Therapy Threesome novel · Chapter 3 of 24
Chapter 3: Kitchen Counter
At home with her mother out showing houses, Wade goes down on his knees in the kitchen, and Colette's car turns into the drive.
Nobody said a word in the truck.
Wade drove with both hands tight on the wheel, and I sat with the paper folded in my fist.
The air in the cab felt thick enough to chew.
I kept feeling the bare place under my dress where my panties used to be.
He took the long way home, past the lake road and the new subdivision.
I knew he was buying time.
He pulled into the driveway at ten past five.
Mom's car was gone.
Her text had said she had a showing and then a late dinner with a client.
She wouldn't be back until nine.
Wade cut the engine.
The ticking of the cooling metal was the only sound.
"Mallory," he said.
"Don't."
"I should say something."
"You should," I said. "But I don't want you to."
He turned his head.
His eyes were dark and wrecked, and a muscle jumped in his jaw.
"I put my hand," he said. "In front of a man I barely know. On my wife's kid."
"I'm not a kid."
"I know you're not." His voice cracked. "That's what scares me."
I got out of the truck.
I walked up the front steps, unlocked the door, and went into the kitchen without turning on the light.
I heard him come in behind me and shut the door.
I put my back against the counter, and I waited.
He stood in the doorway, a big shadow against the hall light.
"Tell me to go to my room," he said.
"No."
"Mallory."
"You said you needed to hear it from me, so I'll say it again."
I hooked my fingers into the hem of my blue dress and slid it slowly up my thighs.
His eyes dropped.
"I wanted it," I said. "I want it now. In my own kitchen, with nobody watching."
For a second he didn't move.
Then he crossed the room in three strides and I was in the air.
He picked me up by the waist and set me on the counter, hard.
The granite was cold against my bare skin.
I gasped.
His mouth crashed into mine, and I wrapped my legs around his hips and my arms around his neck.
The kiss was nothing.
There was no one telling us when.
His hands were everywhere, under my dress, on my ribs, in my hair.
He made a low sound against my lips every time I bit him.
"Fuck," he said, dragging his mouth down my throat.
"You've got nothing on under this. You sat in my truck like this."
"Because he told me to."
"Because I'm going to go insane."
He pulled the straps of my dress down my shoulders.
The fabric slid to my waist, and the cool kitchen air touched my breasts, and he stopped to look.
"Look at you," he said, and his voice broke.
He cupped one in his big hand, thumb dragging over my nipple, and I arched into him.
"More."
He took the nipple into his mouth.
The heat and the wet and the scrape of his stubble made me cry out.
I fisted my hand in his hair and held him there.
He sucked and licked, and then switched to the other.
I felt it everywhere, low in my belly, down between my legs where I was already slick.
"Wade, please."
"Please what?"
"Touch me. Put your mouth on me. Please."
He lifted his head.
His mouth was wet and his eyes were wild.
"Say it like you mean it," he said. "Like you said it in the office."
"Put your mouth on my pussy."
He groaned.
He sank to his knees on the kitchen tile.
He pushed my dress up around my hips and spread my thighs wide with both hands.
I leaned back on my elbows on the counter, shaking.
"Beautiful," he said, looking at me.
Then his mouth was on me.
His tongue dragged flat and slow through my folds, and I nearly came off the counter.
He found my clit and circled it, light, then firm, the way he'd used his thumb.
"Oh God, oh God."
He hummed against me, and I felt it in my spine.
His hands held my hips down while his tongue worked, steady and thorough.
The room filled with soft, wet sounds and my own breath going ragged.
I looked down.
My stepfather was on his knees in front of me, his black hair between my thighs.
He ate me out.
The sight alone nearly sent me over.
"Don't stop," I said. "Don't you dare stop."
He pushed two fingers inside me while he kept his mouth on my clit, and the stretch was perfect.
He curled them, found that spot, and I came apart.
I screamed his name, my thighs clamping around his head, my hand knotted in his hair.
He never let up.
He rode it out with his tongue until I was boneless and limp.
I slid down against the cabinet door behind me, laughing and crying and out of breath.
He rested his forehead against my thigh.
His shoulders were shaking too.
"I'm in so much trouble," he muttered.
"Yes," I said, delighted.
I reached for his belt.
"Mallory," he said. "Not here."
"Why not?"
Headlights swept across the kitchen window.
We both froze.
A car door shut outside.
Heels clicked on the front walk.
"That's your mother," Wade whispered.
I was off the counter and yanking my dress up before I knew I'd moved.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and I shoved his shirt straight.
We were at opposite ends of the kitchen by the time the key turned in the lock.
My mother came in with her blazer over her arm and her phone to her ear.
The client had cancelled dinner, and she was four hours early.
She hung up, looked at us standing in the dark kitchen, and flipped on the light.
Her eyes went from my flushed face to Wade's wrecked collar and back.
"Well," she said, bright and tired. "That's the first time you two have been in the same room without shouting."
She set her keys on the counter.
"Is it helping?"
I had never been so grateful for a smooth voice.
"Yes," I said. "It's helping."
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