Part 21 (1/2)
Hmm. Now I know what she's baking for me this weekend.
”And what were you imagining?” I ask.
”What?”
”What would I do with the cherry pie filling?”
”You'd spread it over my nipples and lick it off,” Liv says breathlessly. ”And you'd feed me the gooey cherries with your fingers and make me suck them clean. And you'd scoop up spoonfuls and eat them, then kiss me all sticky and hot while you pushed your c.o.c.k into my p.u.s.s.y... oh...”
I give a m.u.f.fled laugh, rubbing the front of my pants. Doesn't take much from my wife to get me hard. Just picturing her with pie filling smeared over her round t.i.ts, her lips glossy with cherry juice...
Ah, f.u.c.k. My d.i.c.k is starting to throb.
”Take off your panties,” I tell Liv.
”What?”
”Reach under your skirt and strip off your panties. Now.”
Her breath catches. There's a rustling noise on the other end of the phone before Liv's voice comes through again.
”Okay,” she says. ”They're off.”
”Now go back to work.”
”Without any underwear?” She sounds faintly shocked, as if her customers will somehow know she's naked under her skirt.
”Without any underwear.” I lower my voice. ”I want you to feel your wet p.u.s.s.y rubbing together with every step. I want you to think about spreading your legs for me, taking my c.o.c.k in, bending over to show me your pretty, naked a.s.s. I want your nipples to be hard for the rest of the day, so you can imagine me sucking them after I rip your clothes off. I want you to think about how f.u.c.king good it's going to feel when I plunge inside you deep enough to make you scream.”
No response, aside from her heavy, panting breaths. Finally she whispers, ”Okay.”
Despite my throbbing c.o.c.k, I can't help grinning. ”Okay.”
”I love you.”
”I love you, beauty. Don't you dare put your panties back on.”
I end the call and spend the next few minutes thinking about medieval arms and armor to get my mind off all the dirty things I want to do to my wife right this second.
When I have myself under control again, I pull out my cell phone and send Liv a text: Be good, and I'll f.u.c.k you again tonight.
A response comes a few seconds later: That would be lovely, dear, but I don't think your wife would approve.
What the...?
I check the number and groan. I push the call b.u.t.ton, a burn of embarra.s.sment crawling up my chest. ”Florence, I'm so sorry.”
She laughs. ”Don't be. You gave me something to... think about.”
”This is why I hate texting.”
”I believe that was called s.e.xting,” she replies. ”Not that I know anything about that, although Mr. Jenkins did send me a message about engine drivers the other day.”
”If he's. .h.i.tting on you, let me know and I'll set him straight.”
”Actually, if you could give him some pointers, I'd be most grateful,” Florence replies rather wistfully. ”I asked him to come over one evening to discuss tie plates, but he refused because he didn't want to miss the early bird special at the World Buffet.”
”Does he already have a girlfriend?”
”Seriously, Dean? You think a man that clueless has a girlfriend? He clearly lost his game along with most of his hair.”
”So why do you want to go out with him?”
”He's a widower who was married for forty-three years,” she replies. ”He likes to garden, doesn't talk too much, and has a hobby to occupy his time so he won't get on my nerves. Speaking of which, have you contacted engineers about the train restoration yet? Or gotten blueprints?”
I curse inwardly and scribble a reminder to myself on a notepad.
”Not yet,” I tell Florence. ”I'll get to it soon.”
”Let me know as soon as you do,” she replies. ”I'll speak with you later, Dean. Tell Liv she's a lucky girl, though I'm sure she already knows that.”
After we say goodbye and end the call, I turn to my computer and hammer out a few emails to railroad a.s.sociations. I should be working on a paper about feudal social relations.h.i.+ps, but I spend two hours looking for information about engine restoration, the details of which I don't understand anyway.
By late afternoon, I'm ready to get away from my desk. I grab my duffle bag with the intention of going to the gym. Instead I find myself driving to Archer's garage.
He's crouched beside a Harley, checking the tires. He glances up when my shadow falls over him.
”Hey, man.” He stands and reaches for a greasy rag. ”What're you doing here?”
”You want to go out for a beer?”
”With you?”
”Yeah, with me.” Discomfort flickers in my chest. ”Who else?”
”Uh, sure.” Archer tosses the rag aside and jerks his thumb toward the office. ”Just gotta finish a few things.”
I follow him into the office and sit on the worn sofa, noticing the half-eaten sub sandwich on the desk.
”You remember those weird sandwiches you used to like?” I ask. ”Swiss cheese and ketchup. Peanut b.u.t.ter and mayo.”
Archer chuckles, his attention on the computer. ”I was a weird kid.”
”I was a ten-year-old expert on the Crusades and King Arthur,” I remind him. ”That didn't make for great small talk with other kids on the soccer field.”
”You never had a problem with anyone.”
Except me.
The unspoken words hang in the air. Though Archer and I have patched things up, we've never talked much about the old slings and arrows that broke apart our relations.h.i.+p in the first place-the fight when I told him our father wasn't Archer's real father.