Ten Years of Public Breakups, Then He Ran After My Bus novel · Chapter 2 of 40

Chapter 2: Chart Table

Alone in the shack, the fight turns into the angriest sex of their lives, until Paulie bangs on the door.

He kissed me with his whole mouth, and it was not a nice kiss.

It was the kiss of a man who had just been told no by three hundred people's worth of silence.

I gave it right back.

I bit his lower lip, hard enough to taste salt.

He made a sound in his throat and slammed me back against the chart table.

The edge of it caught me across the hips.

Something slid off the table and hit the floor, a parallel ruler or a coffee can, and neither of us looked.

"You're a bastard," I said into his mouth.

"You said no on a microphone."

"You asked on a microphone!"

"I'll ask anywhere you want," he said, and shoved his hand up under my shirt.

His palm was rough and hot and it went straight to my ribs, then my breast.

He pushed my bra up out of the way and closed his hand over me.

My head went back against the wall.

"Eben."

"Say it again," he said.

"Eben, I swear to God."

"The other thing," he said. "Say the other thing, Cyr."

He had called me Cyr since the first week, and it still went through me like a hook.

I got both hands on his belt and pulled.

"I'm saying nothing," I said. "Take your jeans off."

"Clean ones," he said, a little wild. "I wore the clean ones."

"Then take them off before you ruin them."

He laughed, one rough breath against my neck, and then he wasn't laughing.

He got the button open and shoved his jeans and his shorts down his hips.

His cock came out hard and heavy against my wrist.

I wrapped my hand around it.

He swore at the ceiling.

He was thick and hot and already wet at the tip, and I knew the weight of him by heart, which was the whole problem.

I stroked him once, root to head, and he pushed into my fist and shook.

"Ten years," I said. "Ten times, and you stand there."

"I'm standing here now."

He yanked my shirt up over my head and threw it behind him.

My bra went after it.

Outside, a cheer went up for the crate race, thin through the wall.

I was topless in a shed on the town dock with a man I had just refused to marry.

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

I grabbed the back of his neck and held him there.

He sucked, hard and a little mean, and dragged his teeth over the peak.

I felt it low in my belly, in the place that was already wet.

"You always do that," I said, breathless. "Always, you bastard."

"You always let me."

He switched to the other side and gave it the same treatment, and my knees started to go.

He caught me under the thighs and set me on the chart table.

Paper crackled under my ass.

He undid my jeans with one hand and tore them down, boots and all, and one of my sneakers came off and hit the wall.

I sat there in my underwear with my legs open and my hands braced on the edge.

He looked at me.

He looked at the wet dark patch on the cotton, and then he looked up at my face.

"Look at that," he said. "You were going to say no to this too."

"I did say no."

"Your pussy didn't."

I slapped his arm, and he caught my wrist and pinned it to the table beside my hip.

With the other hand he pulled the cotton aside.

He ran two fingers through me, slow, all the way down and back up, and I heard exactly how wet I was.

"Jesus," he said.

"Don't."

"Bernie," he said.

"Don't say anything nice. I'll hit you."

He pressed his thumb on my clit, flat and hard, and moved it in a tight circle.

I made a noise I would have denied under oath.

"Not nice," he said, his mouth at my ear. "Not nice at all. You're soaked. You're dripping on a federal chart."

"It's a state chart."

"Shut up."

He pushed two fingers inside me and curled them.

My back arched off the table.

I said his name, and then I said worse things.

He kept his thumb right where it was and fucked me with his hand until my thighs shook around his hips.

"Not like this," I said. "Not with your hand. I'm not coming on your hand."

"Then turn around."

I looked at him.

He was breathing like he'd run the length of the dock, and his cock stood out between us, red at the head and slick.

I slid off the table.

I turned around and put both palms flat on the chart and looked over my shoulder at him.

"Don't make me wait," I said.

He took my underwear down to my knees in one pull.

I felt the air on me, and then I felt him, his cock dragging through the wet, pressing against my entrance.

"You wanted a crowd," he said, rough, behind me.

"I wanted an answer."

"Here's your answer."

He thrust into me in one long push, and I screamed into my own arm.

He filled me completely.

He stopped when he was all the way in, his hips tight against my ass, his hand clamped on my hip.

Neither of us moved for a breath.

I could feel my pussy squeezing around him, greedy and furious.

"Fuck," he said. "Fuck, Cyr."

"Move."

"Say please," he said.

"Eben Dyer, if you don't fuck me right now I will walk out of here and you will never see me again."

"Oh, you'll walk out," he said, and pulled almost all the way out and drove back in. "You always do."

I cried out.

He did it again, and again, hard and flat and fast, the sound of our skin filling the tiny shed.

I held on to the edge of the table.

The chart slid under my hands, a map of the bay with a rusty ring of coffee on it.

His hand came around my hip and found my clit again, and he worked it in time with his cock, rough and certain.

I had stopped thinking about the microphone.

I had stopped thinking about the crowd, and Gordie, and the Board with its tally marks.

There was only the ache building low and tight, and his voice at my ear saying every filthy thing he'd ever said to me.

"That's it. Take it. Nobody makes you feel like this. Nobody."

"I hate you."

"I know you do," he said.

"I hate you," I said, again, in a voice that cracked in the middle.

He slowed down, only for a moment.

He pulled all the way out, so I felt the emptiness and wanted to cry.

Then he turned me around and lifted me and set me on the chart table again.

"Look at me," he said.

I looked at him.

His eyes were wet, and he would not have admitted it.

He pushed back into me, slower, face to face, my legs hooked high around his waist.

"Say it where I can hear," he said.

"No."

"Bernie," he said.

"No."

He drove into me deeper than he ever had, and I gasped against his shoulder.

I held on to him with my arms and my legs and every part of me that was supposed to be done with him.

"Come on," he said. "Come for me. Come on my cock."

My whole body went tight.

The pleasure rolled up from low in my belly, up my spine, out to my fingertips.

I came with my teeth in his shoulder, clenching around him in long, hard pulses.

He held me through it.

He felt every pulse, and his breath turned ragged and then stopped, and he said my name against my neck as he came.

His cock jerked inside me, and he spilled hot and deep, and kept pushing through it until he was empty and shaking.

We stayed there.

His forehead was on my shoulder, and my fingers were in his hair, and neither of us could stand up straight.

Outside, someone was reading the winners of the crate race into a microphone.

"Ten," I said into his collarbone, when I could. "That's still ten."

He lifted his head.

"I know what number it is."

He kissed my temple, once, quick, like he'd done it by accident.

Then he pulled out of me and the cold air came in.

I started hunting for my shirt.

He tucked himself away and zipped up his clean jeans, and his hands weren't quite steady.

Somebody hammered on the door, three hard bangs that shook the whole shed.

"I can hear you from the pier!" Paulie shouted.

She had a voice that carried across a classroom of twelve-year-olds, and it carried across a harbor.

"Both of you. Put your clothes on. Diner, seven tomorrow."

"Your mother and his father are already in the booth!"

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