15 – The ‘F’ is for The First Rule of a Freddy versus Jason Free-For-All is to Feng Shui Off

SPOV

After thanking him for cooking dinner, I’d insisted on cleaning up the kitchen by myself and not just because I’d left my shoes in the foyer for him to find.

But I had a feeling – like fucking with Pam – the ensuing Closet versus Foyer Floor Shoe War would grow to be one of those little joys in life that got me by.

Once I had the kitchen cleaned to the point it would pass the inspection of any drill sergeant – any WWII drill sergeant that now had cataracts, a hearing aid, and a hunchback – I walked into the living room ready to veg the hell out. Being beat and now with a full belly, I’d be lucky if I didn’t pass out before my ass hit the cushions.

But I found myself feeling lucky in a different way, finding Eric in the process of moving the coffee table off to one side and smiled asking, “What’re you doing?”

Was the Feng Shui off?

Honestly though, this was nothing like what I’d imagined moving furniture with him would entail.

Less lifting. More headboard slamming against the wall.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” he asked, matching my amused tone.

Making my panties weep from the arm porn?

Because sweet Mahatma Gandhi…

I wanted me a piece of that.

You know, for peace on earth and the good of mankind.

But for the good of my sanity – and to the detriment of my lady parts – I managed to innocently ask instead, “Pillow fort?”

He wouldn’t find much resistance for his battering ram to breach my castle.

Open doors and drawbridges aside, another side effect of our contagious word vomit was now that he’d said the words – that he wouldn’t leave us high and dry if we tried being something more and it didn’t work out – I felt more settled when it came to thinking we could actually have something.

More.

It was a little unsettling how quickly the idea took root.

But at least I hadn’t suggested naked Twister to go along with his open floorplan remodel, even if I already had the spot picked out where I wanted his hand to land.

Several spots, actually.

He would need both of his hands and his…

“Maybe later if you’re good,” he smirked, interrupting my dirty, dirty thoughts.

Bad, bad, bad…

I wanted to do bad things to him.

All starting with that mouth of his.

Oh the things it could do, the places it could go…

I would be embarrassed by my X-rated Dr. Suess bedtime porn, if I wasn’t so turned on. I know I’d left the door open for it, but I hadn’t taken into account him opening the bathroom door and showing me the full Monty Python.

It was no laughing matter.

And neither was the funny little tickle trickling down into my holy grail.

So the slightly hysterical giggle that burst out of my throat was a little ironic – and I probably sounded more than a little moronic – when I asked, “Um, what exactly did you have in mind?”

Mine was too dirty to wade through to find any one specific thing.

The look he leveled at me next was…

Well…

Let’s just say it wasn’t good.

And yet it was.

So, so good.

The air surrounding us suddenly felt charged. Stifling to the point it was hard to breathe.

At least that was what I would blame for the sheen of sweat that coated my skin watching him.

Watching me.

Like a predator.

Never in my life had I wanted to be eaten more.

“I’m going to come at you,” he warned in a low voice.

“From that distance you would have to,” I heard myself breathe out.

There was no way his money shot would hit me from ten feet away.

“Cookie,” he growled out.

Uh oh…

He must mean business.

Wondering if my lady business had been working both sets of lips again, I asked, “Did I um…say that out loud?”

“What?” he challenged.

Wimping out real quick, I offered, “Huh?”

“I’m going to come at you,” he seemingly forced out, “like an attacker on the street.”

So it probably didn’t help matters when I heard myself ask, “And I’m supposed to try and get away, yes?”

I needed clarification because what I was supposed to do and what I wanted to do weren’t on the same page.

Or even in the same book.

Or Google search results.

“Yes,” his arched brow replied and then challenged, “If you think you can.”

Well that helped fan a different kind of flame because that was as good as a double dog dare in my opinion.

And Sookie Stackhouse did not shy away from a double dog dare.

Especially when wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with the words, ‘LAWYER: Because Badass Mother F***ker Is Not An Official Job Title.’

At close to twice my size, he could probably snap me like a twig.

And then use both halves to rub together and start a campfire just to be a showoff.

And his My Little Black Ops Pony training likely taught him twelve different ways he could incapacitate me with a throw pillow, if not a tiny comb meant for tiny pony manes and tails.

But I had my own strengths that I could play to.

And they had nothing to do with how much weight I could lift.

Striking a pose worthy of a Badass Mother F***cker, I asked, “Are you gonna fill me in on the first rule of fight club or this supposed to be more of a Freddy Krueger versus Jason Voorhees free-for-all?”

“You just have to get by me,” he taunted and then casually gestured to the wall behind him, adding, “That will be base. Touch it and you win.”

Too bad.

There was another base I was itching to touch.

The base of his cock.

We’d both win then.

But…first things first.

I needed to hand him his ass before I could hand mine over, so the inevitable Bell Biv Devoe Maneuver could commence.

The smack it up, flip it, rub it down workout.

Widening his stance, he put on his game face and asked, “Ready?”

“No,” I teasingly complained in the most duh of tones.

Not when he was ready.

Pulling the In Case of Hair Emergency rubber bands from my wrist, I twirled from side to side from the hips up, with my feet in place, as I pulled my hair into two ponytails, one on each side of my head.

And I may have taken my sweet badass mother fucking time doing it, just to annoy him.

Then I pulled them free and redid them all over again, before taking the time to braid them too, when I saw it was clearly working.

“Now?” he asked exasperatedly when I was through.

“Almost,” I smiled and tilted my head, with what I knew was a pleased look on my face.

Grabbing my phone from where I’d tossed it on the couch earlier, I walked over and turned on the Bluetooth speaker.

It was while I was scrolling – through my emails and not my music, just to irritate him some more – when he asked, “What are you doing now?”

“Pulling up my ‘Imma kick yo ass’ playlist,” I replied.

Again, in my most duh of tones.

“And do you think some thug on the street is going to allow you this much time to get ready?” he asked, sounding torn between amusement and frustration.

Selecting the playlist I wanted – the one that would likely annoy him the most – I set the phone down and grinned, “If they knew what was good for them, they wouldn’t be attacking me in the first place.”

“All I hear are big words,” he taunted with narrowed eyes.

Words weren’t the only big things I could fit in my mouth.

And no sooner had the words left his mouth when the words of another sounded through the speaker.

Words sung by Britney Spears.

Now being serenaded by the opening lyrics to ‘Baby One More Time’, he looked at me.

A lot confused and a little turned on.

If I thought I could’ve gotten away with it, I would’ve changed into the closest thing I could find in my closet resembling a catholic schoolgirl outfit.

The two braided ponytails I was sporting and the song itself would have to be enough of a subliminal message to put him in mind of launching a different kind of attack.

One I wouldn’t necessarily be opposed to.

Just as soon as I won this first round.

For the good of mankind.

And bragging rights.

Shaking my limbs loose, I planted my feet and flicked my braided ponytails over each shoulder, waving him on with a smile and the taunting words of, “Come at me, bro.”

A chuckle left his lips before he readied his stance and came at me.

Having been forced at times to jog alongside of him through Lowes and the farmers market, I knew he would only need two of his gigantic strides and his freakishly long arm span to reach me.

Which was why I barely waited for him to take one step before I pulled my shirt up and flashed him.

Because boobs equaled supernatural powers.

Even bra covered ones.

My Wonder Twins were so powerful they didn’t even need nipple rings to clink together to declare, ‘Form of an erection!’

He’d already seen it all before anyway, but he obviously hadn’t counted on seeing it all again so soon because he faltered, pulling up short and pausing for a brief moment in shock.

But a brief moment was all I needed to duck his outstretched hands and dodge around him, before diving for the wall behind him.

As soon as my hands hit painted drywall, I crowed with all of the humility of Joffre Baratheon taking the Iron Throne, “I win!”

EPOV

Picking my jaw up off of the floor – and subtly shifting to ease the growing ache in my pants – I turned around and shook my head, unable to keep the smile from my lips, even while chastising, “That is how you plan on getting away from an attacker?”

“Worked on you,” she laughed.

Yeah it did…

It worked wonders.

On me and the elasticity of my boxer briefs.

Needing to resort to mentally reciting baseball stats to calm down – working all the more since I didn’t actually follow baseball, so I really had to think about it – I eventually shook every thought free and concentrated on the one thing I’d meant to accomplish tonight.

To assess Sookie’s ability to get away from an attacker.

Instead all I learned was that she could be a little shit.

And that she was wearing a pale pink bra.

Fuck me for finding both so irresistible.

Seriously.

I wanted her to fuck me.

And I wanted to fuck her.

I wanted all the fucking there was to be had.

Fuck.

“Alright,” I sighed – more so from my fucking thoughts on fucking her, fucking with my mind – and said, “You’ve had your fun. Now I want to see how you would really get away from an attacker.”

Seeing the devilish twinkle in her eye, I should’ve known better.

Flipping her braids behind her shoulders, she started strutting her way across the floor in sync with whoever in the hell came next on her shitty playlist that was singing via an auto tuner.

Something about wanting to be bad.

Grabbing onto her from behind, she stopped. But instead of trying to fight me off of her she was…

“Are you doing a dance routine right now?”

Thrusting her ass against my crotch, she rolled her hips making my breath catch in my throat before she stood up with raised arms, grabbing onto my head behind hers and turning to look me in the eye when she said, “Oh right. I’m supposed to try and get away.”

“You’re not taking this seriously,” I said, trying to not smile.

It was a hard thing to do what with her ass still pressed against my crotch.

“It’s Willa Ford,” she playfully argued. “Of course I’m taking this seriously.”

Taking a deep breath – frustrated in more ways than one – I gently removed her hands from my head and took a step back, saying, “Again.”

And figuring it couldn’t hurt to speak in her language, I leaned in and added, “For reals.”

“For reals,” she nodded, looking like nothing but trouble.

Returning to her position nearer the wall, seeing her eyes light up with the start of the next song, I didn’t even bother making a grab for her and let her act out her interpretation of Story of a Girl through dance.

It helped that she was a good dancer.

Really good.

Good enough it made me wonder how well she’d do with an added pole.

“And, we’re done,” I called out, throwing my hands up in defeat.

My hands weren’t the only part of me that was up, which was why I was giving up before I attacked her in a different way.

Laughing, she stuck her lower lip out in an overstated pout saying, “Aww, don’t tell me you only read the Neener-Neener Clause, Subsection Crybaby, but skipped over Subsubsection Wah Wah.”

“You have shitty taste in music,” I shot back, biting back my grin. “Maybe that’ll keep the thugs away.”

“Did anyone ever tell you, you resemble Grumpy Cat?” she asked and then added, “And by anyone, I mean Pam?”

“That’s not the kind of pussy she’s interested in,” I offered without thought.

“Don’t tell me you’re about to go on and on about her Janeson,” she sighed dramatically.

But before I could respond, she said, “Fine, fine. You found my Kryptonite. I will do what you say if we don’t have to talk about your sister’s appreciation for Hormel ham.”

That was more than fine by me.

Thankfully ignoring the next song that came on – thankfully, because I was pretty sure it was Missy Elliot singing about masturbation – she resumed casually walking and talking on her finger phone – ordering a pound of beefcake? – when I came up behind her and wrapped my arm around her chest over her arms.

“Well that was a quick delivery,” she snickered, making me connect the dots to what she was talking about.

But it was while I was connecting the dots that she used my admitted stupor against me by grabbing onto my forearm with both hands and pushing up, while sliding her body down to get away.

Only she didn’t get far because she was the one who ordered beefcake.

She was damn well going to sign for her delivery.

Snatching her arm, I wrapped it around her body, before lifting her up and over my shoulder in a fireman’s carry, taunting, “Where do you think you’re going now?”

“Bedrock, by the looks of it, Mr. Flintstone,” she giggled.

So cooking with fire wasn’t my only caveman tendency.

So what?

Putting her back down onto her feet, I looked at her and asked, “Why aren’t you fighting me?”

“I fight with my mouth,” she exaggeratedly mouthed out each word. Then returning to her normal tone of voice, she added, “I can argue just about anything to death. For everything else, I have Gunner.”

And then she brought me up short by adding, “And you’re much too pretty to shoot between the eyes.”

Hearing her calling me pretty of all things, I felt my mouth opening and closing, but nothing was coming out.

But that didn’t mean other things weren’t coming out of other places.

Leaking would be the more apt description.

Grabbing ahold of the crux of her statement – rather than trying to grab ahold and bottom myself out in the core of her – I forced my eyes to search for her luggage cum purse. Finding it dropped on the floor by the front door – along with her SHOES – I grabbed it and carried it back into the living room.

Handing it over, I gestured to the open floor space in front of us and said, “Show me, big shot. Pretend you’re walking to your car and go for your gun when I try and grab you.”

Aiming an arched brow my way, she eventually turned her eyes to the bag in her hands and said, “Wait a sec,” before she put it on the floor so she could use both of hers to dig inside.

Having already come across runaway tampons in her SUV, I had no idea what she might be trying to hide.

If only…

Because roughly ten years later, she pulled out her holstered Gunner and declared, “Ah hah!”

“Seriously?” I squawked.

Because SERIOUSLY?!?!?!

Ripping the gun from her grasp with one hand, I used my free one to grab onto hers and pulled her up from the floor, trying and failing to not yell when I shouted, “It took you that long to even find your gun?”

“He likes to cuddle at the bottom of my bag,” she huffed out indignantly.

“I’m not kidding,” I growled.

“No kidding,” she sulked and then tried to reason, “It’s not the wild wild west, alright? I have a concealed carry permit. Concealed…”

Seeing how unimpressed – re: seething – I was with her dual finger guns and the ‘pew pew’ sounds she aimed my way, she glowered, “I do have Spidey senses you know. They would alert me to an impending attack.”

“Would they?” I mocked. “Because I managed to trap you with a fucking t-shirt in no time flat.”

“Because the only threat you represent is to my fucking overheated sex drive!” she yelled back.

In less than a blink I was on her.

Or she was on me.

Either way, it was so on.

With our mouths now fused together, she used our still connected hands for leverage to pull her body up mine, and wrapped her legs around my waist to keep her in place.

If I could think of anything other than how much I wanted her in that moment, I would’ve been impressed at her show of strength.

As it was, I was only concerned with how much closer I could press my body against hers.

Not close enough, it turned out.

Wrapping one arm around her body, my hand planted itself on her ass to hold her in place, while we deliberately tried to devour one another.

And god was I hungry for her.

Still holding her holstered gun in my other hand, I had enough clarity to not drop it, not knowing if the safety was on while it was being completely fucking useless, cuddling in the bottom of her bag.

That thought – along with feeling her hips grinding against my own – made a growl erupt from my chest and I spun around, putting her flat on her back on the couch with me on top of her and let the gun gently slip onto the floor.

It was the last gentle thing I did.

Grabbing onto her fucking schoolgirl braids, I wrapped my hands around them and held her head still, while I proceeded to take out every bit of my frustration with my mouth on top of hers.

Not that she let that intimidate her.

Using the grip she still had around my waist, she moved her hips against mine in a way that made white spots dance behind my eyes.

And other spots to soak into in my boxer briefs.

Chewing my way across her jaw, I scraped my teeth down her neck and growled, “You drive me fucking insane.”

“Right back atcha,” she breathed out, slipping her hands up the back of my shirt and raking her nails down my skin, while arching her body against mine.

Thrusting my hips against hers and giving us both the friction we were looking for, had her pulling my head back to hers by my hair and gasping into my mouth, “Fuck.”

Yes.

Absolutely.

My thoughts exactly.

Fuck was what I wanted to do with her.

Multiple times and in many different ways.

But hearing the sudden wailing cry of the baby echoing through the monitor a second later, above the sound of her shitty playlist still resonating in the room, she repeated the word in an entirely different context, whining out, “Fuuuck…”

Yes.

Absolutely.

My thoughts exactly.

Pulling back just enough for me to look down at her, I stared at her kiss swollen lips and tried to clear the lust from my head.

Both of them.

It took another long moment before I could process what I was hearing playing in the background, and I softly teased, “They should change the title to Jason’s Mom.”

Because she really had it going on.

Taking a deep breath, she rubbed at her face and then smirked at me saying, “What if Stacy’s Mom was Jessie’s Girl and her number was 867-5309?”

Playfully widening her eyes at my chuckle, she used her widening fingers on either side of her temples to simulate her head exploding and then shifted her hips, causing us both to groan as she said, “Billie Jean isn’t my lover either, but the kid is my son, so I should probably go and get him.”

“Right,” I agreed.

Verbally, at least.

Physically, I hadn’t moved off of her.

Probably because the majority of my blood was still flowing to the wrong head.

Hearing him let loose with another pitiful sounding wail, I felt I could relate in that moment. So I forced myself up and off of her, shaking my head to try and snap out of it and said, “I’ll get him.”

Having only pushed her way into sitting halfway up, she flopped back down onto the couch and breathed out, “Oh, bless you Tommy Tutone.”

Chuckling, I turned and jogged up the stairs, needing to do a quick adjustment when I got the top and then walked into the nursery, murmuring, “What’s wrong, little man?”

Big fat crocodile tears rolled down his cheeks, while two chubby arms reached upwards, so I lifted him out of the crib and quietly shushed him to calm him down before carrying him back downstairs with me.

By the time we reached the landing, Sookie met us there with her arms already reaching for him, chanting out, “Hercules! Hercules! Hercules!”

His cries lessened considerably once he was snuggled up to his mom, but I could hardly blame him.

That was where I wanted to be too.

Well, one of the places I wanted to be.

“He didn’t have his bedtime bottle before falling asleep in his crib,” I offered before heading into the kitchen to warm one up, figuring that was a lot of the cause for the fuss.

She had him cooing up at her from where he was cradled in her arms by the time I walked back into the living room, so while she fed him, I got the furniture moved back into place.

Flipping the TV on, I turned the lights out and sat down with my back against the armrest before reaching out for her. It didn’t take much to maneuver her body, until she was sitting between my legs, with her back against my front and Jason in her arm along the back cushions of the couch.

Staring down at the two of them it seemed unreal that I hadn’t even known her for more than a few days and yet we both felt comfortable enough to be sprawled out so intimately with one another.

She still drove me fucking insane though.

In the best of ways at times.

She reminded me of it not long after the baby fell back to sleep, when she burrowed her head into the crook of my arm that was wrapped around the two of them and sleepily murmured, “So who won?”

Knowing she needed to sleep, I waited the few minutes it took for her breathing to even out before I whispered, “Me.”

Definitely me.