Page 53 of Grouch-ish

“And what do I win?” He reaches forward and tugs at my hips as I stand in front of where he sits on the couch.

“Well, when I was a kid and we played this game, the payout was a quarter. At the end of a game, you might have won a dollar. But I think we can wager something more substantial.” I smile slowly.

Brock’s eyes spark. “Hmm, I could think of a few things.”

The fog surrounding him after his tale about Nate has dissipated. I wish he didn’t feel so responsible for something beyond his control. He couldn’t have predicted a hidden air shaft. However, Brock is a man who does not take his responsibilities lightly. He also needs help processing what happened, even if it was years ago.

I’m slowly realizing that it isn’t that Brock doesn’t feel his emotions, it’s that he feels everything so much. He tries to shut off the difficult sections of his life, like an out-of-control fire hydrant. Self-preservation is his stronghold.

“We’ll pick new cards each quarter.”

“So just to clarify, when I win at the end of the first quarter, I can have anything I want.” Confident and cocky, his voice drops. How the score will end in an eight and twelve in one quarter is beyond me but best of luck to him.

“Anything. And if I win, I get anything I ask.”

Brock squeezes my hips, jostling me a little bit. “Going down on you again is going to be a win for me as well, snowflake.”

“Oh, we talkin’ sexual payouts?” I tease, hoping we were, but I have a bigger favor to ask.

“If you play your cards right . . .” he counters.

We both laugh. The tension snapped for now.

At the end of the first quarter, however, I win and have my first ask. “I want you to promise you’ll go to therapy. Not just say you’ll think about it.” I recognize a vague vow when I hear it.

Brock’s mouth pops open. Then shuts. “This isn’t how I saw this game going.”

Maybe now isn’t the time for the suggestion but . . . “You assured me I could ask for anything. And I want to trust your word.”

We stare at one another for a long hard minute while commercials about chips and beer play on the television.

“You can trust me,” he strongly states. “But I still thought you’d ask for an orgasm.”

I chuckle. “Maybe when I win next quarter. But your mental health is more important to me, Brock.”

He stares at me, until I’m so uncomfortable I’m almost ready to tell him to forget I asked. I’d take the orgasm, but with my current mindset, relaxing into something so selfish would be difficult.

“Fine.” His reply is sharp, resolved, but also strangely decisive.

“Promise?”

“I swear.”

“Pinky promise,” I tease.

“I have something better than wrapping our fingers together.” With that, I’m falling backward on the couch and victory is mine when his fingers do indeed connect with another part of me.

By the time the Bulldogs finally win the game, I’ve had four orgasms. And one promissory note.

A new team record.

Go, me.

+ + +

“What’s going on?” Brock asks in the morning as he shuffles into the kitchen while I’m hanging up the landline phone on the wall.

He looks a little rough this morning as he scratches beneath his chin. His hair is sticking up on one side. Just looking at that silvery blend on his jaw has me clenching my thighs together. His mouth was sweet last night but the way he’d rubbed that beard against my skin . . . I shiver. A good shiver.