The Dog Park Regular Remembered My Name, My Dog's, and My Divorce novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Counter

In his kitchen with the dogs shut in the yard, Tara gets his mouth first and then his cock against the counter. Her phone lights with a text from her ex, and she turns it face down.

His kitchen door was still swinging shut behind us when he lifted me onto the counter.

The laminate was cold through my leggings.

Behind us the dog door clapped twice and both dogs went out to his yard, Waffles first, loud about it.

"Tara," Beau said against my mouth.

"Don't talk. Kiss me."

He did.

He kissed me slowly, taking his time.

I had been kissed fast for so long that I didn't know what to do with my hands.

I put them in his curls and knocked his cap onto the floor.

His hair was soft and a little damp at the nape, and when I pulled, he made a sound low in his throat.

"Do that again," he said.

I pulled harder.

His hands went to my hips and dragged me to the edge of the counter, until my thighs were open around his waist and I could feel him through his shorts, hard already, pressed right where I wanted him.

"You've been thinking about this since March," I said, and meant it as a joke.

He went very still for a moment.

"I've been thinking about it since about nine minutes ago," he said. "Arms up."

I put my arms up and he pulled my shirt off over my head.

My bra was plain black, the one I wore on days I didn't expect anyone to see it.

He looked at it, and at me, and didn't say anything for long enough that I started to cover myself.

"Don't," he said. "Please. Let me look."

I let my arms drop.

"You've got freckles on your shoulders," he said. "Down your arms. Your whole back, probably."

"Probably."

"I'm going to find out."

He unhooked the bra with one hand, which meant he had practice, and I told myself that was fine.

He slid the straps down my arms and I sat there bare to the waist in a stranger's kitchen with the sun coming through the yellow curtain and a Lab's nose-print on the window.

His mouth found my collarbone, then my breast, hot and careful, and his tongue went around my nipple slowly until I was arching into him.

"Beau."

"Yeah?" he said against my skin.

"Take my leggings off."

"Lift," he said, and I lifted, and he pulled leggings and underwear down my legs together and dropped them on the floor.

I was naked on his counter and he was still dressed.

That should have felt like being exposed, and it felt like winning.

"Look at you," he said.

His voice had dropped, and the drawl had come all the way out of it.

He sank down onto his knees on the tile and put his hands on the insides of my thighs.

"Tell me when," he said.

"When what?"

"When it's right. When it's too much, when it's not enough. When you want me to go slower or faster. I'll go where you say."

Nobody had ever offered me that.

Boyd's idea of going down on me had been a favor he did on my birthday, with a glance at the clock.

"I'm not made of glass," I said. "Don't be careful with me."

He looked up from between my knees, green eyes steady.

"I'm not careful," he said. "I'm paying attention."

Then his mouth was on me.

He started with his tongue flat and slow, from the bottom all the way up.

The first pass made my thighs shake against his shoulders.

"Oh, God."

He did it again.

He did it exactly the same way again, until I was pushing against his face.

Then he switched to the tip of his tongue circling my clit in tight, light strokes that made my toes curl against his back.

My fingers were in his hair again, tight.

"Slower," I gasped.

He slowed down.

"Wait, no, there, right there, don't stop."

He didn't stop.

He found a rhythm and kept it, one slow wet circle after another, and when I started to tip over the top he drew back and blew softly on me.

I swore at him.

"Not yet," he said, mouth against my thigh. "You said slower."

"I said slower, not stop."

"Tell me when."

I looked down at him.

He was kneeling on his own kitchen floor with his curls wrecked and his lips shining.

He was waiting for me to give the order.

"Now," I said. "Now, Beau, now."

He put his mouth back on me and sucked, and slid two fingers inside, curling them up.

I came so hard I forgot the dogs and the window and my own name.

I cried out, and bucked.

He held my hips to the counter and kept going, softer and softer, until I pushed his head away with a laugh that came out shaky.

"Okay. Okay. That's enough."

He sat back on his heels and wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist.

"That's the best thing I've ever done," he said, "and it's not even eight o'clock."

I grabbed his T-shirt and hauled him up.

"Take this off."

He pulled it over his head in one move.

He was lean and tanned across the shoulders, with freckles down his chest and the cardinal on his arm.

A line of sandy hair that ran under the waistband of his shorts.

I ran my hands down his stomach and felt it jump.

"Shorts," I said.

He shoved them down with his underwear, and his cock sprang free, thick and flushed and straining, and I wrapped my hand around it.

He groaned, and his forehead dropped to mine.

"Tara."

"Yes?" I said.

"If you keep doing that, I'm not going to last."

"You will," I said.

"I won't."

"Then you'll start again," I said. "You're twenty-three."

I stroked him once, slow, from base to tip.

He gripped the counter on either side of me hard enough to make the laminate creak.

"Please," he said. "Tell me what you want."

"I want you inside me. Standing up. Right here."

He pulled me to the edge of the counter, and I hooked my heels onto the backs of his thighs.

He took his cock in his fist, lined himself up and pushed in.

It was one long, slow stroke, and it filled me completely.

I gasped and he stopped, buried to the hilt, shaking.

"Okay?"

"Move," I said.

He pulled almost all the way out and thrust back in, and my whole body went up the counter an inch.

"Again."

He did it again, harder, and my breasts bounced and he watched them, and I loved that he watched.

I wrapped my legs tighter around him.

His hands were on my ass, holding me where he wanted me.

His hips drove forward in a steady rhythm that slapped our skin together and rattled the canisters on the shelf.

"You feel so good," he said. "You feel so fucking good."

"Harder."

"Yes, ma'am."

I heard myself laugh.

Then I heard myself moan, because he had changed the angle and the head of him dragged over a spot inside me that nobody had ever found on purpose.

"There," I said. "Oh, right there, stay right there."

"Here?"

"Yes. Yes, Beau, God, yes."

He stayed right there, and I told him so, over and over, in words I hadn't said out loud in years.

He fucked me harder, and the wet sounds of it filled the kitchen.

I clutched his shoulders and scored my nails down his back and bit his neck.

"Tell me when," he said, panting.

"Don't stop. Don't you dare stop."

"Tell me."

I reached down between us and found my clit, and rubbed it in time with his thrusts, and watched his face change when he felt my fingers brush him.

"Oh, fuck," he said. "Do that."

"Like this?"

"Just like that."

The pressure was gathering low and tight, and I could feel the second one coming, bigger than the first.

"Beau, I'm close."

"I've got you," he said.

"Don't stop, don't stop, don't"

I came with his name in my mouth, clenching around him, my head thrown back against the cabinet.

He swore and pounded into me twice more and buried his face in my neck.

He came with a long, shuddering groan, his whole body going rigid, his fingers digging into my hips.

He held me there against him until we were both done.

Then he laughed, breathless and astonished, into my hair.

We stayed like that, sweating and tangled, his heart going against my chest.

Through the window I could see Tank lying in the grass with Waffles asleep against his side.

"I didn't plan this," I said.

"Neither did I."

"I don't do this."

"I know," he said, and kissed my temple. "I know you don't."

I should have asked him how he knew that too.

My phone buzzed on the counter beside my hip.

It was face up, and the screen lit with a name I hadn't deleted yet: Boyd.

Can we talk about Waffles?

The preview sat there, small and cheerful, in the sun.

I put one finger on the phone and turned it over.

Beau saw me do it.

He said nothing at all, and slid his hand up the back of my neck, and held it there.

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