My Stepfather and His Friends novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: The Pool

Graham finds her at the pool on Saturday and she lets him kiss her on her terms, while Warren watches from a window.

I picked Graham first because he was the one who'd already said everything.

I texted him at noon.

Pool. Two o'clock. Bring a towel.

He wrote back in under a minute.

I'll bring two.

Warren's truck left the driveway at one, headed for a job site on a Saturday.

He hadn't said a word to me at breakfast.

He had stood at the counter with his coffee and looked at the garden instead of me.

At two exactly, the side gate clicked.

Graham came across the lawn in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbow and a towel over his shoulder.

I was already in the lounge chair, in the same swimsuit from yesterday.

It was black, it was ordinary, and I had never in my life thought about how it looked until last night.

He stopped at the foot of the chair and looked at me for a long, unhurried moment.

"That's the one," he said.

"That's the one."

"It should come with a warning label."

"You said that already," I said. "You say a lot of things behind walls."

"I'm a better man to your face."

"Prove it."

He dropped the towel on the next chair and sat on the edge of mine, close enough that his hip pressed my thigh.

The cushion dipped under his weight and tilted me toward him.

"I'll tell you what I want," he said. "You can stop me at any word."

"Go on."

"I want to start here." He laid two fingers on the inside of my knee.

They were warm and dry, and they didn't hurry.

"I want to go up slowly, until you tell me to stop or tell me not to."

His fingers moved an inch.

My breath caught, and he heard it.

"And then I want to taste you everywhere that swimsuit covers," he said. "I want you loud enough that Warren hears it from whatever room he's hiding in."

"He's not home."

"He will be."

His fingers reached the middle of my thigh and stopped there.

I looked at his hand, at the silver in his hair, at the sharp jaw I'd watched argue with a waiter over a steak.

He was forty-seven, and he was looking at me like I was something he'd been told he couldn't have.

"Kiss me," I said.

"Say it again."

"Kiss me, Graham."

He leaned down, and he didn't kiss me gently.

He kissed me.

One hand slid up into my hair and gripped, and his mouth was hot and certain over mine.

I made a noise into it that I wasn't proud of.

He swallowed it.

His other hand went up my thigh and under the edge of the swimsuit, his thumb dragging along the seam, and I arched into it before I could decide not to.

"There," he murmured against my lips. "That's what I thought."

He pushed the strap off my shoulder with his teeth, and his mouth went down my throat.

I grabbed a fistful of his white shirt and pulled it out of his waistband.

His skin under it was hot and lean, and I dragged my nails down his stomach.

He hissed.

"Tessa."

"Don't stop."

"I won't."

His thumb found me through the wet fabric, and he rubbed one slow circle that made my knees fall open.

I heard myself say his name, and then something worse.

He looked at me, pupils huge, breathing hard through his nose.

"Tell me you want my mouth," he said.

"I want your mouth."

"Tell me where."

I put my hand over his and pressed it harder.

"Here," I said. "Not yet."

He went very still.

"Not yet," I said again, and I made myself sit up, my heart slamming against my ribs. "This is the first day. I said I pick the day, and I'm not picking all of them today."

For a moment his face was nothing but hunger.

Then he laughed, low and rough, and he took his hand out of my swimsuit and kissed my fingers instead.

"You're going to ruin me," he said.

"Probably."

"Good." He looked at his own hand like it belonged to somebody else. "I've never been told not yet in my life. I find I'm enjoying it."

He tucked his shirt in, stood, and picked up the towel.

"Next time," he said, "I won't wait for you to tell me."

"Next time you'll wait exactly as long as I say."

"Yes, ma'am."

He grinned and went back across the lawn with his shirt wrinkled.

I didn't breathe properly until the gate clicked shut.

I pulled my strap back up.

My hands were shaking, and I was laughing a little, and I was so wet I had to sit still a minute.

Then I looked up at the house, because the back of my neck had gone cold.

The upstairs curtain in Warren's bedroom was moving.

It was still swaying.

His truck was in the driveway.

I hadn't heard it come home.

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