Page 50 of Until Landon
He takes my hands in his and our fingers braid. Now I have something to push against. I raise just a millimeter and roll my hips. Gliding slow, up and back, up and back over the length of him. His breathing elevates and the grip tightens. He controls his movements to keep my rhythm. But I have a sense it takes everything he has not to fuck me now.
Every so often I pause at the head and do a kegel. The internal squeeze makes the lips slightly pucker. I let the feeling of my pussy massaging his cock build. He is a caged animal who has fallen for the handler. Sort of a sexual Stockholm Syndrome deal.
One hand releases from mine, and he brings an index finger to his mouth, licks, and finds my clit. It wasn’t difficult to do. It must be sticking out from the hood. Now it is me under his control. I am the animal, he the tamer. Putting fists behind me on the bed, I arch and lean back giving full access.
There is a callous on Landon’s right thumb, and it is used to perfection. He rubs lightly over the engorged clit, and the rough patch of skin is like a sex toy.
“Ohhhh.”
My breast feels the warmth of his hand, then the nipple reacts to the two fingers pleasing it erect. God. Oh my God.
Taking his cock in hand, he guides it home. I sit up, and angle to heaven.
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
Landon
“I don’t want any son of a bitch green tea! Your sister tried that when she was here too.”
“Tried to get you healthier? What an asshole.”
I get a sneer for my efforts. He gets the refrigerator door slammed, and the old blue metal cup he handed me tossed in the sink.
“Jesus, Landon! My ears!”
Good. Maybe he will get the message and stop being this new version of himself.
The dogs take off like bats escaping hell. They are looking for better company. Biscuit and Barney have taken to leaving the room whenever the yelling gets too annoying. Who says animals aren’t intuitive beings? This time they didn’t see it coming though. Zero to sixty has become a quicker trip lately.
Here we are a few days into July and things are not getting better. They have taken a bad turn.
I worry. He isn’t improving. Psychologically, he’s worse than when we started. Physically, he is stuck in the same place and doesn’t seem to want things to change. The hip, the ankle, both better. But you wouldn’t know by the time spent sitting, laying. The white beard has morphed into a shapeless mess. He looks like Santa gone rogue. It’s driving me crazy.
I am tired at one-thirty in the afternoon and need a shower. I stink from ripping out the dead growth by the empty dog run. There is so much more to be done, it is almost overwhelming. How did he ever take care of this place by himself? And run Momma’s. The thought of my shift at the bar starting at six depresses the hell out of me. I will be counting the minutes till it’s over.
“The physical therapist will be here in a half hour. Try not to piss her off again.”
There is way too long a pause, and no pushback. Something is off.
“What the fuck did you do, Dad?”
“Got rid of her. That’s what I did. Don’t give me any grief about it, either. She wasn’t doing anything!”
“The hell she wasn’t! It’s you who drops the ball. I’ve had to practically force you to do half the exercises she gave you to do when she isn’t here. Who you bullshitting, Dad?”
“I don’t like to do them! It hurts me!”
My sarcasm slips out.
“Why do you think that is? You’re getting stiff because YOU’RE NOT DOING THE EXERCISES!”
He doesn’t continue the “conversation”. Instead he goes quiet. Shit. I bring the heat down and speak in a calm voice.
“You did them for Kim.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
