8. Abi

CHAPTER 8

ABI

T he diner is packed. After two hours being fitted for tuxedos, Brody, Mr. St. James, and I walked across the square to Minnie's Diner. The scents of sizzling bacon and apple turnovers fill every inch of the diner, making my mouth water and my stomach rumble. The booth we've been given is circular, meant for large parties, so it practically swallows the three of us. I'm on one side, Brody is directly across from me, and Mr. St. James is facing forward, away from the diner's picture window.

A woman in a poodle skirt with a name tag that says Minnie takes our drink orders. Brody orders a bourbon on the rocks, glaring at her when she says they don't offer hard liquor, as they are simply a diner, not a dive bar. Tatum's father orders himself a glass of lemon water, and an unsweet iced tea minus the ice for his wife. She hasn't arrived yet, but when I arch an eyebrow, he explains she prefers her tea room temperature, and he wants it to be just right when she gets here.

Tatum and Scotty will be joining us shortly. In the meantime, Brody and Tatum's father have become fast friends, while I sit back in my booth and stare at Pretty Baby's face on my phone screen. I pull up my gallery and scroll through the images until I find one of me gripping my cum-coated cock. It's an image I took a few days ago, after shooting my load in the communal bathroom. I give Tatum no context and just hit send, hoping it might earn me a sassy reply.

As much as I've enjoyed my time getting to know my future father-in-law, I've missed my little one's cruel words, always laced with sprinkles of affection. I also miss the sensation of his hole gripping tightly around my finger. I don't know how I'm going to manage the rest of this trip without that connection.

It takes less than thirty seconds for him to respond.

Little One: If you ever send me another unsolicited dick pic again, I'll block your number. Don't test me, Abi.

God, I love this man. Rather than reply, I scroll a bit further, locating an image of my bare ass. In the picture, I'm staring over my shoulder, arching an eyebrow at my reflection in the mirror. I send it to Tatum, hoping he appreciates the view.

His response comes fast, and it's one that makes my heart skip a beat.

Little One: Hope you cry, hope you die. Can I play with it tonight?

My cock twitches against my jeans. The longer I stare at the message, the longer my shaft grows. I feel the head peek past the boxer-briefs that reach halfway down my thigh. I must be leaking too, because my thigh feels a bit damp.

Me: I would like that very much.

The next message that comes through is hardly a message at all. It's just a picture of me through the diner window. When I turn to look outside, Tatum is standing on the other side of the window, holding his middle finger high to the sky, aimed right at me. After I give him a wink, he quickly shoves his hands in his pockets, staring at his feet as his cheeks burn a little bit brighter. When he finally finds the courage to look at me, he mouths, " Hi, Abi ."

A bell jingles above the door when they enter. Mrs. St. James is the first to arrive, clapping a hand against Fiona's back as if they've just shared a joke. Once they're at the table, Brody slides out of the oversized booth, offering her a spot at her husband's side, but she lifts her hands in opposition.

"Thank you, sweety, but I think I'd like to sit by my boys today," she says before tapping me on the shoulder. When I look up at her, she's smiling at me.

"Mind if we scoot in, son?" she asks me. My heart pitter-patters, and I have to swallow a forming lump before I can speak. The affection in her voice sounds motherly. The way the word "son" rolled so effortlessly off her tongue. All I've ever wanted is a family, and perhaps I've allowed myself to warm to the idea more than I ought, but I cannot help it. It feels nice.

"Yes, ma'am. I would like that very much," The moment I'm up, she pulls me in for a hug. I soak up the maternal affection for longer than the moment calls for, pulling away when I feel a tug at my shirttail. Tatum. He's got one hand gripping the tail of my shirt, and the other is wrapped around one of my wrists. Mrs. St. James motions for Fiona to slide in first, then follows her into the booth. Tatum inches closer to me, his eyes focusing on my chest.

"Hey, Abi," he says, his voice small and nervous.

I hook a finger beneath his chin and tug until our eyes meet. "Hello, my love." Leaning in, I press a quick kiss to his lips. He doesn't fight me on it, nor am I scolded for taking liberties I have no right taking. If anything, he leans even closer against me. It takes everything I have not to pick him up and slide my finger where it belongs. Considering this is one of the first exchanges I've had with my soon-to-be in-laws, I'm not sure how they'd feel about their son being finger-fucked on an endless loop while in public. Perhaps I can steal him away to the restroom before we leave. For now, I'll take what he's offered me, and I'll hold onto it tight.

I slide into the booth, and when I look over at him, he's staring at my lap. It's like his body is seeking connection, because it's where it knows he belongs, but his head is telling him a man sitting in another man's lap at the dinner table is a social faux pas. I've never given a damn about social graces, so the protector in me wins out. Tatum wants to sit in my lap, so he is going to sit in my lap. End of discussion. Once he's sitting beside me, I push the table back a few inches and grab Tatum by the hips. He squeaks when I pull him onto my lip, his cheeks flushing furiously.

"Jesus, Abi. I can't sit in your lap at a diner," he insists. "Normal people don't do this."

My hand finds his ass, and even through the protective barrier of dark denim, it feels like coming home. Giving him a squeeze, I cock a brow at him. "I don't particularly care what normal people do in public. This is where you belong, no?"

Tatum glances around the table, his cheeks flaming. Brody and Scotty are side-by-side on the other end of the booth. Fiona and Mrs. St. James are staring at Fee's phone, sharing a secret joke. Tatum's father is staring at us with an amused expression.

He must not care what his father thinks on the matter, because he quickly dips his head in a nod, whispering, "Yeah. It is." I lean in long enough to place a quick kiss on his cheek.

"So," Mom says, taking a sip of her iced tea. "Abi, tell us about yourself. Aside from the fact you've got the cutest accent I've ever heard, I know absolutely nothing about you. If you're going to be our son, we'll need to remedy that. Tell us everything."

"Mom," Tatum warns. He's probably worried about bringing to light facts I'd rather stay hidden. But that's the thing. I don't want to hide anything from them or from him. For the first time in a long time, I want to do like the ladies on Tatum's housewives show say; I want to be open and honest. Sitting here with the man I love nuzzling up next to my heart, I want to show myself. The parts I've kept for myself.

"It is alright," I murmur, kissing his forehead. "I do not mind." Turning to Mrs. St. James, I try to force a smile. "What would you like to know?"

"Whatever you're willing to share," she says cheerfully, but her voice softens as she continues. "To tell the truth, most of what we know about you came from Scotty, and he's hardly a reliable narrator, adorable though he may be."

Scotty growls like a cornered dog, baring his teeth like he might lunge. "Why must you continuously throw me under every bus that passes by? Jesus, Lindsay. It's like you're actively trying to get me in trouble."

She arches an eyebrow at Scotty. "Maybe I am."

"Why? What have I ever done to you?"

She shrugs, and there's a mischievous smile settling on her face. "You think I didn't notice the spark in your eyes each time Brody scolded you yesterday? It's clear as day you enjoy being punished." She darts her eyes at Fee, then back at Scotty. "You're not the only one. Anyway, I'm just doing my motherly duty, sweety. If my boy needs to be smacked around a little to keep the home fires burning, you're dang right I'm going to tattle on you. I'm doing it now, and I'll do it again."

Scotty whimpers, and, unsurprisingly, his eyes are filled with tears. The boy cries at the drop of a hat. He's a bundle of emotional instability. Still, it works for him. "That ..." he says, closing his eyes and drawing in a deep breath. "That is the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me." Turning to Tatum, tears drip from his newly narrowed eyes. "Perhaps as my one-and-only best friend, you should take note. Worst biffle ever."

"Perhaps your one-and-only biffle is sick and tired of your bullshit," Tatum says.

"Yeah? Well, maybe I ought to—" Scotty begins, only to be cut off by Tatum's father of all people. He places one hand on top of Scotty's and gives him a stern glare .

"Scotty, I believe the banter portion of this lunch has gone on long enough, don't you?" Though his words aren't unkind, Scotty must see them as an attack, because he picks up his butter knife and aims it at the man.

"If you ever try to silence me again, your death will be merciless," he says. To my surprise, Brody doesn't lunge at the man on Scotty's behalf. Instead, he leans in and whispers something into Scotty's ear that makes his eyes bulge. "That's not fair! I didn't do anything wrong!"

"You just threatened the man's life, baby."

"I know, but I was just playing. Jerk. Well, I don't care what you say. I'm not standing in the corner when we get back. Not happening."

"The fuck did you just say to me?" Brody growls. "I ain't gonna tell you this again, Freakshow; when Daddy says there's going to be a punishment, there's going to be a punishment."

Scotty sighs and gives Tatum's father a remorseful smile. "I'm sorry, sir."

"Good boy," Brody praises.

"Anyway," Mrs. St. James says, grabbing a packet of Splenda and tipping it into her tea. "Abi. Go on, sweetie. Tell us all about yourself. Where are you from? What do you do for work?"

I grab my glass of water and take a sip, gripping Tatum tighter. Somewhere along the way, he's started shaking with nerves, and it's my job to keep him steady. Swallowing, I set the glass on the table and clear my throat.

"I'm from Russia, originally," I start. "I lived there until I was ten. My mother said she could tell I was different from a young age, and she wanted me to have a happy life, so she brought me to the States."

"And your father?"

"My father ..." My heart is pounding in my chest. Every pump of blood feels like an explosion, the sound of my heartbeat strong in my ears. Just as I steadied him only moments ago, Tatum grips my side, the pressure is painful but just what I need. I look into his eyes, unsure how much of my origin story he wants me to tell them.

"It's okay," he says, his voice soft and full of care. "You don't have to talk about anything you don't want to."

"You're sure?"

He nods. "You're okay."

He's right. With him staring into my eyes with this level of care and comfort, I'm okay. It feels nice to have him show his protective side. It even gives me a bit of hope things might work out for us in the end.

"My father was not a kind man," I continue, staring at beads of condensation that fall down the side of my water glass. "Not to her. Not to me. My mother and I had to flee while he was at work one day." I grab the water glass and take another sip. My hands are trembling, but when Tatum stares into my eyes, the tremors stop. "I still do not know how he found us, but somehow, he did." I place the glass on the table and look at Mr. and Mrs. St. James. The pair are staring at me with concerned expressions. Part of me wants to tell the rest of the story. To let Tatum's family know how my father ripped her life away, right before my very eyes, but the only words I can manage are, "He took her from me."

"Oh, sweetie," Mrs. St. James says, and the emotion behind the words is enough to bring tears to my eyes. Tatum reaches for my face, but he does not wipe them away. Instead, he simply cups my cheek, his eyes saying the words his voice cannot.

"Little one."

"You're okay," he assures me. "You don't have to talk about it anymore."

We don't speak much after that. We just stare at each other as life roars on around us. Once our meals arrive, Scotty, Brody, and Mr. St. James tear into theirs, but Mrs. St. James is staring at me and Tatum like we're the most precious sight she's ever seen. Considering Tatum keeps nodding off, making him seem almost childlike in nature, we probably are .

"You don't know how happy I am that he's found someone like you, Abi," she says. I look down at Tatum, now fast asleep in my lap, and smile. "He can argue it all he wants, but he's never looked as happy as he does when he's with you. Even with his ex-boyfriends, he never once seemed genuinely thrilled to be in their presence. He didn't cuddle with them in front of us. All I've ever wanted is for him to be happy, and you've done that." She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. "Thank you for loving him."

I chuckle softly, leaning down and kissing his scalp. "Thank you for raising him to be so loveable." As I watch his eyes flutter and flicker behind the lids, I hold him just a bit closer to my chest. "Tatum?" His eyes blink to life, and once they're open, he just stares at me, not speaking. I use my free hand to grab a couple of French fries and hold them out for him to take. He follows my lead, leaning in and taking them into his mouth. His lips close around both the fries and my fingers, and his tongue flicks across my fingertips. A low groan escapes me, and I find myself rolling my hips, grinding my half-hard cock against his ass. Red heat rushes across his face, and for a moment—a truly terrible moment—I think he might slap me. Instead, I watch as his hand slowly reaches down and slides beneath his ass. His fingers wrap around my cloth-covered shaft, squeezing me perfectly. His hand moves forward, then back, his soft eyes staring right into mine.

"Abi," he whispers.

It takes every ounce of strength I can muster to refrain from carrying him into the bathroom and ravishing him. Unfortunately, self-control has never been Tatum's strong point. Though he's released the grip he had on my shaft, his hips are now rolling inconspicuously against my lap; each movement pulling me closer to an edge I didn't even realize we were approaching.

Fuck. He's barely begun, and I'm already close.

"Tatum," I manage, gripping his hip. If he keeps this up, I'll spill over at the table, right in front of his mother and father. Granted, neither are paying us much attention, and Tatum's upper body shows no signs of what his lower half is doing to me, but I don't know how I'll manage to stifle my moans if he grinds an unrequested orgasm out of me. It's building and building until Tatum stops moving against me. He looks over his shoulder, probably daring me to keep going, but I can't. Not with his family so close to us.

"Date night," I hear Mrs. St. James say once my impending orgasm has subsided. "Every couple needs one, especially when times are stressful. Weddings can take everything out of you. It's important to keep the spark alive. That's all I'm saying."

They continue talking, but all I can do is close my eyes and try to catch my breath. I almost came. I almost shot a load at the table while his parents were only inches away. What I need is to compose myself. As I gulp and gasp for air through the protective barrier of his back, I realize his mother is insisting I take Tatum out for a night on the town before our impending nuptials.

A date. In the six months he's spent stealing my heart, he's yet to agree to one. I've broached the topic a handful of times, but it always ends with either a slapped face or a scowl aimed in my direction. Now, with his mother pushing the matter, my heart races at the prospect.

"Would that be alright with you?" I ask. "Would you allow me to take you out?" Leaning closer, I press my lips to his ear. "A real date. Not just for show." He sucks in a quick breath and the grip he has around my hip tightens. "I know," I whisper even lower than before, "it is frightening, but I promise, I will do all the work. You do not have to plan anything." I press a kiss to his cheek, because it's right there, begging to be kissed. "Let me show you how much I love you, Tatum. Before you take all of this away, let me show you what you mean to me."

He whimpers. A soft, fragile sound. One that goes unnoticed by the rest of the booth, but not by me. "Hope you die," he whispers .

I snort. "Yes, I know. You hope I die and hope I cry. But do you know what I hope for?"

"What?"

"A lifetime by your side."

He sniffles as he leans even closer, resting his head on my shoulder. Our eyes are still locked, and he has this childhood innocence look about him. "That was a terrible rhyme, but I really like the sentiment."

"Yeah?" I know there's more hope in my voice than I have any right to, but Tatum's eyes are just as hopeful.

He gives me a halfhearted shrug. "Hope it's a super-short lifetime. Can't wait to be rid of you." He quickly lifts his head and kisses the corner of my mouth before laying it back on my shoulder.

Tatum's father clears his throat, and when I look at him, he's chuckling softly to himself. Every eye—sans Mrs. St. James's—is on us, and there's a knowingness in their gazes. "Listen, son," he says. "As sweet as this is, you might want to go to the restroom to take care of things."

I arch an eyebrow at him. "I am fine, sir. I do not need to urinate."

"I think he's talking about the fact that you're essentially giving Kincaid a handjob with your buttcheeks," Scotty says. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Cheap slut."

"My slut," I whisper, kissing Tatum's jawline until my lips are at his ear. "Daddy's little whore."

Tatum's eyes bulge and his cheeks burn red with embarrassment. "We didn't?—"

"Nyet," I say, feeling no desire to hide our actions. He offered me the chance to provide him comfort. I took it. End of discussion. There is nothing to be ashamed of. "Mom and Dad, I will be taking Tatum to the restroom now."

Tatum glares at me. "What did I tell you about calling them Mom and Dad? "

"You told me nothing would give you more pleasure, my love," I lie, winking at him.

Mrs. St. James beams brightly at us. "You know, when Nate and I started dating, he enjoyed a bit of public play, too."

"Mom!" Tatum shouts.

"We went to second base at a drive-in theater once. Cars all around. People everywhere. I don't know if I've ever felt as alive as I did at that moment."

"Is that so?" Fee says, her gaze locked on Mrs. St. James. "What movie?"

Mrs. St. James blushes and looks away. " Titanic ."

"Was it the scene in the car with the foggy window? Is that what got you hot and heavy, Lindsay?" The tone in her voice is one I'm more than familiar with. Normally, I might ask her to refrain from flirting with my future-husband's mother, but Mrs. St. James does not seem to mind. In fact, she seems to be tickled pink. Mr. St. James, on the other hand, looks as if he's ready to throw his glass into the picture window behind him.

Mrs. St. James shakes her head. "It was when Jack painted her like one of his French girls."

Fiona places a hand on top of Mrs. St. James's and squeezes. "That scene was my bi awakening. It's the first time my mother let me watch a movie with nudity." She licks her lips. "Kate Winslet can get it. Any time. Any place."

Tatum buries his head in my shoulder and groans. "Make it stop."

I chuckle as I slide one hand beneath his thighs and use the other to hold his back. He jolts when I stand, realizing I'm bringing him along for the ride. As I carry my boy to the public restroom, he holds on for dear life. "When we go in here," I tell him, using my shoulder to open the swinging door. "You are going to masturbate while I watch. When it's done, you will ejaculate into my mouth. Is this understood?"

He bites his bottom lip, probably to hide a smile he doesn't want to show. "Okay. "

Once we make it to the restroom, I set him on the counter and turn to lock the door. When I whirl around, Tatum's fast at work, furiously stroking his cock, the head aimed right at me.

"Get down here. I don't know how much longer I can last," he says, sounding breathless. Kneeling in front of him, I present Tatum with an open mouth for him to use as he sees fit. "I'm close."

Reaching up, I slide my hand between his shirt and his skin, letting it rest against his stomach. He moans at the connection, his hand working even faster. "Such a good boy," I murmur, kissing his thigh. His body trembles and the sounds he's making are practically feral.

"More?" he pleads. "So close."

"When I take you on our date," I say, pausing until he looks me in the eye. "I am going to fuck you, Tatum. Is that alright?"

"Oh, Jesus, fuck, holy-fucking-Rinna!"

He's leaning back against the bathroom mirror, bending his knees as he brings his feet up to the edge of the counter. He scoots his ass closer to me, and I'm gifted the sight of his hairless pucker.

"I've missed you," I tell his hole, petting the rim with my finger. He's shaking like a leaf as his hand works faster. I know what he needs. I'm well aware of what makes Tatum go tick-tick-boom.

Sucking my finger to get it ready for him, I taste his sweat, mewling at the flavor. I've missed the times spent celebrating his hole. It's been less than two days, and it already feels like part of me is missing. Sure, he's had fleeting moments with my finger, but it hasn't been the constant pulse of reassurance I'm used to providing him.

Tatum reaches down, wrapping his hand around my finger, whispering, "It's missed you so fucking much." I have to swallow a happy sob before continuing, because those words are enough to steal my breath.

Moving closer, I blow a slow, warm breath over his sensitive skin. His hole clenches at my heat, and it's all the invitation I need. I bring my finger to his hole and softly guide it to where it belongs.

"You can," he whispers, his eyes clenched tightly.

Crooking my finger, I find his secret button. I've dived these depths endlessly over the last six months. I know every inch. Every twist. Every ridge. One might call me a connoisseur. One might be correct.

"I can do what?" I ask. He bites his bottom lip and shakes his head. Wanting to hear him say the words, I lean in and tease him by pressing a kiss at the crease of his groin and thigh. How is his skin this soft? It's as if my lips are touching silk. "You can tell me anything." I open my mouth long enough to swipe my tongue across his balls, purring at his sweaty flavor. He's not giving in, though, and his hand movement has slowed to a near-stop. His face is a picture of conflict. There are emotions within emotions lying just beneath the surface. "I wish you would let me in. All I want is to be your safe place. Anything you want to say, it's okay. It's okay, because I love you."

To my surprise, his eyes blast wide open, and the look he gives me is one for the record books. It's a look I want to capture so that I might revisit it whenever I need reminding that he loves me just as hard and horribly as I love him.

"You can fuck me, Abi," he says, determined. "I want you to fuck me."

And that's all it takes. I watch as his balls draw closer to his body, then jet after jet of his load lands in my mouth. I free my cock from its confines and stroke three times before I'm spilling over, my load pumping out on the floor. He's panting and gulping and gasping for air, but his hand still works frantically as if it's chasing the only pleasure it's ever known. Through it all—as each eruption lands in my mouth—his eyes never close. They remain locked on mine, decidedly. He's no longer coming, just stroking his spent cock and staring at me.

"I meant it," he finally says. "I want you to fuck me. "

It takes me a moment to realize I still haven't swallowed. His cum lays fresh on my tongue, the flavor already so familiar, I don't even notice. Once his breathing is steady and he manages to find his bearings, he smiles, letting his legs drop down over the side of the counter. He sits up straight, but he doesn't speak, just stares at me like there are mismatched puzzle pieces on my face and he's trying to work the pattern out for himself. Finally, and thankfully, he holds his arms out for me. It's all the convincing I need. Rising from my knees, I stand in front of him, allowing him to drink the sight of me in. We study each other like we're trying to emblazon ourselves on each other's memory. It doesn't last long—maybe six or seven seconds, at best—but it's a life-changing moment. I lean close, wrapping my arms around his back, and I pull him as tightly to me as I can manage.

I've yet to swallow the only evidence of what we've just shared. He must know, because when he pulls away, he holds my face in his palms, looking more affectionate than I've ever seen him. His voice is filled with an almost unbearably hopeful tone when he finally says, "Will you share it with me?"

What Tatum wants, Tatum gets.

I part my lips when his are finally against mine, and I let his cum pour out like a waterfall. As our tongues tangle, the load passes back and forth between us. Our kiss lasts lifetimes, though little time has passed. As the kiss goes on, he slides his hand into my jeans and gently caresses my cock.

"Was there any of yours left?" he asks, darting his eyes down at my dick. I'm filled with guilt, because I've failed the little one. I should have known he would want to taste me. It's my job to know these things. I'm supposed to take care of him. To provide for him.

"My love," I say, stroking his cheek. "It pains me to say I spilled my seed on the floor. I'm very sorry, sweetheart, I wasn't thinking." I kiss the corner of his mouth. "Will you forgive me?"

"Yeah," he breathes, his voice shaking. "Yeah, Abi. It's okay." He buries his face in my nape, kissing my gently. "So, are we really doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"The date. Like ... a real one?"

I lick my lips, practically purring when I find a stray droplet of his cum on my mouth. I could live on his load for the rest of my life, and it still wouldn't be enough. "It's your decision, sweetheart. I would love to take you out, but if you're uncomfortable ..."

He stares at me for what feels like hours before finally shaking his head. "No."

"No?"

"No, I'm not uncomfortable," he clarifies, his voice small and shaking. "If you're dead-set on dragging me on a date, I guess I don't have much say in the matter."

If he needs to pretend the only reason we're going is because I'm forcing him to, I will allow it. Whatever it takes to make him comfortable. There's barely an inch of space between us, but I take a half-step forward until we're chest to chest. "It's a date."