I Joined My Dead Sister's Curling Team, and Her Widower Joined Me novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: A Ride Home

In the dark garage of the Longfellow duplex, Britt climbs into Gunnar's lap and takes him on the kitchen counter he built, until Leif knocks at seven with a pair of curling shoes.

Gunnar shut off the truck in the dark of his own garage, and neither of us reached for a door.

The engine ticked as it cooled.

The garage door rattled down behind us, and the last of the streetlight went out.

I could hear him breathing.

"Britt," he said.

"You've had a week of this. I don't want you to wake up sorry."

"I buried my sister this morning," I said.

"For a week I've been good. I did the dishes, and I held my mother's hand, and I thanked every woman with a casserole."

"I don't want to be good in this truck."

He made a low sound in his chest.

I unbuckled my seat belt and climbed over the console into his lap.

My black dress rode up to my hips, and the steering wheel pressed into my back.

His hands came up and stopped in the air on either side of my waist.

"Touch me," I said.

He did.

His palms closed around my ribs, huge and warm, and he pulled me down onto him.

I felt him through his suit trousers, already thick and hard against the seam of my underwear.

"There you are," I said.

I took his face in both hands and kissed him.

His beard was softer than I had expected, and his mouth was shaking.

He kissed me back slowly, and his hands shook on my back.

Then he stopped being careful.

His hand went into my hair and held my head, and his tongue pushed into my mouth, and I moaned into him.

I rolled my hips over his cock, and he groaned.

I reached down between us and opened his zipper.

He was hot and hard in my palm, and I stroked him slowly through the open fly while he thrust up into my fist.

"Christ, Britt."

"Say my name again," I said.

"Britt," he said, and bit my lower lip.

I pulled his tie loose and dropped it on the floor of the truck.

I opened his shirt button by button and put my palms on his chest, broad and warm and covered in coarse red-brown hair.

His heart was pounding hard enough to feel through my hands.

His fingers slid under my skirt and found the edge of my underwear.

"Is this all right?" he asked.

"It's all right," I said.

"Take it off me."

He hooked his thumbs in the lace and dragged it down to my knees, and I lifted one leg and shook it off.

His thick fingers parted me, and he found me soaked.

He sucked in air through his teeth.

"You're wet," he said.

"I've been wet since the basement," I said.

"I took your tie in front of my mother, Gunnar. I was wet the whole time I walked across that room."

He pushed two fingers into me, slow, all the way.

I bucked and grabbed the headrest behind him.

His thumb found my clit and pressed, and he began to circle it.

I rode his hand in the dark with my forehead against his, and he watched my face.

"I haven't touched anyone since the hospital," he said, low.

"I don't know how to do this right."

"You're doing it right," I said.

"Do it harder."

He did.

I came on his fingers in the cab of his truck with my teeth in his shoulder through his shirt.

When I could breathe again, I was shaking all over.

"Inside," I said.

"Not in a truck. I want to see you."

He carried me.

He opened the truck door with one hand and the kitchen door with his hip.

Then he carried me through the dark house with my legs around his waist.

He set me on the kitchen counter.

It was oak, three inches thick, and he had planed and oiled it himself.

The cold of it went through my skin.

He switched on the light over the stove, and it threw a low yellow glow across his face.

"I don't have a plan," Gunnar said.

"I haven't had a plan in a week."

"I have one," I said.

I pushed my dress up over my hips and leaned back on my hands.

I spread my knees.

"On your knees, Gunnar."

His eyes dropped to my pussy and stayed there.

"Britt," he said, in a voice gone rough.

"Please," I said.

He got down on the kitchen floor.

His big hands closed on the backs of my thighs and pulled me to the edge of the counter.

His beard brushed the inside of my knee.

Then his mouth was on me.

He licked me broad and slow from the bottom to the top, and I gasped out loud.

"Oh, God," I said.

"Again."

He did it again.

He found my clit with his tongue and flicked it, then took it between his lips and sucked, and I grabbed fistfuls of his hair.

His beard scraped my inner thighs, and the scrape was the best thing I had ever felt.

I looked down.

He had his eyes closed.

He ate me with his whole mouth and no hurry at all.

"Don't stop," I said.

"Don't you stop. Right there."

He slid two fingers back into me and curled them up, and I came again, hard, with a cry that echoed off the cabinets.

He kept licking me gently through every wave, until I pushed at his shoulders.

He sat back on his heels.

His mouth and beard were wet and shining, and his chest rose and fell.

"Stand up," I said.

He stood.

I slid off the counter and opened his belt, and his trousers fell, and I took him in my hand.

He was long and thick and flushed dark, with a bead at the tip.

I stroked him once, root to head, and he swore.

"I want you in me," I said.

"I'm not on anything, and I don't care."

He went very still.

"Britt, you can't mean that tonight."

"I mean it every way I can say it," I said.

"Don't pull out. Finish inside me. I want to feel it."

He looked at me for a long moment, and something in his face gave way.

"Hop up," he said.

He lifted me back onto the counter, and I wrapped my legs around his hips.

He fitted himself against me.

I felt the broad head press at my entrance, and I tilted my hips to meet it.

He pushed in slowly, one steady inch at a time.

He was big, and I was tight, and it burned and stretched in a way I loved.

I dug my nails into his shoulders.

"Look at me," he said.

I looked.

His blue eyes were wet.

"Oh," I said.

"Oh, you're so deep."

He seated himself fully, and held still, and I clenched around him.

He shuddered.

"You feel like nothing I've ever," he said, and didn't finish.

Then he began to move.

He pulled out slowly and drove in again, and the oak counter creaked and shifted under us.

I wrapped my arms around his neck and held on.

He fucked me with long, deep strokes, and every one of them hit a place inside me that made me cry out.

"Harder," I said.

"Yes. Like that."

He braced his hands on the counter on either side of my hips and put his shoulders into it.

The counter took us both.

Bowls rattled on the shelf above us, and a spoon fell off the drying rack and hit the floor.

I laughed and sobbed in the same breath.

He kissed me through it, deep and open, and I tasted myself on his beard.

I took his lower lip between my teeth and pulled.

He growled, and the sound went straight through my pussy.

He gripped my ass in both hands and lifted me an inch off the oak.

Then he drove up into me so hard that I saw white.

"Again," I said.

"Do that again."

He did, three times, with his jaw set and his eyes on my face.

"Turn around," he said into my mouth.

"I want to see all of you."

I slid off the counter, and he turned me by the hips.

I bent over the oak with my cheek against the cool wood and my dress rucked up around my waist.

He ran his hands over my ass and down the backs of my thighs, slowly, taking his time.

Then he pressed back in.

It was a different angle, and he reached something deeper.

I groaned and pushed back against him.

"There," I said.

"Right there. Don't stop."

He held my hips in his big hands and fucked me with a steady driving rhythm, and the counter shook.

I reached down between my legs and rubbed my clit in quick circles.

"Come for me again," he said.

"Let me feel it."

I came with my face pressed into the wood and a cry torn out of my chest.

My pussy clamped down on him in long spasms, and he swore and held my hips tight.

"Britt," he said.

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

"Do it," I said.

"Come in me. All of it."

He drove in once more, and his whole body locked.

He came with a hoarse shout, buried deep, and I felt him pulsing inside me, hot and heavy.

He kept saying my name into my back.

I felt it run warm down the inside of my thigh, and I did not reach for a towel.

I wanted it to stay where he had put it.

When it was over, he rested his forehead between my shoulder blades, and his breath shook.

His hands were trembling on my hips.

I turned in his arms and wrapped mine around him.

He was crying without a sound.

I held his head against my neck and stroked his hair, and I did not say anything.

After a while, he lifted me and carried me to the couch where I had slept all week.

He lay down behind me, still in half his suit, and pulled the afghan over us both.

"You don't hide me," I said into the dark.

"Not from the team and not from the church. If you want this, you want it out loud."

"Out loud," he said, against my hair.

It was the first night I slept in that house.

At seven the next morning, someone knocked on the back door.

I opened it in Gunnar's shirt.

Leif Hovde stood on the step with a pair of curling shoes in his hand.

Behind him in the alley, Dale Hovland and the big blond man sat in a truck with the engine running.

"Morning," Leif said, with the crooked grin.

"Size nine? I guessed."

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