Chapter 11: The Counter

Jonas lived over the garage, up a flight of outside stairs, in two rooms.

A bed, a lamp, a shelf of paperbacks, a gun safe.

I carried Biscuit up under one arm at ten at night, with my father's blessing and a bag of puppy food.

"You're not staying," Jonas said, in the doorway.

"The dog needs air."

"The dog is asleep."

I looked down.

Biscuit was snoring against my elbow.

"Then I need air," I said, and went in past him.

I put the puppy in a laundry basket by the radiator, closed the door and leaned my back against it.

Jonas stood across the room with his sleeves rolled.

"Your father said," he began.

"My father said you were supposed to keep your hands to yourself."

"Yes."

"Good thing I'm the one putting my hands on you."

I crossed to him, took his belt in both hands and pulled.

He let me.

"Sit on the bed," I said.

His eyebrows went up.

"Please."

He sat.

I knelt on the floor between his knees.

I had a long list of things I'd imagined doing and never thought I would be allowed.

I undid his belt and his zipper, and he lifted his hips to help, breathing hard through his nose.

I took his cock in both hands.

It was heavy and hot and already wet at the tip.

"Abby," he said, gruff.

I licked the head, once, and tasted salt.

His whole body jerked.

"Fuck."

I did it again, slower, and took him into my mouth as far as I could.

His hand slid into my curls, not pushing, just holding on.

"Christ. Just like that."

I found a rhythm.

He made a low, ragged sound that I felt in my own stomach.

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