My Father's Best Friend Fixed My Roof, Then Never Left My Kitchen novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Lock the Door

In her father's kitchen, Milan tells Carly exactly what to do and what he is going to do, and she cries when she comes. He leaves with a promise to be back at seven and her cousin Rick texts that a realtor is coming Tuesday.

I turned the deadbolt on the back door, and the click was louder than the rain.

Milan stood in the middle of my father's kitchen with his hat on the table and his hands hanging at his sides.

"Come here," he said.

I went.

He took my face in both hands, and they were so big that his fingertips reached into my hair.

"I'm going to kiss you now," he said. "Then I'm going to lift you onto that counter. Do you understand me?"

"Yes."

"Say it so I hear it."

I swallowed. "Yes, Milan. Do it."

He kissed me, and it wasn't the quick stunned kiss from the refrigerator.

He kissed me slowly, with his beard scraping my chin and his tongue moving into my mouth.

I grabbed his wet shirt in both fists and he made a low sound in his chest.

Then his hands slid down, took me under the thighs, and set me on the laminate edge by the sink.

The counter was cold through my jeans.

He stepped between my knees.

"Arms up," he said.

I put my arms up and he pulled my sweater over my head and dropped it on the floor.

My bra was plain gray cotton, the kind I wore to hold a dying man's head up.

He looked at it, and at me, and I felt my face go hot.

"Don't hide," he said. "Hands on the counter."

I put my palms flat on the laminate on either side of me.

"Good," he said. "Keep them there. If they move, I stop."

"That's not fair."

"No," he said. "It isn't."

He reached behind me and unhooked the bra with one hand.

He drew it down my arms and set it on the table beside his hat.

He looked at my breasts for a long moment.

"I'm going to put my mouth on you," he said. "Then I'm taking those jeans off."

"Then?"

"Then I'm getting on my knees on this floor, and I'm eating you until you can't stand it."

My whole body jumped.

"Milan."

"Look at me while I do it."

He lowered his head and took my nipple in his mouth.

His beard dragged across my skin, rough and warm, and his tongue circled once, slow, and then he sucked.

I made a noise I didn't recognize.

My hands wanted to go into his hair so badly that my fingers dug into the counter edge.

He moved to the other side and did the same, and I felt it low in my belly, a pulling that went down and down.

"Please," I said.

"Not yet."

He kissed his way down my stomach.

He undid my jeans with slow, steady fingers, and said, "Lift."

I lifted my hips, and he drew the jeans and my underwear down my legs and off, and dropped them on the linoleum.

I sat naked on my father's kitchen counter with the light over the stove on my skin.

I had never in my life let anyone look at me that long.

"Open your legs," Milan said.

I did.

"Wider. Show me."

I opened them wide, and I was shaking, and I was so wet it ran onto the laminate.

"Look at that," he said. "Look at what you've been carrying around all day."

Then he got down on his knees.

He was a big man, and it took him a moment, and I heard one knee crack on the floor.

He put his hands on the insides of my thighs and pushed them apart a little more.

"Eyes on me, Carly."

I looked down at him.

His blue eyes were black in that light, and his beard was damp with rain.

"Tell me when," he said.

He put his mouth on me.

He started with the flat of his tongue.

One long slow drag took him from my entrance up to my clit, and my head fell back against the cabinet.

"Eyes," he said against me.

I brought my head forward.

He did it again.

His beard rasped the soft skin of my thighs and it was the most intense thing I had ever felt, rough and soft together.

He found my clit with the tip of his tongue and went around it in a small circle.

Then he closed his lips over it and sucked, gently.

"Oh God," I said.

"That's it."

"Milan, I can't, I'm going to."

"Not yet," he said. "You wait for me."

He slid one thick finger inside me, then a second, and curled them up, and found a place that made me cry out.

I forgot my hands.

They went straight into his short hair.

He stopped at once and lifted his face, and his mouth was shining.

"Hands," he said.

"I'm sorry."

"Put them back on the counter."

I put them back.

My arms were trembling.

"You do what I tell you, and I give you what you need," he said. "That's all this is. Do you want it?"

"Yes. Please. I want it."

"Then hold still."

He went back down and ate me slow and thorough, with his fingers working in me and his tongue never leaving my clit.

I heard the wet sounds of it over the rain.

I heard myself begging, in short breaths, saying his name and please and there.

"Now," he said, and his voice was rough.

"Now, Carly. Tell me when."

"Now. Milan, now, I'm coming."

It broke over me and took everything.

My thighs clamped on either side of his head and my back arched off the cabinet.

I cried out so loud that it rang off the pots on the wall.

He didn't stop.

He held my hips down against the counter and kept going while it rolled through me, again and again, until I was sobbing.

I was crying for real, tears running into my mouth, and I couldn't have stopped it for anything.

He stood up fast and gathered me against his chest.

I pressed my wet face into his shirt and shook.

"That's it," he said into my hair. "All of it. Let go."

"I haven't cried," I said. "Not once. Not at the funeral."

"I know. Let it out."

His hand moved up and down my back, slow, over and over.

I cried until I was empty, and then I was something else, soft and shaky and awake in every inch of my skin.

I lifted my face.

"I want you inside me," I said.

His breath went out of him.

"Say it again."

"I want your cock. Please."

"Get my belt," he said.

I reached down, and my hands weren't steady, but I got the buckle open and the button and the zipper.

I pushed his jeans down over his hips.

He was hard and thick and flushed dark, and I wrapped my hand around him, and he groaned.

He was bigger than I'd imagined, and I had imagined for about a minute.

"Look at you," he said. "Look at your hand on me."

"I am."

"Stroke it. Slow."

I stroked him from the base to the head, and a drop of wet gathered at the tip.

His jaw was tight and the muscle in it jumped, just as it had at the foot of the ladder.

It wasn't the cold.

I understood that now, and I almost laughed.

"Wrap your legs around me," Milan said.

He took me under the ass and slid me to the very corner of the counter.

I locked my ankles behind his back.

"Hold my shoulders," he said. "Look at me. If you want me to stop, say so."

"Don't you dare."

He laughed, a short, rough sound, and I felt it in my chest.

He guided the head of his cock to my entrance and rubbed it up through the wet, once, twice, and my hips jerked.

"Milan."

"I know. I'm going to give it to you slow, and you're going to take all of it."

He pushed in.

It was a stretch that burned and then didn't, thick and slow, and I felt every inch go up inside me.

I gasped against his mouth.

"There," he said. "Breathe. That's it."

"More."

"Slow."

He gave me another inch, and another, and my nails dug into his shoulders through the flannel.

When he was all the way in he stopped and held there, his forehead against mine.

I was so full I couldn't tell where he ended.

"Good girl," he said, very low. "Look how well you take me."

I hadn't known that those words could go through me like that.

I clenched around him on my own, and he swore.

"Move," I said. "Please move."

He drew back and thrust, and the counter jolted under me.

He did it again, slow and deep, with his hands under my ass tilting me up to meet him.

Every stroke dragged along the place his fingers had found.

"Harder."

"You'll tell me what you want," he said. "Tell me exactly."

"Fuck me harder. Milan. Fuck me."

He did.

He braced one hand against the cabinet and drove into me hard enough to rattle the spice rack.

The sound of it filled the kitchen, wet and slapping and filthy.

I held onto his shoulders and cried out with every thrust.

"That's my girl," he said. "Take it. Just like that."

He slid a hand between us and found my clit with his thumb and rubbed it in tight circles, in time with his thrusts.

"Come for me again," he said. "I want to feel it on my cock."

"I can't."

"You can," he said.

"Milan, I can't."

"Look at me, Carly," he said. "Now."

I looked at him, and the whole world narrowed to his blue eyes and his hard breathing and the thick drag of him inside me.

I came with his name in my mouth.

It was deeper this time, a long clenching pulse that gripped him and wouldn't let go.

He groaned, a ragged sound, and drove in twice more, and then he buried his face in my neck and came.

I felt him pulse, hot and heavy, deep inside me.

He said my name into my skin, over and over.

We stayed like that for a long time, with the rain on the window and the stove light on us.

His beard was wet against my collarbone.

I was crying again.

He lifted me down and held my elbows until my legs worked.

Then he pulled his jeans up, took his coat off the back of a chair, and settled it over my bare shoulders.

It smelled like cedar and rain and him.

"I'll be back at seven tomorrow with the rest of the shingles," he said. "Eat something."

"Milan."

"Eat the casserole, Carly."

He picked up his hat.

At the door he stopped with his hand on the deadbolt and looked at me, one long look.

Then he turned it, and went out into the rain.

I stood in my father's kitchen in Milan's coat, listening to the truck back down the driveway.

My phone buzzed on the counter.

It was my cousin Rick.

Realtor Tuesday. Don't be stupid.

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