6. Data/Marshall

SIX

Data/Marshall

We stumble back onto the bulletin board, papers scattering under Marsh's frame. Like a shiny nickel to a magnet, my lips find his. Marsh's fingers comb my beard, and his tongue juts into my mouth, and fuck, I've missed this. Not him. Not his jokes. Not his teasing. His tongue. His lips. His stubbly jaw. His lips on mine.

Marsh's hands migrate to my waist, and he backs into the bathroom, pulling me along, the door flings open with a loud slam before it clicks shut. My heart thumps so loudly I'm sure he can hear it underscoring my temporary lapse of judgment. His overflowing basket lands with a thud, and in a flash, the General Store bathroom, with its glaring fluorescent lighting, toilet, and sink, comes into focus—it's all coming back to me now. Fuck, I'm in the middle of my favorite Celine song.

"God, you're sexy when you're pissed." Marsh's thumb traces my bottom lip. I've always loved being a few inches shorter. As he stands over me, my body catches fire as my resistance wanes and I desire nothing more than for him to take control. For once, be the grown-up and boss me around.

"I'm not pissed," I say.

"Shhh." His hand covers my mouth. "Don't ruin it."

Remembering Bryce's advice I shoo my inner voice of reason away. Marsh needs to jam his ex into my sex before rage and lust swallow me whole. Perhaps not the ideal time or place, but beggars can't be choosers. My hand grabs at Marsh's sweats. His cock, already half-hard, throbs in my palm, and yup, this is happening. Operation Breakup Sex. Once and done.

"What? How? Where?" I mumble as he nips at my bottom lip.

"Dat ass. I want it. Need it." His fingers fumble with my belt. "Only you would wear khakis and a belt up here in the fucking woods."

"I came straight from work."

"You and your business casual attire." He gets the buckle undone, and my pants are open as his tongue darts back in. He's pawing at my butt, my pants falling, and I'm not exactly sure what he wants, but I'm ready.

Pausing the kiss, Marsh takes my face in his hands, rubbing my beard with his thumbs—my jaw softens along with my resolution. He knows what that does to me. Jerk. He dips in, kisses me softly on the lips, and whispers, "Bend over."

When he's direct, my skin simmers. There's no option but compliance. Marsh spins me around to face the sink, and I do as I'm told. His cool hands, warming from the activity, yank my pants and briefs down in one fell swoop. "Dat ass. Dat ass. Dat ass." He smacks a cheek, and the satisfying sting of contact sends my torso over the sink to wait for his next move.

"Cardamom buns have nothing on these." Marsh kneels and each word from his lips lands on my ass, causing my breath to hitch.

"So fucking delicious." Marsh spreads me open and buries his face. There's no pretense or manners. His tongue simply dives into me with the fervor and passion of a man who knows how to eat ass. Not just any ass. My ass. Like an explorer mapping uncharted lands, he's studied it carefully—he's dedicated himself to perfecting his craft through rigorous practice .

"Marsh, umm, yeah, uhhh, ohhh." Words hard. Complete sentences impossible. This is what he does to me. In an instant, I lose control, my thoughts racing and my body trembling. My ass, now under Marsh's spell, relaxes and opens. His stubble prickles every nerve in the area and the wetness from his mouth enhances the already damp conditions brought on by the kissing and palming of his dick. And now I'm thinking about his cock and what I'd like to do with it, but alas, I'm confined to my position, hunched over the sink.

"You like that babe?" he says, his cool breath on my wet hole dispatches shivers over my body. Babe. In an instant, we're back to babe and I widen my stance to allow him easier access.

"Uh-huh." It's all I've got.

"Your hole is so horny." He spits, then uses his thumb to spread the saliva. "Do you want me to fuck you?" His thumb enters me, priming his work surface. "Can I? Please? Pretty please? I want to fuck dat ass." He dispatches a soft kiss on my ass cheek and shivers disperse on my torso. "I haven't been with anyone else."

My heart melts a tiny bit at his confession, and I wonder why he hasn't dated. But now isn't the time to ask. We're in the public bathroom of the General Store. Maddi is dishing out deli slices twenty feet away. Once we had the monogamy chat, we stopped using condoms. But it's been six months. And there's no lube. He's right about my ass. I'm so open and ready for him. His tongue. His cock. But without lube, it's going to be rough going.

Before I can answer, Marsh's tongue juts back in. He's going to fuck me one way or another, and if it's only with his tongue, so be it. "But? We … " Speechless.

"I was a boy scout," he says, grabbing at the basket near the door. He procures a tiny bottle of lube from under a sack of onions. "Always be prepared. "

"You were buying lube?" I ask, my ability to speak momentarily repaired by his presumptuousness. "For what?"

"Listen, do you want to argue about why I threw the only bottle of lube being sold in a seventy-mile radius into my basket, or do you want me to fuck you?"

"Fair," I say as I bend over more, bracing myself on the sink, which thankfully appears to have been recently cleaned. I haven't eaten since breakfast, other than the two bites of the cardamom bun. Fuck, I'm so ready. The bottle clicks open, and Marsh's fingers quickly apply a generous amount. When I hear the bottle hit the floor and his slick hand palming himself, I take a breath. It's been six months since we broke up, and since our split, I've been focusing squarely on work. In other words, he may find cobwebs down there. I hope he's gentle, but not that gentle. Strike that. I hope he fucks me into oblivion.

The sign under the mirror pulls my focus. Employees must wash hands. If an employee is not available, please do it yourself. I snicker at the joke, wondering if Marsh could do better, as he's pushing his cock against my hole. Even after all these months, the sensation of him about to rail me comes rushing back. With a heavy sigh I relax, my body desperate for the connection. Marsh's fingers grab my waist, holding me steady. "Fuck, Data. You're going to kill me."

Heaviness washes over me. That would be a major boner killer. "Wait, you're kidding, right? You don't have your inhaler."

"Data, I'm trying to be sexy. I'm fine."

"I'm fine isn't an answer to my—" Marsh's fingers dig into my side, a jolt of lust making me lose my train of thought. All I want is Marsh's train tunneling into me.

"And now, gimme dat ass."

He slides in, and the familiar sensitivity of his thick cock inside comforts me. Near the end, our time was consumed by tension and silly squabbles, wasting precious time that could have been spent doing this. I suppose that's the point of the breakup sex.

"You good?" Marsh asks. He's all the way in, balls to the wall, waiting for my signal to begin banging.

The room settles into stillness. Only the sound of our breathing fills the space, and Marsh's question reminds me, underneath all his bravado and swagger, he's a kind, gentle soul.

"Pound me." So much for gentle. After eight years, he knows what to do. Marsh takes my cue and, gripping me with one hand, slaps me hard with the other.

"Yes, sir." He pulls out, leaving only the tip inside, and then thrusts, pulling me back toward him. My ass slaps against his thighs, and the familiar clapping noise of our bodies making contact soon occupies the bathroom as he finds his rhythm.

He leans over, his lips nipping at my ear. "God, I've missed this. That ass. Your ass." He takes my earlobe in his mouth, sucking before his hot, damp breath whispers, "I've missed this, Data. Me. You. Us."

Did he say he missed me? My stomach flips as he pummels me. Each jolt of his cock reminds me of what we once were. Before the rupture. Raw. Passionate. Connected.

With another thwack on my ass, Marsh's hand reaches around, grabs my cock, and jerks me, matching his strokes to his fucking. When I reach down to take over, he pushes my hand away. "I got you, babe." His words fill me with a mix of relief and triumph. He wants to do it all, and this is the one area I allow him.

"Data. Babe, I'm going to come soon. Okay?"

What if I said no? It's not okay for you to come. Sorry, but please stop. This was a terrible mistake. Breakup sex is a joke and not the funny kind. The kind where you're up on stage, a crowd of people watching, and it's crickets. A big bomb of a joke. Like when they play the rattlesnake noise on Drag Race . But he said he missed me. Us. He called me Babe. Fuck.

"Fill me up."

Marsh's hands return to my hips, anchoring me in place, and I can feel him coming. His cock pulses, each thrust stronger, and he's grunting over me. Somehow, he makes grunting cute.

Staying inside me, Marsh rests on my back, his sole focus now on me. "Now," he says, kissing my neck, "it's your turn."

Like unloading the dishwasher, getting myself off since we split has been more of a chore than anything. With the looming month-end reports, working overtime, and thinking about this weekend, I haven't jerked off in weeks. Luckily, Marsh knows how to elicit my orgasm quickly. He prides himself on it. With every stroke, his thumb lingers, only for a second, on the tip, rubbing precum and sending a vibration of pleasure through my core with each pass.

Marsh's warm breath on my ear makes my cock throb in his grasp. "My Data."

And that's it. The exquisite sensation of his lips on my neck, his hand stroking me faster, never forgetting the tip, all while his cock pushes against the walls of my ass—I'm done for.

"I'm close. Keep doing that."

"There's my Data. Come for me, babe. I got you." His left arm squeezes me, pulling me toward him, ensuring his dick stays put, his sweaty hand matting the hair on my stomach. I gleefully unravel. My orgasm rips through me, my entire body vibrating, but Marsh never lets go. He does his best to catch it all, but with such a build-up, I end up painting the bathroom wall like a sticky Jackson Pollack. Oops. I grab a threadbare paper towel and wipe it off quickly.

"Fuck, Data, you needed that, huh?"

I nod because, apparently, I did. Marsh always knew what I needed. He had a way of forcing me to relax, rubbing my shoulders and nipping at my neck, the stress of life melting away under his touch. Still hunched over my back, he kisses my neck again and then moves up to my ear. "Dat ass. Still does it to me."

"We needed this," I say, scared of how easy it was to fall back into intimacy with him, a man who wants to move on. I remind myself that Marsh pulled the rug out from under me once before, so even in a state of post-coital euphoria, I have to keep my guard up. "Breakup sex. We didn't do it six months ago. We needed to close the loop."

"Close the loop?"

"Close the loop," I repeat, hoping that like learning someone's name, the more times I say it, the more likely it will stick.

"Oh."

Cleaned and dressed, we take our items to the checkout where Maddi rings us up. She gives me a look. Can she see the sex written on my face? Can she smell the afterglow?

"Good seeing you, Maddi," Marsh says. "Give my best to Duffy and the chickens."

She mumbles something under her breath that sounds like, "Not together my ass."

Marsh leads us out the door. The bell rings on the hinges as it swings open.

Maddi is right, though. We're not together. We came to Marshmallow Mountain to move on. Close the aforementioned loop. Go our separate ways. Space. Time. That's what Marsh wants, what he thinks is best for us.

This was break-up sex, meant to signal a definitive end to our relationship. And yet it's only made me crave more of something I can't have.