Matthew (BBW Country Music Bear Shifter Romance) (Bearly Saints Book 1) (100 page)

“I guess I do have a PhD in Propulsion Physics,” he said casually.

“Consider yourself lucky, Tina,” Mr Connor said. “Richard went a whole twenty minutes before mentioning that he’s a rocket scientist.”

Mr. Hoover gave an innocent shrug and sipped on his beer again.

I sighed and walked back into the kitchen.

My mom and Maggie were talking quietly, like little conspirators. They saw me and went silent.

“What are you two chatting about?” I said.

“Oh, nothing dear,” my mother said. 

Maggie stifled a laugh and leered over my shoulder back into the living room. Her wine glass sloshed her merlot as she made little circular motions with her hand. “Youth is wasted on the young,” she mumbled.

“Where’s Conrad?” I said, wanting to change the subject.

Maggie shrugged. You’d think she would be more concerned about the whereabouts of her only child, but right now it seemed she had one thing on her wine-addled mind: Mr. Hoover.

“Your father set up a game system for him in the basement,” my mother said, pouring herself another glass of wine. “Would you go check on him?”

“Happily,” I said. I wasn’t really happy about it, but it was better than hanging around a pair of old horny hens. Before leaving I scooped a spoonful of Mr. Hoover’s couscous dish.

It was magnificent. Damnit. It was so good it made me mad. I tried to convince myself that he bought it at a store, but the depth of flavors betrayed a serious culinary knowledge. Mr. Fucking Rocket Scientist, excuse me, Dr. Fucking Rocket Scientist also knows his way around the kitchen. Why did he have to be such an old asshole? Sometimes life isn’t fair.

I stepped down into the basement, floor to ceiling shelving on both sides as I descended. It was an older style, probably right after the Great Depression, when it was important to stockpile years of canned foods. The basement was going to get a major renovation, but that was far down on the to-do list. For now Dad had enough on his plate with my school and the new mortgage.

“Conrad?” I said, reaching the bottom of the stairs. The walls were a dim brown, wallpapered in a distinct 70’s design. Say one thing about our new house: it had a 70’s mindset. I walked into the main area of the basement, boxes stacked everywhere.

On top of a box was a small flat screen TV. It was making a familiar noise, the music from a video game I used to enjoy when I was younger. It was probably older than Conrad, now that I thought about it. I came around the stack of boxes and saw the system on the floor, the controller laying unattended on the ground.

“Conrad?” I said, sighing. The game brought me back to my own childhood for a second, but the nostalgia passed and I turned the TV off. No surprise he wasn’t down here playing it: it was ancient to him. He probably had better games on his phone. 

But he had to be somewhere, and little boys were mischievous at the best of times. I ducked into an unfinished room in the basement. A cracked concrete floor was ice cold, and I pulled on the string attached to the bare lightbulb above. Hot white light filled the damp smelling room. No little neighbor boy in here.

I tried to be logical about it, putting myself into Conrad’s shoes. Where would a thirteen year old boy be? I let out a little scream and bolted for the stairs. The little shit! The wooden stairs creaked under me as I vaulted up them as fast as my legs could carry.

“Aha!” I said, gasping for breath in the doorway of my bedroom. 

“Uhh!” Conrad said, slamming a drawer of my dresser shut. A blue lace frill of my panties stuck out of the drawer like the most cliche evidence. His was bright red, obviously caught in the act. He spun around, hiding himself from me. Hiding a particular part of his body from me.

I stalked into the room slowly. “What do you think you’re doing in here?” I said. I was enjoying this far too much. I was super pumped that I caught him in the act.

“I was just,” he said, stammering.

”You just what?” I said, getting closer to him.

“I was looking for the bathroom,” he said. His desperation was palpable.

“Does this look like a bathroom to you?” I said.

“No, but,” he said.

“But nothing! You snuck in here, you little pervert,” I said. I walked over to my dresser, ran my finger over the part of my panties that stuck out of it. “Were these what you wanted? These turn you on?”

“Eww, gross,” he said. His eyes followed my fingers, enchanted by what I was doing. He licked his lips.

I opened the drawer and took my panties out. “Do you like the lace on these? Do they look sexy?” I said. I knew I was torturing him, teasing him, and I reveled in the power. 

He looked past me and ran out of my room, not saying another word. 

I chuckled, proud that I’d taught him a lesson about intruding into someone else’s privacy. I spun around and Mr. Hoover was standing there. My jaw dropped, and I remembered what was in my hands. I threw my panties into my drawer and slammed it shut.

“He’s just a kid,” Mr. Hoover said. “You shouldn’t be so cruel. These are his formative years.”

“Well, he was in the process of being formed into a pervert. Do all men start off by sniffing their neighbor’s panties?” I said, leaning back against my drawer coolly.

Mr. Hoover eyed me up and down and walked over to my window. “Only the lucky ones. He’ll probably have a thing now for lace panties.” He looked out the window like a lord viewing his domain.

Now I felt a little bad about how I treated him. Yeah, he had no business in my room, but he was just a kid. 

“Besides,” Mr. Hoover said, “you did that as much for yourself as for him.”

“What do you mean?” I fidgeted nervously. The power had gone to my head, but how did he know that?

“No need to be shy, Tina,” he said, still looking out the window. “I understand that. That primal power you only get when two people are communicating with their bodies. Plenty of people are tuned out of that. Too much time spent thinking, not enough time spent feeling.”

I swallowed, not knowing what to say. I found myself staring at him, my eyes spending all too much time on his legs, his ass, his wide back and his stacked shoulders. I imagined what that body could do to mine, if he wanted to. Could he pick me up? Could he pin me against a wall? My pussy ached longing to be touched. Damnit!

He turned his head slightly towards me. A small smile lighted his lips. “I’ll leave you alone,” he said. And just like that, he walked out.

I took a few minutes and just leaned back against my dresser, breathing slowly. I had a need, but it would have to wait until tonight. I had fresh batteries for my night time friend, and it would be getting a workout tonight. Of course just thinking about that got me more hot and bothered, so it was a few more minutes before I was composed and ready to go back downstairs.

Down in the living room, the men were all standing around, the game wrapped up. They were all in good spirits, so I guess our team won.

“Dinner’s ready,” my mom called from the kitchen. 

I ran into the kitchen to help bring everything out. Her Swedish meatballs were in a large serving dish, and the smell was heavenly. I carried the large dish into the dining room and placed it in the center. Seeing no witnesses, I plucked a meatball from the dish and threw it into my mouth. It burst in luscious flavor, first sweet, then tanginess from the tomato, then savory from the lamb and beef. 

Mom and Maggie brought the rest of the dishes into the dining room. We also had baked chicken, macaroni and cheese, Mr. Hoover’s couscous and a salad Maggie had made.

I came back with the last of it and felt a little twinge in my stomach. The only remaining seat was next to Mr. Hoover. I certainly didn’t want to sit next to that jerk, but I couldn’t deny that some part of myself did. I walked over to take my seat.

He met my eyes, his smile turning into a mischievous grin.

I gave him back my coldest glance. I was resigned not to give him the pleasure of getting a reaction out of me. I would not play into his hand. I took my seat without so much as looking at him.

As we passed the dishes around, I made it a point to take a bit of everything except his couscous. That dish was passed to me and I passed it right to him, meeting his eyes when I did it. I didn’t care how wonderful it was. It meant more to me to put him in his place.

Instead of taking the dish from me, he scooped out a spoonful onto my plate, then his own. “This is a recipe I picked up in Morocco,” he said. “The secret is the smoked cumin. Regular cumin will get you most of the way there, but in comparison it fades, like a jilted lover.” He took the dish and placed it on the table.

The nerve! I wanted to fling his precious couscous right in his face, but I wasn’t going got start drama. I enjoyed the other foods on my plate, but left the couscous untouched.

I felt a hand on my knee. I played it cool, not wanting to upset the other guests or my parents.

“I understand if you’re not too fond of me, Tina, but what did the poor couscous do to deserve such neglect?” he said, giving my knee a squeeze.

I laughed at some joke from across the table and slid my hand down below, resting it on his thigh. Two could play this game, asshole. I saw his eyes bug out slightly, and I turned to face him. “Maybe the couscous should take a hint,” I said, quietly to him.

“Now that’s a mixed message if I ever felt one,” he said. His hand squeezed a little bit higher on my leg.

I gasped. I could feel myself getting wet. Blood rushed to my pussy, my lips and clit aching to be rubbed, to be crushed, to be under him. My legs throbbed, and a tiny tremor went up my thigh, under his grip.

He felt it and got his shit eating grin back.

That wouldn’t do, so I brought my hand up higher on his thigh and squeezed. Something from below brushed against my fingertips through his pants. His cock! I pulled my hand back in shock. It felt huge. There was no way.

“You’re going to be trouble,” he said, quietly to me. The “R”s rumbled in his throat, almost like a growl. His hand released my thigh. He joined in laughing at something my father said.

I bounced my thigh under the table, trying to lose the feeling that I missed his touch already. How was that even possible? I set out to shut him down cold, but a simple hand on my thigh made my pussy gush. 

“Earth to Tina,” my mom said.

“Hmm?” I said. 

“Mr. Connor asked what you’re majoring in,” my mom said.

“Oh! Organic chemistry,” I said.

“Hey, that’s great,” Mr. Connor said. “We try to eat organic all the time.”

“No, that’s not,” I said, but let it go. Out of the corner of my eyes I saw Conrad staring at me. Undressing me with his eyes no doubt. I met his leer and gave him a disappointed look. He looked back down at his plate.

After clearing up dinner, we all retired to the living room. Mr. Connor was trying really hard to engage with me.

“So what’s the difference between organic eggs and cage free eggs?” he said.

“I don’t know,” I said, hoping that would kill the conversation.

“Ahh, well, maybe they cover that next semester,” he said, walking off to talk to my dad.

I sighed and walked back into the kitchen. I stood next to the makeshift bar, looking out of the kitchen window. Outside, the sun had gone down, and an orange-purple light was shimmering through the trees.

“Are you the bartender tonight?” Mr. Hoover said, walking into the kitchen.

“Beer’s in the fridge,” I said, still looking out the window. “It’s so beautiful,” I said.

“None of us spend enough time looking at sunsets and sunrises,” he said. “Not interested in a beer. I’ll take an old fashioned.”

“Huh?” I said.

He sighed. “I guess tonight we’ll begin your real education. An old fashioned is a cocktail made with bourbon, bitters, and water. Ice is an acceptable addition, but if someone asks you to add sugar or fruit to it, you have met a person of low class.”

“Low class?” I said, raising an eyebrow.

“True, they aren’t totally to blame. Their parents bear some blame in how they turned out, wanting to ruin the perfect cocktail with candy flavors,” he said, standing next to me. “Well? Chop chop, young lady.”

I shrugged, picking up a glass.

“I’ll have mine on the rocks,” he said, watching me.

I scooped some ice into the glass, then picked up the bottle of bitters. I unscrewed the cap and sniffed it. It smelled nice, like a deep citrus mixed with woody notes. I shook the bottle into the glass once, then at Mr. Hoover’s nod I shook it again.

I added a splash of water, then picked up a bottle.

“That’s rum,” he said.

“Oh,” I said, picking up the next one.

“Bingo,” he said. “A traditional pour is two seconds.”

I tipped the bottle into the glass and counted. One. Two. Three. Four. I smiled and handed him his glass.

“Trouble,” he said, walking back into the living room.

“You’re damn right,” I said under my breath.

He paused momentarily in his tracks, then kept on walking.