Stay(5)

“Come for me.” Hot breath is at my ear, and my forehead tightens. Can I?

Warm hands cup my ass, lifting me off the sink and turning us to the wall. The pain is gone, and my body slides up and down against his hard pelvis. His cock glides in and out, the ridge of its head working my insides. My clit is against his shaft, and something begins to happen. Prickling warmth starts to grow. It gets stronger, and I forget everything but chasing it down.

My thighs tighten around him, and I’m pumping my body up and down, riding him, wanting that tingling heat to keep getting hotter. I’m desperate, gripping his skin and moaning as the orgasm creeps higher up my thighs.

“Fuck, Emmy.” He groans, fucking me harder.

“Yes…” It’s almost there. “Yes!” It’s right there… the tightness in my lower stomach.

It bursts through me, and I moan so loud. It’s like a million fireworks shooting through my veins. My vision goes white. I’m flying, and I feel it when his orgasm breaks, pulsing deep inside me as he comes with a loud noise.

I’m shaking. My thighs shudder and grip him, and he holds me. He holds still as we both fly through space together, soaring past galaxies, touching the stars. It’s amazing.

Gradually, I blink open my eyes, and through the haze, I see us in the mirror, our bodies molded perfectly together. It’s just like I dreamed it would be. My arms are around his neck, our bodies flush. It only lasts a moment.

The noise of the party outside creeps into our little cocoon. He reaches between us, lowering me to my feet as he grips the condom and quickly disposes of it. I feel like a newborn colt, my legs are so shaky.

His back is to me, and his shoulders broaden as he takes a deep breath. Then he moves to the sink to wash his hands. “It’s been a while since I’ve done that.” He sounds apologetic.

Shoving my skirt down, I straighten my bra, struggling to get a grip. “What? Bathroom fucked at a party?” I’m shook.

He cuts off the water and dries his hands on the towel as I button my shirt. I’ve managed to get myself together when he steps to me, putting one hand above my head on the wall and leaning close. “Had sex, period.” Leaning down he kisses my cheek. “You were great.”

He steps back, and just like that, he’s ready to go.

“That’s it?” I’m confused. The devastation hasn’t hit me yet.

“I think I’ll head on home.” He reaches out and pats my upper arm. “Good luck at school.”

I recoil from his touch. Are you kidding me? Good luck at school?

Loud banging startles me. A female voice shouts through the door, “Hurry up in there!”

The banging grows louder, and I go toward it, looking over my shoulder but not meeting his eyes. “Seems I overestimated you.”

Pushing through the door, I run into the crowd. The party surrounds me like a wave, and I let it pull me under, drowning my tears in noise and sweeping us apart.





1





Emmy


Ten years later…





“Drop your pants for prompt service.” Eli reads the sign aloud, and I want to die.

Sometimes I wonder if Lulabell Brady is the best influence for my seven-year-old son. Not that I have much of a choice.

“Oh.” He nods, figuring it out. “Because it’s a dry cleaner. I get it. Like how ‘Miss Con-Cleaneality’ is because Aunt Lou was a beauty queen.”

“Is a beauty queen.” I pull the glass door to see a line already forming at the front counter. “Never say was around Aunt Lou. Head on back and get started on your homework.”

Lulabell Brady might be flamboyant, but she’s my personal savior. She not only gave me a full-time job, including benefits, when I walked out on my cheating ex-husband, she also lets Eli stay in her office and do his studies during the day while I work.

Home schooling him was the right call when his seizures started and his little classmates treated him like he was sick… or ignored him, which was worse. Impulsively I pulled him out before I’d arranged everything. Not such a great call. Thankfully, Lulabell has impulse-control issues as well.

“What is it about spring that makes people want to dry clean everything?” Lou huffs past me as I’m putting on my neon pink Miss Con-Cleaneality work vest.

It has my name stitched on it in silver cursive.

Lou’s hair is teased up in a magenta-red bouffant, and her fake lashes are thick and black. Her lips are perfect, the Cupid’s bow just so. She could be a drag queen herself if she were a man. Today, she’s struggling under the weight of a blue-net bag on one shoulder and an armload of hanging clothes on the other.

“Is it nesting?” she groans. “Hey, Eli! How’s life as a child genius?”

“Heavy.” He hefts a backpack full of books higher on his shoulder.

“Tell me about it.”

I jump to help her with the load. My son does a wave over his head and continues to her office, where she has set up a small school desk she found at a vintage store just for him.

I kind of love her for doing that.

“Do drag queens nest?” I take the net bag of comforters off her shoulder, and she hangs the ball gowns on a rack with a loud hoot.

“No more than beauty queens nest. They’re far too busy dieting.” She gives me a wink then holds up a red paper tag attached to one of the gowns. “Red tag means Do Not Press. It’ll melt the beading.”