My Dad's Best Friend Moved Into My Spare Room After His Divorce, and the Promise He Made My Father Lasted Four Days novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: Day Four

Lori locks the basement door, takes off her blouse on her father's workbench, and Ed breaks his promise on it, until her father's name lights up the phone beside them and Ed tells him his first lie.

I came down the basement stairs at six o'clock on Tuesday with my work lanyard still around my neck.

I locked the door behind me.

Ed looked up from the table saw.

He had sawdust in his beard and on his forearms, and a pencil behind his ear.

The radio was playing something with a steel guitar.

He turned it off.

"It's day four," I said.

"Lori."

"You've been very good, Ed. You've been so good I've started to take it personally."

He put the board down on the saw table.

"Your father built that bench," he said.

I walked over and sat on it.

It was a long slab of oak, scarred and oil-dark, with a bench vise at one end.

Behind it hung a pegboard where my father had drawn the outline of every wrench in black marker in 1998.

Nobody had ever put one back wrong.

Every wrench was still home.

"He built it for my mother's canning," I said. "She never canned a single thing."

"I know. I helped him carry it down."

"Then you know it can take a person."

His throat moved.

I took off the lanyard and set it on the vise.

I unbuttoned my blouse one button at a time and let him watch me do it.

He could have gone up the stairs.

The door was locked on my side, and I'd left the key on the hook.

He stood there with his big hands open at his sides, and the muscle in his jaw jumped twice.

"I'm taking this off," I said, and the blouse went on the vise with the lanyard. "You can look at the saw."

"I'm not looking at the saw."

"I know."

He crossed the floor.

He stopped between my knees, close enough that his belt buckle touched the inside of my thigh.

He put one hand on the bench on either side of me.

"Tell me to leave," he said.

"Stay."

"Lori."

"Ed. Put your mouth on me."

He kissed me.

His hands dug into my hair, my back, the bare skin above my skirt.

I opened my legs wider and pulled him in by the shirt.

His beard burned my chin.

I yanked his shirt up and over his head.

My palms went flat on his chest, over the thick hair, over the heart that was going.

"Take your bra off," he said into my neck.

I did.

He bent and took my breast in his mouth and I held onto his shoulders and let my head fall back against the pegboard.

A wrench clanked somewhere above me.

"Lie back."

"Here?"

"Lie back, baby."

I lay back on my father's workbench, with the oak cold under my shoulder blades and the single bulb swinging a little overhead.

He pushed my skirt up around my waist.

He hooked a finger into my underwear and looked at me for a long second.

"Look at that," he said, low. "Look at you."

He dragged them down my legs and tossed them on the vise with my blouse.

Then he kneeled.

He was a big man on his knees on a concrete floor.

He put his hands under my thighs and pulled me to the edge of the bench.

His first lick was slow and flat and went all the way up.

I said something that wasn't a word.

"Good," he murmured against me. "You're soaked."

"You did that."

"I'm going to do it again."

His tongue opened me.

He circled my clit, light, then not light, and then closed his lips around it and sucked, and my heels dug into his back.

He kept me open with his thumbs.

He licked.

My hands scrabbled over the oak until I found his head and gripped his hair.

"Ed. Yes. Right there. Don't you dare."

He hummed.

The vibration went through my whole pelvis.

Then he lifted his face, wet to the nose, his eyes black.

"Whose is this?"

"What?"

"Whose is this pussy?"

Heat flooded my face.

"I'm not saying that."

"Okay."

He went back down and slowed.

He slowed until I whimpered, until every touch was a feather, circling and retreating and letting me hang on the edge.

"Ed."

"Whose?"

"You're a bastard."

"Whose, Lori?"

"Mine," I gasped. "It's mine. Now suck it."

I felt him smile against me.

He gave me exactly what I'd asked for.

He sucked my clit between his lips and flicked it with his tongue, and slid two fingers into me and crooked them up.

My back came off the bench.

I came with a shout that bounced off the concrete.

It went on and on.

He held my hips down with one forearm and rode it out with his mouth.

When I tried to squirm off, he made a low noise and locked me there.

"One more," he said.

"I can't."

"You can."

He did something with his tongue and fingers together, and I could.

The second one hit hard and short and left me shaking, my knees falling open, my chest heaving in the light.

He stood.

His beard shone.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, still looking at me.

Then he undid his belt.

The sound of the buckle in that quiet basement was the most obscene thing I had ever heard.

He pushed his jeans down and his cock sprang out, thick and flushed and heavy, darker at the head.

I propped myself on my elbows to watch.

"Come here," I said.

He stepped between my thighs.

I wrapped my fingers around him, hot and hard and heavier than I'd imagined, and stroked him once, root to tip.

His eyes closed.

"Don't," he said. "I won't last."

"Good."

I pulled him to my entrance and rubbed the head through all that wet.

He groaned.

"Put it in me."

"Lori."

"Put your cock in me, Ed. Now."

He pushed in.

It was slow, and it was a lot.

He stretched me until I felt every inch of him, and I gripped his forearms and breathed through it, my mouth open.

"Christ," he said. "You're so tight."

"Keep going."

"Almost."

"All of it."

He sank the last inch and we both stopped.

We stayed like that, his hips against mine, his forehead against my sternum, my heartbeat knocking in my ears.

I had imagined this in a hundred places.

None of them smelled like cedar and WD-40.

None of them were better.

"Move," I whispered.

He moved.

Long, slow strokes, almost all the way out and then deep, and the bench creaked under us.

Every drag of him sent a bolt up my spine.

I wrapped my legs around his waist and he lifted me off the bench with an arm under my ass.

He carried me three steps across the floor, with him still inside me.

My back met the table saw, which was draped in a canvas cover, and the canvas was cool and rough.

I pulled him down by the neck.

"Harder."

"Your dad's bench..."

"Don't say my dad's name. Fuck me."

His hips snapped.

The first hard thrust drove the breath out of me.

The second made the saw rattle in its stand.

He found a rhythm, deep and relentless.

One hand held my thigh wide and the other was braced beside my head.

"Is this what you wanted?" he rasped.

"Yes."

"Say it."

"Yes! More. Harder, Ed, I swear to God."

He gave me more.

His chest slid against mine, slick with sweat and sawdust, and his beard dragged down my throat.

He bit the side of my neck where the pulse was.

I clawed his back.

I wanted to be fucked until I was part of the floor.

I wanted him to lose that careful face.

"Look at me," he said.

I did.

His eyes were wild, his mouth open, and sweat dripped from his hair to my collarbone.

"You're beautiful," he said. "You're so fucking beautiful. I've been hard since Saturday."

"I know. I felt it."

"I can't stop."

"Don't stop."

I reached between us and rubbed my clit with two fingers, hard, tight little circles, and he watched me do it.

"Fuck," he said, and sped up.

Heat built low and fast.

My thighs began to shake around him.

"Ed, I'm going to..."

"Come on my cock. Let me feel it."

That was all it took.

I came so hard I saw white.

I clamped down around him in long, rolling pulses, my back arched off the canvas, his name tearing out of me.

He groaned, drove deep once, twice, and buried his face in my neck.

"Lori," he shouted into my skin. "Oh, God. Lori."

He came inside me in hard pulses, filling me up, his whole body shuddering.

For a while neither of us moved.

The bulb swung.

My leg slid down his hip.

His breathing slowed against my ear.

"Well," I said, to the ceiling. "That's day four."

He started to laugh.

It shook through both of us, and it was the first free, easy sound I'd heard from him in four years.

He kissed my shoulder, my jaw, the corner of my mouth.

"I'm going to hell," he said.

"I'll save you a seat."

His phone lit up on the workbench.

The screen said LENNY.

We both looked at it.

It rang and rang, a picture of my father in a Cornhuskers cap grinning in the dark, and a vibration crawled across the oak.

Ed was still inside me.

He reached over, picked it up with a hand that was not quite steady and held my eyes.

"Hey, Len," he said.

My father's voice came out of the speaker, loud and happy.

"Eddie! Still holding the line?"

Ed's thumb stroked my hip.

"Still holding it, Len," he said. "She's right here."

It was the first lie he had ever told my father, and he told it looking at me.

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