Page 91 of Fall Over You

“Night, Reba.”

One week of marriage, and this is the greeting she gives me from outside my closed bedroom door.

In fairness, I’ve been so busy this week that I haven’t had much time to woo my wife. The only time we were alone together was when we went to sign for the loan on Tuesday. Since we were under the town’s microscope, we had to be on our best couple-y behavior. I paid down all the back bills to my parts dealers and put out an ad for a mechanic. I sanded all the floors at the cottage into the wee hours of the morning yesterday and I plan to finish them this weekend when I can open the windows without freezing to death.

No matter how late I went to bed, I left a bunch of flowers somewhere I knew Becca would find them. That was the best I could do for wooing.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t want her.

Every time I lick my lips, I swear I can still taste her. Every time I close my eyes, I see flashes of her smile while she danced at our wedding reception. Every scent is her hair and bubble gum. And every sound I can remember has been replaced by her desperate plea.

I’m so close, Tyler, please.

I stare at the ceiling like I have every other night this week, digging my heels into the mattress and trying to deny how hard I am, calculating how much I’d be willing to give to hear her call my name like that again.

Like all the other nights, I lose the battle of trying not to think of Becca while my dick is in my hand.

I grunt at the first stroke, circling my cock and moving from root to tip.

A wave of guilt passes over me. She would love to do this with me. Hell, even to watch me while she does the same.

But if we crack this open and start messing around when we’re just days into a years-long arrangement, I run the risk of having it go like it did last time: with Ellie left feeling abandoned, and me feeling like the worst dad in the world.

I can’t take my eye off the prize, and the prize is financial stability for all three of us: her, Ellie, and me.

Becca stands between me and what my daughter needs. Not because she means to, and not by any fault of her own. It’s because I can’t do it all. I already devoted too much of Ellie’s early life to trying to take care of her mom. That alone almost burned me completely out. I only have so much to give, and I’m not sure I can be both a good dad and a good partner. So until Ellie’s old enough to go on her own, I’ll fly solo.

Just like I am now, remembering Becca’s sweet taste on my tongue, the pressure of her heels on my back, the delicious heaven between her legs.

At least I got to experience it for myself.

I shove my pajama pants down until my cock springs free, relaxing on my back. I spread a bead of precum down my shaft, my fingers rubbing the sensitive spot under the head. My eyes drift shut as the Becca movie starts to play in my head. Her soft body under mine as I pressed her against the LeBaron, her wetness on my fingers, and her moan⁠—

Fuck. My hand stops moving as I listen closely. A quiet hum fills the air, along with stilted breathing and a squeak like she’s turning on her mattress. Fuck, is she using a vibrator? Every muscle in my body strains to run for the door, to tear hers down and watch or touch or do whatever she asks.

“Tyler.”

My name. She said my fucking name. But does she know I can hear her?

A moan that must be how angels sing and a gasp. I know the walls were thin. Has she been able to hear me every night? How has she been able to contain herself all this time? I’m basically a teenager again with how often I’m getting hard thinking about her.

Becca just let out the sweetest sigh. For one almost-perfect night, I got to be the one drawing those sounds out of her.

“So good, baby.”

It slips out of my mouth and right now, I don’t even care. I wonder if she’s on her back or her stomach now, which way gets her off better. I wonder if she left her clothes on or if she’s naked, those nipple piercings glinting with the light from her bedside lamp or if her lights are out.

I have to be hallucinating, because there’s no way I’m hearing another “Ty.” But she does it again, louder. “Tyler.”

“Reba.” I grunt instead of saying it because what if she comes in here because she thinks something’s wrong rather than what’s actually happening, which is me getting off to the thought of her getting off.

Not just the thought of it.

The sound. The smell of all her body wash and shampoo from the shower that lingers in the air. The knowledge that there’s just a wall between us.

“Reba,” I say again before I utter a curse and come, my release splashing up to my chin. And while I’m in the middle of it, there’s one more desperate cry from next door.

“Tyler.”