Page 68 of Loud Unspoken Memories

I draw the wetness up to my clit, careful to avoid any kind of insertion or friction against my raw parts. My clit, however, seems perfectly fine. I run circles on it as my mind paints a picture of Dallas gripping his cock and bringing himself to orgasm, making himself come to thoughts of me.

Is he standing, one hand braced against the wall as the other pumps his rigid length? Or is he sitting down, neck extended, eyes closed, face toward the ceiling as he thrusts into his palm over and over?

When I hear a muffled grunt, I come instantly, as if we’re connected somehow even though we’re separated by twenty feet and a large wooden door.

I lie back on the bed—that totally smells of sex—and listen as the tub drains and the shower starts.

The chill of the room starts getting to me, so I dry off, wrap my head in a towel, and get dressed.

Cringing at the smell of the bed, I strip the sheets off and wash them in the kitchen sink. Then I string my laundry line across the room and hang them to dry.

Dallas runs right into one when he emerges from the bathroom. “What the heck?”

I peek out from behind a sheet, drying my hair by the fire. “Had to wash the sheets. It smelled like a brothel in here.”

“Guess we gave them a bit of a workout, huh?”

“We got a bit of a workout ourselves.” I bite my lower lip for emphasis. “Thenandnow.”

He narrows his eyes.

“While you were—you know—in there. I was—you know—out here.”

His shocked expression almost makes me laugh. “I thought your coochie was broken.”

“What I did had nothing to do with my coochie and everything to do with a little area north of there that may or may not rhyme with Delores.”

He runs a hand through his long, wet hair. “Woman, you’re going to fucking kill me.”

Chapter Twenty-nine

Martina

I sit on the couch with my laptop, Bex at my feet, and try to get some work done. But it’s hard. Especially because I can’t take my eyes off Dallas. He’s working too. And I’ve never seen this side of him. He paces around, talking to whoever is on the other end of the phone, stopping to jot down an occasional note. He sounds so professional talking about financial reports, forecasts, and a new tax law that could affect the winery.

He’s all businesslike, and so different from the reclusive mountain man I’ve come to know. I can almost picture him sitting behind a desk wearing khakis and a button down.

My flesh comes alive with goosebumps as I imagine him making love to me in an office. I fantasize about him sweeping everything from his desktop, hoisting me up onto the edge, and burying his face in the valley between my thighs.

Dallas’s amused eyes swing my way, his lips twitching with a smile as he continues his call.

Was I gaping at him?

I close the lid of my laptop, work being a futile effort at this point, and I make my way to the coolers in search of something to make for lunch.

When he’s done with his call, I light a few candles and take plates to the table, then we sit side-by-side to eat the last of the Thanksgiving food.

When he gets up to fetch a bottle of wine, I dish a heaping spoonful of potatoes onto his plate. “Tomorrow is December. Can you believe it? Where did the time go? I haven’t even started buying gifts.”

“Mmm,” he grumbles, pouring us each a glass.

I want to ask if he even celebrates Christmas anymore. But I don’t. He doesn’t need me bringing up painful memories. He had one single Christmas with DJ.One. He would have been four weeks old at the time. Dallas was probably dreaming of the next year when his son would be toddling around, tearing into his new toys, smiling, laughing, calling him Daddy.

My heart hurts so much for him it overshadows my own painful memories.

Dallas sips his wine. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask.”

My heart flutters. Is he going to ask me to stay? To be his girlfriend? To have some sort of long-distance friends-with-benefits thing?

---