and clicked a tiny padlock through the zippers. I frowned and jiggled the lock. He ruffled my hair. “Old habits, little bird.”
We drank coffee together at the kitchenette. Matt said it was our day and he scooted his chair close to mine.
In the shower, he pressed me against the tiles and slid into me. His cock was rigid, insistent. “I’ve wanted you all morning,” he hissed. “I got hard just watching you sleep.”
Tender Matt was gone, demanding Matt taking his place.
I moaned long and low as he enjoyed me. He asked me how I liked it, and how much harder I thought I could take it, and then he gave it to me. When I was on the cusp of release, he pinched my clit and twisted. I came in a shaking rush.
He refused to give me our itinerary that day. Each time I asked, he flashed a smile at me. “Places. We’re going places.”
He plugged in his iPhone and let me pick music. I played “From Finner” and patted my thigh to the beat. Far from home … so happy.
Matt barely looked at the GPS as he drove.
He skirted the interstate highways, choosing winding country roads instead. We cruised through one small town after another. I lowered the window and smelled sweet grass and summer, and he held my hand.
What I’d seen of New Jersey—Newark and the area around Trenton where Nate lived—looked nothing like this. “So many trees,” I said. “It’s beautiful here.”
“Isn’t it? A well-kept secret, this state.”
Something stole over Matt as he drove. He released my hand and gripped the wheel. The levity faded from his expression. He grew quiet.
I monitored his mood without comment. Were we going to see his aunt and uncle? Doubtful, with Matt in a T-shirt and jeans. Maybe a cousin? Some unsavory relative?
We entered another town.
A roadside plaque read, WELCOME TO HUNTERDON COUNTY .
“This is Flemington,” he said. He stared ahead, eyes dark, arms braced. We swung around a circle and passed a large white barn with a gray roof, and a sign: DVOOR BROS. STOCK FARM, DAIRY COWS, HORSES .
He slowed the car almost to a stop as we crossed an old stone bridge.
MINE STREET.
I blinked rapidly, trying to take in everything.
“It’s really … cute here,” I whispered. Then I clamped my mouth shut. He glanced at the creek below the bridge—flashing water, flat brown rock. He swallowed and I watched the powerful play of emotion on his face.
Half a block from the bridge, he turned into a neighborhood across from a sprawling sandstone church.
“Saint Magdalene’s,” he said.
We passed several small homes and stopped at the curb beside a blue house with a red door. An oak loomed in the backyard, a flowering tree on the small front lawn. The grass looked neatly kept, as did the shrubs around the stairs, but a pile of trash clustered near the garage door: crates, beams, a garbage can, a sack of cement.
Despite the sunlight, I felt sad and unmoored. Why were we here?
I looked at Matt.
Pale-faced, he stared intently at the house.
“I grew up here,” he said.
My lips parted; I sucked in a thread of air.
Jesus . How hadn’t I considered this possibility? Matt … showing me the home where he grew up. Matt letting me into his life.
I gulped down my instinctive response to the house— it’s tiny! —and took his hand. He flinched, but his fingers tightened around mine.
Here. He grew up here. Before his parents died, presumably.
I pictured a towheaded boy on the front lawn. Little Matt …
Tears shimmered in my eyes.
“I—I want to…” I dug through my purse. Get a fucking grip! “Take a picture…”
He said nothing.
Was this tasteless? Cruel? Weird? My thoughts flashed around wildly as I snapped pictures on my phone, framed by the car window. Little blue house. Lost blue boy.
“Y-you grew up here,” I stammered.
“Mm. For the first nine years of my life, at least.”
Nine years. Sure enough. When Matt was nine, his parents died in a bus accident in Brazil, and his uncle and aunt
We drank coffee together at the kitchenette. Matt said it was our day and he scooted his chair close to mine.
In the shower, he pressed me against the tiles and slid into me. His cock was rigid, insistent. “I’ve wanted you all morning,” he hissed. “I got hard just watching you sleep.”
Tender Matt was gone, demanding Matt taking his place.
I moaned long and low as he enjoyed me. He asked me how I liked it, and how much harder I thought I could take it, and then he gave it to me. When I was on the cusp of release, he pinched my clit and twisted. I came in a shaking rush.
He refused to give me our itinerary that day. Each time I asked, he flashed a smile at me. “Places. We’re going places.”
He plugged in his iPhone and let me pick music. I played “From Finner” and patted my thigh to the beat. Far from home … so happy.
Matt barely looked at the GPS as he drove.
He skirted the interstate highways, choosing winding country roads instead. We cruised through one small town after another. I lowered the window and smelled sweet grass and summer, and he held my hand.
What I’d seen of New Jersey—Newark and the area around Trenton where Nate lived—looked nothing like this. “So many trees,” I said. “It’s beautiful here.”
“Isn’t it? A well-kept secret, this state.”
Something stole over Matt as he drove. He released my hand and gripped the wheel. The levity faded from his expression. He grew quiet.
I monitored his mood without comment. Were we going to see his aunt and uncle? Doubtful, with Matt in a T-shirt and jeans. Maybe a cousin? Some unsavory relative?
We entered another town.
A roadside plaque read, WELCOME TO HUNTERDON COUNTY .
“This is Flemington,” he said. He stared ahead, eyes dark, arms braced. We swung around a circle and passed a large white barn with a gray roof, and a sign: DVOOR BROS. STOCK FARM, DAIRY COWS, HORSES .
He slowed the car almost to a stop as we crossed an old stone bridge.
MINE STREET.
I blinked rapidly, trying to take in everything.
“It’s really … cute here,” I whispered. Then I clamped my mouth shut. He glanced at the creek below the bridge—flashing water, flat brown rock. He swallowed and I watched the powerful play of emotion on his face.
Half a block from the bridge, he turned into a neighborhood across from a sprawling sandstone church.
“Saint Magdalene’s,” he said.
We passed several small homes and stopped at the curb beside a blue house with a red door. An oak loomed in the backyard, a flowering tree on the small front lawn. The grass looked neatly kept, as did the shrubs around the stairs, but a pile of trash clustered near the garage door: crates, beams, a garbage can, a sack of cement.
Despite the sunlight, I felt sad and unmoored. Why were we here?
I looked at Matt.
Pale-faced, he stared intently at the house.
“I grew up here,” he said.
My lips parted; I sucked in a thread of air.
Jesus . How hadn’t I considered this possibility? Matt … showing me the home where he grew up. Matt letting me into his life.
I gulped down my instinctive response to the house— it’s tiny! —and took his hand. He flinched, but his fingers tightened around mine.
Here. He grew up here. Before his parents died, presumably.
I pictured a towheaded boy on the front lawn. Little Matt …
Tears shimmered in my eyes.
“I—I want to…” I dug through my purse. Get a fucking grip! “Take a picture…”
He said nothing.
Was this tasteless? Cruel? Weird? My thoughts flashed around wildly as I snapped pictures on my phone, framed by the car window. Little blue house. Lost blue boy.
“Y-you grew up here,” I stammered.
“Mm. For the first nine years of my life, at least.”
Nine years. Sure enough. When Matt was nine, his parents died in a bus accident in Brazil, and his uncle and aunt
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