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CHAPTER

THIRTY

DEAN

“Man,” Archie sighs, sinking into the backseat of the truck. “Your parents are neat.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Yeah, they’re cool.”

I wasn’t nervous on the drive over, because my folks are nice people, and they love kids. Hell, they’ve been begging for grandkids since I was a questionable nineteen years old. Seriously.

Today went so well, I feel like I should buy a lottery ticket or something.

We went over and announced our engagement, and when my mom asked how I proposed, fortunately, Clara June was quick on her feet. “Right before we went to bed, when it was just the two of us, after he’d already spoken to the boys, he just told me loved me, and asked.”

My mom seemed satisfied with that, but needed to know if I actually got down on one knee. Since I’d been on my knees an hour before that, telling her that I love her and that everything is going to be okay, she simply said, “Yep.”

Before we went to my parents, Clara June and the boys and I had a small breakfast together, where she showed off her ring. Archie was proud to say that he gave his permission, and I shook hands with all three of the boys, marking my promise to always do right by all of them.

We decided not to tell my parents about all the shit with Troy, only because my mother will make it her personal mission to dislike the man, and she’ll want to tell Clara June about how much she dislikes him in an effort to bond.

And while I know she comes from a place of good intention, it seemed better to tell them that the boys’ father isn’t around, and leave it at that.

When Rawley told my parents that he’d been accepted into a mechanics apprenticeship in Oakcreek, one that he would be starting in less than a year, my dad nearly exploded.

I tinkered some growing up, but I never had the passion to chase it, not the way my dad did.

He dragged Rawley out to the garage where he’s rebuilding and restoring a 1970 Honda CB350, a project he’s been working on for the better part of five years.

His hands don’t work the way they used to, and he and I seem to irritate each other and get under each other’s feet.

But after Pop took Rawley to the garage, they never came back inside.

When we went to leave, we had to practically tear them apart.

He sent Rawley home with his Mechanics Bible and a new pair of work gloves.

Archie fell for my mom when he discovered that her specialty is cobbler….peach cobbler. My mom and him made one, right then and there, because “How can anyone ever say no to that face?” (Mom’s words, but I feel the same way.)

Tanner, still a bit quiet after everything that transpired last night, stayed in the house with me, Clara June and Jo Jo.

We sat in the kitchen and chatted with mom as she and Archie made cobbler.

Jo Jo looked through old photo albums, giggling at the clothes I wore at Archie’s age in the 80s.

Finally, her giggling piqued Tanner’s interest, and before long, he made it to my football album.

He kept pointing to sepia toned photos, amazed, saying, look there’s Mr. Riley.

Look there’s Mr. Cunningham. Hey, Coach, there’s you!

He loved seeing his teachers and coaches in the photos, on the field, living their football dreams. He asked if we could bring the album home, and I told him we could. After that, his mood was great.

The afternoon was great.

Mom and Dad loved Clara June and the boys, Jo Jo, too. We agreed to weekly dinners, and when we left, I think I was the only one that really wanted to go. And the only reason I wanted to leave?

Clara June wearing that engagement ring has given me a perma-halfie.

Once home, Tanner, Jo Jo and Rawley get picked up by Jake and Riley, who are heading to an evening farmer’s market, and offered to take the kids. At the last minute, Archie decides he wants to join, too, which leaves us unexpectedly home alone.

Clara June is naked on the kitchen table within the first ten minutes of that front door being locked.

“You sure, baby?” I ask, out of breath, swiping the back of my wrist along my forehead. “We can wait another few days or however long it takes.” I kiss her swollen little clit, and she merely moans, exhausted from the last two orgasms I’ve wrung from her using just my teeth.

With lube in my palm, I stroke down my shaft, then squirt more into my hand, pressing it between her legs.

She moans when the cool gel hits her, and spreads her legs to allow me to fully rub it in.

“I’m sure, Dean. And you’re going to be my husband,” she says, the word a wet dream coming from her, I swear.

Husband. Me. I’m gonna be hers. Not just any husband but the gorgeous, hard working, patient, sweet Clara June’s husband.

She grips the table, silverware falling to the floor with a clatter. I hook my arms beneath her legs, and drag her to the edge of the table, aligning her hot little cunt with my bobbing cock.

“Do it,” she breathes, looking at me through dark lashes, across her naked porcelain curves. “Fuck me, Coach.”

My lips curve into a smirk as I grip below my crown and start the process of getting inside of her. She moans with the first thrust, and after a few inches are in, she begs for a moment to calibrate. I talk her through the adjustment period while stroking her clit.

“You’re alright. You take it so good for me, Mama, you can do it. Just give it a minute, I’ll give you more, and it’ll start feeling so good for you, baby.”

Another few inches in, we’re almost halfway, and her eyes glaze with desire.

It's at this point that the pain becomes pleasure, that the stretching and accommodating brings her a heady high, and her rapture grows. When I’m over halfway, she pushes to her elbows, eager to watch our bodies come together as deeply as they can.

With the last thrust, all ten plus inches seated comfortably inside of her, she reaches down and runs her fingers gently along my groin, through my pubic hair.

“Perfect fit,” she murmurs, before sinking back against the table, grabbing her knees, then whispering, “Fuck me, baby.”

And now I’m the one lasting under a minute, only able to stroke in and out of her heaven a few times before my balls are pulled tight, and a heated urgency spikes in my core.

“Fuck, mama, this pussy is too good. You’re too good, you hear me?

You’re so goddamn good, Clara June, that I’m gonna come already. ”

She begs for it, pleads for me to come inside of her.

“I need to feel you, Dean, I need to feel you,” she begs, the clink of her engagement band hitting the table as she thrashes around is my last straw.

The ring reminds me… she’s mine, and I get to do this forever.

My head tips back and a roar tears from my chest, loud, loud enough to rattle the oven, to shake the photos framed on the kitchen walls. “Fuuuckkk, I’m coming.”

Clara June, holding her legs, peers up at me, dazed eyes and pussy spasming.

She’s coming too, and I love the way she seeks out my eyes when she does.

A silent I love you passing between us as we clench and grind, moan and pant.

And when we’re both speechless and trembling, I take myself out of her, and lift her off the table.

She kisses me, then tries to clean the table, but I take the paper towel and disinfectant from her. “Let me. I put you up here and fucked you silly, I should be the one to clean up. ”

Clara June just shakes her head. “Where have you been all my life, Dean McAllister?”

I smirk. “At 1784 Calloway Lane, right here in Bluebell.”

She snaps to attention, as if hearing the physical address of my home has suddenly made her realize that I have a home that I no longer live in. “Oh my God, Dean, your house.”

I look around playfully. “I’m in it.”

She slaps my chest. “No! I mean, gosh, I feel so bad,” she shakes her head as she works her long waves into a braid. “I’ve stolen you away from your house.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s a house. Now I have a home.” It’s that simple.

Her cheeks flush, because she liked that answer, and she likes it because it’s the truth. “What are you doing with it now that you’re here?”

I tell her my plan. “I am going to sell it, and with the money, I’m going to invest in our home, and start repairing some things, making additions, all that,” I tell her, taking the defrosted meat out of the fridge, grabbing the bottle of marinade, too. She watches me, but says nothing.

“I’m gonna replace your car now, too, Clara June. I won’t have you riding around in some old unsafe tin can.”

“Dean… I… I don’t want you spending too much on us, on me.” She looks nervous, and I can’t help but laugh, looping my arms around her waist, forgoing the dinner prep.

“Sweetheart, I’ve been a teacher for almost 20 years.

I own my home and my pickup, and I’ve invested very strategically.

I haven’t had a damn thing to spend my money on, not until now.

What’s mine is yours, and in that vein, I’d like to put some of the house sale money away in separate accounts for the boys.

College, starter home, mechanic school— whatever they want, I want them to have a little starter fund. From us.”

She just shakes her head. “Thank you.”

I shoot her a wink, smoothing my finger and thumb over my mustache.

“Anything for my family.” I look over at the food I’ve pulled onto the counter, and check the time on the oven.

“Boys will be back in a couple of hours. I was gonna grab a shower, but I was thinking we make some chicken wings and salads, and eat together.”