Page 26 of Kiss, Kill, Thrill Me, Daddy

He cocks an eyebrow at me. “Why would I delete her pictures?”

I grab his love handle again, pinching much harder than before. “They’re taking up precious memory space. It’s hell on your phone’s battery. Delete them now, Abi.”

He chuckles under his breath as he deletes the picture on screen. From the corner of my eye, I watch until all photos of Fee have been removed. “You know, I can simply ask her to send more. I’ll need them, should you decide to stay in Texas.”

Panic strikes, and I lunge for the phone. He doesn’t need her breasts. He doesn’t need to see her vagina. Even if I’m gone once these two weeks are over, the idea of him falling back into a situationship with her—with anyone—feels like a betrayal.

He hands the phone to me, his thumb brushing over my knuckles when we connect. “If you’re going to take away my masturbation material, you could at least leave me something to work with.”

I bite my bottom lip and consider the request. I’m still not sure how this trip home is going to pan out, but part of mewants him to have this. A piece of me. A memento of the man he loves. “Okay,” I finally say, sliding my hand beneath the fabric of my jock. I give myself a few leisurely strokes, trying to get Tatum Jr. to rise to attention. Once I’m half-hard, I fish my cock from the fabric and wrap my hand around the shaft. The camera flashes like lightning across the sky, and when it’s done, my dick is staring back at me on the screen. It’s not the biggest cock—not by a long shot—but it isn’t exactly small either. I measured it once, and it was just below six inches. It’s barely a blip on the radar when compared to Abi’s anaconda, but his unnecessarily large penis is the exception, not the rule.

I turn the phone toward him, showing him what I’ve just done. Wanting him to praise me for being a good boy and doing what he’s asked. Instead, he gives the screen a nod and hands it back to me. “Well done.” He closes his eyes and lets out an exaggerated yawn, using his arm to tug me right against him. “I’m going to take a nap. Have fun snooping.”

Okay, well that was hardly the reaction I’d hoped for. Not that I’ve been hoping for a reaction. Doesn’t matter. I read through every text exchange, but there’s nothing in them that holds my attention. Just Fiona’s periodic check-ins from when she’s across the street, masturbating on the farmer’s porch while he watches. There are a few exchanges with Brody, most of them containing death threats aimed at me. His message chain with Scotty is both confusing and concerning. It seems, each morning, the pair send clipart with morning greetings. Now and then, Scotty will threaten to end his life if Abi ever scolds him again, but they’re all met with a laugh/cry emoji from Abi.

Finally, with all the messages read, I pull up his pictures. There’s a folder labeledPrivate, so, obviously, it’s the first folder I explore. Once the images load, my heart thunders in my chest. There’s an endless number of pictures showcasing my sleeping face. Always shirtless. Always cuddled up against his chest. Sometimes, he’s in the picture, leaning in and kissing my forehead, or smiling into the camera while I’m resting in his arms.He looks so thankful to have me there with him. He’s holding me like I’m the only thing that matters to him.

The man stalked me. He stole me away from the only life I’ve ever known. Perhaps, most egregiously of all, he may have stolen my heart in the process.

“Bastard,” I mutter under my breath. I turn on my side, wanting to slap him right in the face and call him a Peeping Tom, but I can’t. Not when he’s sleeping so peacefully. So, I do the only thing I can. I cuddle up closer and rest my head over his heart. When I pucker my lips long enough to offer him a quick kiss, his face twitches in surprise, but he doesn’t make a move, just makes a low, rough grunt.

“I would, you know,” I tell him. “I would miss you. Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow. I would miss you if you were gone, Abi.”

When his lips curl into a half-smile, I just nuzzle even closer and fall asleep in his arms.

CHAPTER 5

ABI

Tatum hasn’t spoken a word since Fiona pulled over and instructed us to get into the front of the car. Brody and Scotty are riding shotgun, giving us the back seat, the luggage now tucked away in the trunk. We’re less than five miles from his childhood home, and he’s been shaking like a leaf in my lap most of the way. I’ve had my finger inside him, slowly fucking the digit in and out, wanting to put him at ease.

He tugs my shirt. “We’re just going to tell them we’re friends, right?” he whispers.

“We can tell them whatever you like,” I assure him. “However you want to handle things, I’ll follow your lead.”

He sighs and melts into me when I strike his prostate. He studies my face for a moment like he’s working himself up to saying something. “It’s not that I’m ashamed of you or anything. It’s just going to be hard to explain an impromptu, spur-of-the-moment marriage to them. I’ll never hear the end of it. They love me, but their belief in me is already stick-thin. This would just be the final nail in the parental-respect coffin. Then I’ll have to explain the divorce or annulment or whatever the hell it’s called. I’ll be a failure in their eyes.”

Divorce. Annulment.

The words slash at me, leaving my heart in ribbons. He’s said it so casually, like it’s the only logical outcome.

I lean in, nuzzling my face against his scalp, inhaling the scent of his strawberry shampoo. “They may not have faith in you, but I do.” I kiss the top of his head and hold myself here, breathing him in. “I promise, I don’t mind. Whatever you need to tell them; it’s fine.”

“Thank you.”

As I hold Tatum for what might be the last time, Scotty guides Fiona to a small cul-de-sac. The home we arrive at is like something out ofLeave it to Beaver. As Tatum might say: It’s old-school and it’s giving nuclear-family vibes. The home is a two-story colonial, constructed of red bricks. There’s a wrap-around porch with potted plants hanging from the roof. The yard looks like it belongs on the cover ofBetter Homes & Garden, each blade of grass no higher or shorter than the last. A flowerbed lines the porch, and in it, red and pink roses dot the landscape perfectly. It’s a stark contrast to the shanty my family shared in Russia. It’s even nicer than Brody’s childhood home.

I look at Tatum with something akin to awe in my eyes. “This is where you grew up?”

The sight of his family home makes me feel like a failure as a provider. The Winawana Wagon House was never meant to be a permanent residence for us. Small cabins with barely any room for storage. A lawn made of sharp pebbles that slice at the soles of shoes when walked upon. For a while, I thought it was a rustic abode. A little love nest we could tuck ourselves away in until we saved enough money for a place of our own. That’s the dream, anyway. Now, it feels like a nightmare, because if he stays in Texas, there’s a very good chance our love nest may become my tomb. I’ll end up hiding myself away like a modern-day Miss Havisham.

“Are you ready?” he asks, squeezing my hand and pullingme out of my troubled headspace. I give him a nod even though I’m not ready for this at all. I feel like a lackluster beau, coming to ask for the St. James family’s permission to marry their son. Even with him smiling his assurance at me, I worry I won’t be enough. Not enough to win them over. Not enough to earn my place at his side. Before Fiona and Brody, I dated women from time to time, but I’ve never met anyone’s family. I want this to go well. It has to. Perhaps if I can win them over, I can show him what a life spent at my side could be like. Happiness. Hope. Home.

He wriggles around on my lap, and when my finger slides out of his hole, it feels colder than it ever has. He reaches in the floorboard and pulls out the black satchel I use to house our trusty pack of wet wipes. Pulling one out, he uses it to clean my finger. Thanks to his high-fiber diet, I’m always clean when I pull my finger out of him, but he still does this each time. It feels good to have him care for me the way I want to care for him.

Once I’m squeaky clean, he retrieves a bottle of hand sanitizer from our pack and squirts a dollop into my palm. He slides it back in the bag and looks toward the front of the car, holding a hand up. “Would you guys mind hanging back for a minute?”

Scotty whines. It’s a high-pitched, horrible sound that reminds me of air leaving a balloon. “I want to see them, too!” he shouts. “Momma Lindsay loves me. I’m not going to allow you to alienate her from me.”

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