his idea to grill steaks."

"You call that 'normalcy'?"

"Of course. Nothing makes a man feel more like himself than a charcoal grill. That's Southern comfort." Mark pointed the spatula at me. "And don't you forget it."

"I thought the gender typecast was that you all felt more like men when you circle jerked about your sexual conquests."

"I'm down for it if the equivalent means women having pillow fights in their underwear."

"Trust me. We don't have pillow fights in our underwear."

"You like killing fantasies, don't you."

"Most of us just throw the pillows off the bed and wrestle naked."

He sent me a coy smile. "And the fantasy is revived, just like that."

I slinked away from him just as Dad came back out, holding two finger-lengths of scotch in a glass.

"Mark, there's—there are a few things I think you should know about my daughter before you officially marry her," He said loudly as he sat down on one of the lawn chairs, kicking his feet up on the other one.

"And what are they?"

I sighed, "Here come the embarrassing stories."

"Would you rather I tell these stories at your wedding?" Dad compromised.

"I'd rather you tell them at my wake."

"Well, you're shit out of luck, little lady. Because I'm going to tell them to this boy of yours right now."

"Dad…"

"I'm sure nothing will surprise me," Mark promised as if to assuage my inevitable humility.

"Oh," Dad laughed. "Oh, this will. For starters, did you know that Lexi was on her high school dance team? She could do back flips, front flips and any other flips you could think of!"

I quickly took my leave, muttering, "I'm going to get the plates."

I gathered the macaroni and cheese and green beans to three plates along with silverware on them. Mark plopped a steak on each plate; I handed one to him as well as to Dad, who gratefully took it with his overly appreciative 'thanks' as he continued his stories.

"She had this one friend. Kevin." Dad leaned towards Mark in his chair. "You wouldn't believe the mouth on this boy. Always talking, jabbering on—I could never get a word in. And he'd touch everything. Everything and everyone. It got to such a point, I had to literally knock his hands off my daughter."

Mark looked to me for context.

"Kevin was blind." I explained.

"Yeah," Dad scoffed, air quoting the word. "'Blind'."

"He was!"

"The kid could read fine print miles away but when he had to 'see' what my kid looked like, suddenly it was all dark! Couldn't believe it. 14 years old and already growing into a con artist. He kept telling me, 'It's true! I can't see anything! Take me to the doctor if you don't believe me!'. So, I took him to the optometrist to get his eyes checked."

Mark looked at him expectantly. "And?"

"And…" Dad's bolstering voice softened to one of embarrassment. "Well, apparently, he was blind. Legally, even. Couldn't see anything."

"And being able to read the fine print?"

Dad chuckled, "Oh, shit, son, he wasn't able to read a damn thing; he was just really good at guessing at what was on billboards we were driving by. You know the same ones you'd see over and over: advertisements for phone carriers, restaurants, lawyers—goddamn liars."

"Not all lawyers are liars." I reminded.

Dad said humorously, "I meant the phone carriers. 'Can you hear me now'? No, goddamn it, I can't hear you. You're way fucking over there; how the fuck am I supposed to hear you when you're on a fake phone, you dumb ass motherfucker." He polished off his whiskey, adding sweetly, "Honey, h-hold my plate—I'm gonna get a beer."

He gave me his plate to hold, kissed my forehead, and headed inside the house again, stumbling along the way.

"He has a mouth on him, doesn't he," I giggled, noticing how surprised Mark looked after hearing Dad's little rant about phone carriers.

"You're not kidding. I guess I know who you get it from now."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I mused.

"Don't you."

"For your information, I'm exceptionally mild-mannered."

"More vulgar, if you ask me."

I feigned being insulted. "How dare you." (Mark laughed.) "That's slander! For your information, nothing dirty has ever been in or out of my mouth."

"You know," He said lowly, putting his plate on the end table next to him so he turned to me with his hand on my thigh, "Even if that were true—which we both know, it isn't—I'd readily change that."

"Volunteering as tribute? Willing to take one for the team?"

"Ready and willing."

I teasingly flicked my tongue across his upper lip, whispering, "How ready?"

"Don't tempt me."

"Standing so close to the edge, you could be tempted to do anything. I like knowing I have that kind of affect on you. What do you want to do right now?"

He brushed his lips against my own, rendering a soft kiss before he said too smoothly, "Right now, I couldn't be more tempted to shove my dick down your throat."

"Ooh, that's a bold promise."

"Just say the word."

I grinned widely, my insides squirming around at his verbiage. "You'd love to do it that much?"

"You know I would."

"What do you like about it?"

He squeezed my thigh, slipping his fingers beneath my skirt to graze his thumb over my clit and said bluntly, "I love feeling your lips around my dick, and hearing you gag on it."

I kissed him—one, to put my unbridled energy to something more productive; and two, to shut him up, hoping I could stop the throbbing ache that had started just below my abdomen that now bloomed brighter and hotter deep inside my cunt. Just his words alone were driving me crazy—any more and I was sure dinner was going to be the least of my priorities (unless he was the five-course feast).

As if wanting to know for himself how much I wanted him, Mark slid his fingers between my pussy lips through the material of my panties.

I could find no other distraction when Mark kissed me back, swallowing my longing moans so my father couldn't hear them.

"You're going to have to try a lot harder not to make a sound," He cautioned. "You're failing miserably at it."

"Well, you're not exactly making it easy."

His wolfish grin made an appearance. "I don't intend to. Especially not now."

I bit my bottom lip when he slipped his hand inside my underwear, feeling how wet I was already for him; his fingertips just barely penetrating my slippery entrance.

For good measure, I reached over to his lap, rubbing my hand over his hardened bulge, his cock slightly twitching at my touch. Pride swelled within when a wanton, involuntary moan escaped him, how his kiss became suddenly impassioned and fervent.

"Wanna see who can be the quietest?" I challenged in between kisses.

"You're going to lose that competition, sweetheart."

"Based on what evidence?"

"I know how loud you can get when you're begging for it."

"Is that right—Well, we'll see who's begging who by the end of the night."

I nipped his chin before I moved away, putting distance between us just as Dad came back out, going on about how phone carriers were no better than pyramid schemes.

At least he was drunk enough not to notice how flushed my skin was or how Mark was eying me with a predatory gaze that was all too familiar.

He was ready to seek out and capture his prey, but he wasn't the only predator in the jungle.

Game on.

After several beers and three shots of whiskey in the gullet, Dad looked ready to retire. He sat on the couch, which had been moved further away, so I camped out on the living room floor between it and the television with enough room to sprawl about on the blankets and pillows. It was Dad's idea to make tonight something of a camping trip (minus the woods and the hot spring), his way of saying 'good-bye' to the little girl he'd raised before giving her to Mark, which Dad jokingly added, "Good luck, son, you're gonna need it".

We'd long since gotten out of our day clothes. Dad wore his pajama top and bottoms, wearing a teal robe over it, watching the last of a football game as he sat on the couch with Mark, who was comfortable in his white tank top and black sweats, drinking right along with him.

I laid down on the floor, revising my blueprints for Poe, the non-prototype as sports never held an interest for me, wearing a loose-fitting dark red night shirt; for Dad's peace of mind, I wore shorts underneath even though it covered everything. Every now and then, I'd glance over my shoulder to see Mark watching me with something more than just football on the brain and I'd send him a coy smile, knowing our bet was still very much on.

Whatever meant the end of a football game seemed to approach as Dad stretched and got to his feet; his hand shook as he balanced himself with his cane, grumbling, "Goddamn it…I'm getting old. Can't bounce back like I used to."

"Is the game over?" I asked no one in particular.

"Might as well be," He said unhappily. "There's no way they're coming back from that shit call."

"So, your team lost?"

"Regrettably so." Dad rolled his eyes. "Looks like I owe Carmine 100 bucks. Fucking asshole's gonna steal all my money before I die."

"You bet against Carmine?" I asked incredulously. "Why would you do that? He's always right about sports."

Dad pointed at me. "That asshole knows a thing or two about playing the odds, but so do I."

I sat up, crossing my legs. "You mean you know a thing or two about losing them."

"You're not wrong." Dad sent me a raucous smile. "But at the same time: Hush, little lady. Now, get up here and give me a hug. I'm going to bed, and I'm not gonna try to get down on the ground with you. Lord knows I ain't gonna be able to get the fuck back up if I do."

I hopped to my feet; he pulled me into a warm and surprisingly tight embrace; after he kissed my cheek, he said softly, "I love you."

"I love you too."

Dad moved behind the couch, saying "You make one hell of a steak, Detective" and clapped Mark on the shoulder, adding magnanimously, "I'll see you tomorrow morning."

He made his way down the hallway towards the guest bedroom, closing the door a few minutes after. At that point, Mark moved to partake in our makeshift indoor camping adventure; he sat with his back against the base of the couch, comfortably propped up by a pillow, drinking another beer while I sat on my knees near the bookcase of movies, listing off the titles and waiting for one that might interest him.

Once the first selection had been rejected (most of them being in the zombie subgenre of horror), I started pilfering through the cult classics, finally landing on William Castle's, 'House on Haunted Hill' (starring Vincent Price).

It was one of the best Haunted House movies in the genre since the late '50s, still relevant considering the stupid choices people made and definable creepy moments. (I loved ghosts as much as the next person, but it'd take a lot more than $10,000 to get me to stay anywhere near those creepy housekeepers.)

Ironically enough, Mark hadn't seen it.

"Just so you're aware, it's black and white and it can be a little campy at times," I explained, getting to my feet so I could put the DVD in the player. "I hope that doesn't turn you off."

He eyed my bare thighs and legs, and how my shirt fell off one shoulder and said wholeheartedly, "Trust me. Nothing about this situation is turning me off."

"I meant with the movie and its writing!"

"That too."

"Mm-hmm." I put the DVD in the player, getting to my feet to douse the lights.

I started to sit down next to him, but he took my hips from behind, moving me so I sat in front, a nonverbal suggestion that followed for me to lie back against him.

I did as he wanted, scooting backwards between his legs, and reclining my back against his chest. After, he pulled all my hair to one shoulder—Just his touch alone sent a pleasurable shiver down my back and made my mind fuzzy. He kissed the nape of my neck, his hands slowly moving over my shoulders then down to my ribcage, tummy, and hips, before they ghosted over my bare thighs, giving them a little squeeze.

"Beginning credits haven't even started, and you're already getting handsy," I teased.

"I don't know what you're talking about." He replied innocently. "I'm just getting comfortable."

"Oh, is that what you call it."

The first scenes in the movie were innocent enough with ominous music set in the background. Five guests who were in all different classes from psychologist to typist and from drunk to pilot were invited to a party where they had to survive a haunted house for a single night. While those guests had the personalities of cardboard boxes, the real stars of the show were Annabelle and her husband. My favorite part of the movie weren't the ghoulish antics, the smart use of maple syrup, or even the twist at the end—it was the dynamic between the couple. They seemed in love like a typical '50s married couple, but there was something buried beneath the surface, tantalizing yet malevolent.

Watching Annabelle and Frederick Loren do their cat-and-mouse of lowballing insults and waging subtle threats against the other always put me in a certain frisky mood.

Money, obviously, was the wife's motivation to stay in the game. Once her husband died (either by natural causes or by her own hand—whichever came first), she'd get all his money. In the meantime, she had to consort with his stated jealousy and possessive behavior.

Mr. Loren was a millionaire; he could afford a divorce, even offering her the money tax-free if she'd just leave without fault, but she refused. I guess in the '50s, you had to have more of a definitive reason to divorce than 'my wife tried to poison me and thanks to these incompetent doctors, she got away with it; she's a cunt and I didn't sign up for this shit, respectfully'.

If that wasn't the definition of a bad marriage, I didn't know what was. But it made for excellent B-roll.

"Would you stay in a haunted house for 10,000 dollars?" Mark asked lowly.

The guests had gathered in the house, all precariously engaged with their surroundings and yet none were aware of the antics that were about to take place.

"In a real haunted house? It'd have to be a higher sum than 10,000 dollars."

"Granted, that was the offer in the '50s. It'd be around 80 grand now."

"Still not enough."

"You'd ask for more?"

I scoffed, "I'm sure a millionaire could go higher than 80,000. I mean, that's chump change to him."

"How much would you be asking for?"

I snickered, "I'd be asking for enough where the both of us could retire."

"That much?"

"Are you surprised?"

"Someone like you, I'd think you'd take any option to visit a haunted house—free or otherwise."

"I'd love to visit one. Whether that ghost or ghoul or whatever it is in the house would allow me to leave is a whole other story," I countered. "I wouldn't risk the chance of the entity being inhuman. It could be a demon for all I know."

"Is that a deal breaker for you?"

"Of course. Ghosts inhabiting a haunted house is one thing, you know? Ghosts used to be human. They might be misunderstood but—as movies tell it—they're typically motivated by something humane: anger, fear, love, whatever. Demons are just plain assholes."

The movie continued without interruption and so did his effort of 'getting comfortable' as I felt him shift behind me. I laid my head back against his shoulder, smiling inwardly when he took the invitation to kiss me just as his once presumed not-so-innocent hands moved up beneath my shirt to my braless breasts, his thumbs encircling each nipple, making them hard while I reached behind me to massage his half-erect cock through his pants.

As he started to grow in my hand, I whispered knowingly, "We're not going to make it to the end of the movie, are we?"

"At least, we've established a pattern of behavior."

I turned around, straddling his lap. He looked up at me with a mischievous little smirk.

I asked boldly, "What if I made you wait?"

"Are you asking me to stop?"

"Not at all. Just throwing around another hypothetical situation, one where you might have to wait to get your fix."

"I know you're a fan of hypotheticals, but to tell you the truth, I'm not on board with this one."

"Why not? You're patient any other time."

He said coolly, "I'm patient now."

"Are you?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Why don't we test that out, huh."

I slid my hand inside his pants; his entire body stiffened as I held him in my palm, slowly stroking up and down. He tried to sit up further as though he had some intention to pin me down, but I pushed my hand against his chest, keeping him propped up against the couch.

I stood up and pulled my shorts down my legs, stepping out and straddling him again; any equivocation he had seemed tossed out the window as I took his cock out of his pants, continuing to jack him off without ever dropping eye contact.

Mark ran his hands down my back, lifting my nightshirt above my waist to feel the silk and lace of my black panties, squeezing my ass before they moved underneath my shirt to feel up my tits.

In a few minutes, his breathing changed. As did mine. His hands entangled in my hair as he kissed me hard, his tongue slipping inside my mouth as if to conquer it first before anywhere else.

All the while, I jacked his cock, feeling him get harder and thicker in my hand, hearing his stifled moans (in his effort to keep quiet). He grabbed my thighs just as he would when he was about to come and before he did, I suddenly stopped, smirking when he realized the kind of game I was playing.

"God, you're such a fucking cocktease."

"Yeah, but you knew that already."

"Better than anyone." He muttered.

"You're not ready to beg though, are you."

"I told you, didn't I?" His hand moved from my thigh to the slick center of my panties, sliding his index and middle fingers along the material between my petals; my hips involuntarily buckled at his contact. "I'm patient. I can wait."

"Well, that was just one round." I reminded.

"We both know that out of the two of us, you have the least amount of self-control. I think you'll give in long before I do."

I gritted my teeth when he circled his fingertips over my swollen clit—it sent electric-like jolts from my pussy to my brain, and it made me want him right then and there.

But this was my game. Not his.

"I don't know," I said coyly. "You looked really pissed off a few seconds ago when I didn't let you come."

He started to respond but I cut him off, kissing him again and returning to my mischievous intentions, stroking one side of his cock as well as slowly grinding my pussy against the other, feeling the ridge of him through my underwear brush against my clit; each time, it sent the same electric jolts through my body.

This time around, he seemed more tentative, knowing I wasn't going to let him off so easily. As if to distract himself from the inevitability of being turned on any further, his hand moved to my neck, keeping us interlocked in an ongoing intense make-out while the other held my hip, encouraging my pussy grind. His efforts were commendable, but his cock loved the attention as it pulsed in my hand.

When I suddenly stopped this time around, Mark was less than amused. He let out a sigh of frustration, his jaw clenched as I kissed his neck consolably.

"Not so patient now, are we," I taunted.

He laid back, looking at me with a sarcastic smile. "I hate you."

"I love you too." I stood up a second time and slid my panties off, kicking them to the side and sat back down.

His cock twitched as I began to grind my pussy up and down his long shaft, feeling the length and thickness of him, every inch, every vein suddenly becoming more apparent as I covered every inch of him with my excitement.

Admittedly, I was growing weak, imagining him buried up to my stomach. Hearing him, feeling his hands rub all over my body as a means of persuasion and it was working.

I wouldn't be able to hold out much longer. God knows, I needed him too.

"Fuck." He groaned, squeezing my ass as I started to grind harder and faster. "Goddamn it…"

"Mmm, I know." I lightly raked my nails up and down his chest. "You want to be inside me, don't you. Want to feel my cunt wrapped around your cock, clenched around you—"

"Alexis, I fucking swear—"

"You know what I want to hear." I circled the head of his cock with my thumb; his hips buckled upwards in response. "Say it. And I'll give you what you want."

He was wrestling with himself, alright: Wanting to finally be inside of me so badly but also trying to win this game of ours. Which part of him was going to take over?

I started to slow down, threatening to edge him again.

"No, no, no, don't stop." His desire strained his voice in a way that was just too good to ignore as if this game was causing him physical pain.

"Then say it." I ordered.

I kissed him hard, he returned it, desperation strained his voice as he begged, "I'll say anything you want—just please don't…Don't fucking stop."

Magic words, and music to my ears.

"Good boy." I stood on my knees long enough to sink down on his cock, the both of us moaning in pleasure as he slid right inside so easily.

I gyrated my hips, slowing riding him at first before my own desire burst through, especially when he egged me on ("That's it, baby, fuck me"); I braced myself, holding his shoulders as I rode him harder while he fucked me back. It was by far the fastest either of us had ever finished.

I doubted we were as quiet as we should have been. I couldn't help but giggle at how happy he was as he grinned at me.

My hope was that my father had drank enough to pass out and not hear a damn thing once he'd closed the door.