Page 35 of If You Go
I pause, smirking over my shoulder. “Is there anything you wouldn’t do, though?”
That earns me a chorus of laughter, Bridget clapping her hands in mock disapproval.“Now off with ye, ye eejits — out o’ me dining room afore I have the hose on ye two, so I will.”
I glance down at Surry, her face still pink but glowing in the low light, and she shakes her head, whispering, “They’re all impossible.”
“Maybe,” I murmur, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “But they’re family.”
Then I scoop her up and throw her over my shoulder, slapping her ass for good measure. She laughs, pounding her tiny fists on my back as I continue to lightly pinch her ass, moving to caress between her thighs as we continue our walk toward the house. A tiny moan escapes her lips and she pauses her punching for a moment before we reach the house.
I set her down as we reach the French doors, the laughter behind us fading into the hum of crickets and the rustle of trees in the cooling night air as we slip inside. The sun’s low enough now that everything’s bathed in amber—the kind of light that makes the world feel softer, safer. Her hand’s still in mine, small but sure, fingers curling tighter as we step into the house.
The hallways twist and wind like a maze, the kind of place that’s been added onto over generations. Every turn smells faintly of old pine and lemon oil. Shadows gather in the corners, thick and quiet, and the air hums with the distant sound of conversation still drifting from outside. Somewhere behind us, Bridget’s laugh rings out again, muffled by walls and distance.
Surry doesn’t say a word. She just leads—bare feet whispering against the cool tile, her hair spilling loose down her back. Every few steps, she glances behind her like she’s making sure I’m still there. As if I’d ever be anywhere else.
We round another corner, and she stops at a set of double doors I haven’t noticed before—dark wood, heavy, old enough to groan when she pushes them open. She steps aside and gestures me in first.
The air inside is cooler, smelling faintly of popcorn and leather and the quiet static hum of unused electronics. When I hit the light switch, the soft amber sconces along the walls flicker to life, spilling warmth across the room.
It’s a home theater—but not the sleek, sterile kind you find in new builds. This one’s lived-in. The far wall is dominated by a massive screen, the kind you could lose yourself in. Rows of plush recliners rise in tiers, each draped with worn blankets and throw pillows that don’t match but somehow belong together. Down front, instead of the usual seats, sit three over sized daybeds—wide enough to fit two people each, covered in dark gray linen, the kind that feels soft even from a distance.
She walks straight for the middle one, the confidence in her stride completely at odds with the faint pink still dusting her cheeks. There’s already a remote resting in the cup holder, like fate—or temptation—set the stage for her.
Without a word, she grabs the remote and plops down cross-legged on the bed. The springs creak softly under her, and she looks up at me with that half-smile that never fails to gut me. “Well?” she says. “You planning to just stand there, or sit?”
I close the doors behind us, the latch clicking softly into place, and make my way to her. “What are we watching?”
“Whatever I find first,” she says, scrolling through the selections without even glancing at the screen. “I don’t plan on paying attention.”
She doesn’t see my grin, but she hears it in my voice when I answer, “Damn right, you’re not paying attention. I have a few ideas of what we could do instead.”
I sit beside her, close enough that our shoulders brush. She’s still flipping through menus when she stops suddenly, and a slow smile curves her lips. Then I hear it—the soft, sultry voice that spills through the speakers, low and spellbound:
“I put a spell on you…”
It takes me a second to place it, that smoky, aching voice—female, rich enough to taste in the air. I don’t know the movie, but I know the song. It’s what we heard out on the patio earlier. Now it fills the room around us, the visuals on the screen showing a woman in what is obviously the Pacific Northwest somewhere. It’s the kind of sound that makes you think about danger and devotion in the same breath.
Surry sets the remote down, right there in the cup holder, and leans back against the pillows. Her head tilts just enough for her eyes to meet mine. The faint light from the sconces catches the gold in her irises.
“Guess we’ll let that play,” she murmurs.
I nod, throat dry. “Guess we will.”
The song lingers in the air, haunting and slow, wrapping around the space between us until it feels almost alive. I turn slightly, close enough now to smell the faint trace of her perfume—something soft, like vanilla and smoke. She shifts toward me, legs brushing mine, her lips parting just slightly.
The air hums. The song swells. My pulse kicks hard against my ribs.
I lean down and turn, just enough to wrap my hands under the soft curve of her ass, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric as I pull her over to straddle my waist. Her thighs grip me tightly on either side, and I feel the heat of her core against my stomach. I place my lips onto hers—soft, plump, tasting faintly of cherry—and take full control over her mouth, using my tongue to trace the delicate ridge of her teeth before delving deeper. We kiss, tongues dancing in a slow, deliberaterhythm, her small gasps vibrating against my lips. My hands wander from her hips to her waist, fingers splaying across the dip of her lower back, while hers thread through my hair, nails lightly scraping my scalp, discovering one another at a leisurely pace.
I sit up with her still in my lap and flip us over gently, watching her golden hair fan across the white linen of the daybed. Her skin flushes pink where my hands press against her waist, her breath catching as I lower myself over her. The curve of her hip fits perfectly into my palm, as if sculpted by an artist who knew exactly what I would crave. Every inch of her—from the hollow of her throat to the soft dip behind her knee—calls to be traced, tasted, memorized. When her body arches up to meet mine, the contact ignites something primal between us, like two pieces of a lock finally clicking into place.
“What are you..”
She doesn’t get to finish because I sit forward and place a finger in her mouth, pumping it in and out. Her eyes widen as she explores the finger that has intruded into her.
“Be a good girl and suck. I don’t want to hear you talk unless it’s ‘yes sir’, or your safe word. Which is red. Tap my hand if you understand.”
She reaches up hesitantly and taps the hand that's still thrusting into her mouth. She sucks on it like such a good girl. I stifle a groan as she continues her ministrations on my finger. I wonder what she could do with my dick in her mouth.
