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“I have a few questions.”
“Hit me.”
“Do I have to empty my mind completely when I meditate? Or can I imagine kissing you, then sinking my cock into your sweet, wet pussy?”
I bite back a smile. “The goal is to release all thoughts. Concentrate on one word that brings you back to peace.”
“What if my word is ‘Evie’s sweet wet pussy?’”
“That’s four words. Besides, that’s not the best way to empty your dirty mind of dirty thoughts.”
“I’ve got a way. Come here,” he says, pulls me to him, pulls me on top of him and kisses me thoroughly, teeth scraping my lower lip, tongue exploring my mouth. He tangles his hands through my hair, pulls back a little and tugs on one long lock. “Mom likes you.”
“I like your Mom,” I say.
“I like you in a different way than Mom,” he says, his erection growing in record time, pressing insistently against my pelvis and the V between my legs throbs. He pulls my top over my head and tosses it onto the braided rug on the white wooden floor.
“I hope so,” I say, and tug the zipper down his jeans, his erection springing free. We make love like furtive teenagers, quietly, passionately, trying not to wake the folks in the main house a few hundred yards away. I come in soft moans and he follows shortly thereafter. We lie spent and sweaty, limbs entangled on the bed in his parents’ bungalow.
“Turns out coming home wasn’t all that bad after all,” he says. “Turns out coming home is pretty sweet with you here. You might be a miracle worker, Evie.”
The Saturday Summer potluck at Lighthouse Cathedral has been on the calendar for months.
Dylan plunks our beers down on a picnic table in the middle of the tree-lined park between Lighthouse Cathedral and a modern building with ‘Prayer Hall’ painted in giant metallic gold letters on the side. “You sit here. With Mom,” he says. “I’ll get us plates from the buffet table. Anything special you want, Evie?”
“You pick,” I say.
“Mom, you want anything?” he asks.
“Danica already took my order,” she says.
Ten minutes pass. Rosemary’s surrounded by friends and parishioners hanging on her every word. I doubt any of them knows her surgery’s coming up in a few days, and she’s not the kind of person to play the sympathy card.
A short, pretty brunette wearing jeans, platform sandals, and a cotton floral print peasant shirt walks up to our table and drops off a plate of food. “Can I get you ladies refills on drinks?” she asks.
“We’re good, Danica,” Rosemary says, and holds out her hand.
Danica squeezes it tight.
“Thank you. Have you met Evelyn?”
“No,” she says and extends a French manicured hand, diamond tennis bracelet sliding over her chunky gold watch. “Danica McAlister. Pleasure to meet you, Evelyn. If I knew Dylan was going to leave you here so long with the prayer ladies I would have prepared a plate for you too.”
I get a sweet vibe from her. “Call me Evie.”
“Evie it is. How long are you in town for?”
“Not very long.”
“Danica!” Patrick calls from a dozen yards away on the opposite end of the park and beckons. He’s surrounded by doughy middle-aged men who look like they were just carted in off the golf course.
She rolls her eyes. “The ball and chain beckons. Chat soon?”
“Yes.”
She walks in Patrick’s direction.
I crane my neck and see Dylan a dozen yards away holding two jumbo-sized paper plates heaped with food, talking with three guys his age. He meets my eyes and nods.
