Ben jogged up the front steps and slid the key into the lock, hearing the chirp of the system as he opened the door. He was punching in the code when he realized he hadn't needed to turn on any lights to see. He looked around the entryway, saw two coats hanging, one a purple North Face that certainly didn't belong to George. "Shit," he muttered, then remembered the tire tracks and headed for the door to the garage, fully expecting to see Barry's truck when he opened the door. So it was a shock to see a familiar looking SUV, complete with the tell-tale dent where she has hit a pole driving off the dealership. Esme. His heart jumped to his throat, and confusion didn't have a chance to settle in before his fists were clenched and he was cursing the one person he had trusted without implicitly not to sneak behind his back to fuck his girl. No, Barry would go after the girl you wanted right in front of you, like it was some sick competition that no one was guaranteed to win—but he'd never not been open about it.
Ben closed the door to the garage lightly, not wanting to draw attention to his arrival. His heart was racing at the thought of seeing her—it had been months—and the realization that it was too late for either he and Audrey or Barry and Esme to head back into town. They were at least stuck in the same house until morning, which was a shame since he'd never had anything but positive memories for this house.
Ben peeked into the master bedroom, looking for signs of baggage, but didn't see any so he continued toward the living room, where the lights were off and a bowl of half-eaten popcorn rested on the coffee table. She liked her popcorn without butter—the weight thing was all consuming with her—but for some reason loaded with salt. The worst was the nights that required garlic salt on the popcorn, when they both woke up in the middle of the night, reaching out for each other instinctively, until they were both panting and the whole room smelled like an Italian kitchen.
Snap out of it, Ben, he told himself, staying in the shadows as he stepped tentatively toward the sliding glass doors to the porch immediately behind the house. They were in the hot tub, and the lights were on outside. Ben stayed in the shadow as he watched. Barry was kissing her, and Esme had her back toward the door, her arms thrown around his shoulders. She was impossibly tan for this time of year—not spray-tan orange, but real skin-cancer making brown created only from UV rays. Her hair, those long wild gypsy curls, were pulled into a clip. Each vertebra was visible along the line of her back, and his fingers danced absently as he recalled the feel of each one under his his touch.
It had been so long, but one develops memory of those moments, that come back and seep in when you least expect it. The wiff of Coco when she is nowhere around. The feel of her hair brushing against your ear as you sit alone on your couch, the memory of her disconcerting, where she was always a comfort. What had gone wrong? He couldn't say, except to say that nothing had ever gone right with them.
As he watched her legs fell even wider apart, and he could tell by the way her head fell backward that Barry was fingering her, sliding his fingers into her that tight pussy. Barry's free hand released the clasp on her bikini top, and the white material slid to the snow-covered porch. Ben wondered absently how many minutes had passed, how much longer before Audrey showed up and found him watching her brother finger-fuck some girl in the hot tub. But town was a 15 minute drive in the summer months, he had time. What he was going to do with that time, he didn't know. Stand here and watch his best friend fuck his girlfriend? Ex-girlfriend. He'd fucked her on-and-off for years, been inside her more times than he could count. When did she become up for grabs among his fucking friends? Fucking Barry. She was fucking Barry.
Ben watched as Barry maneuvered her, so that she was facing the house. Ben stepped back further into the shadows, not wanting to be scene. She was shivering, her nipples tight little buds from desire or the cold or both. It wasn't fair, that her face could look just the same as it did all those times when she'd been fucking him. It wasn't fair that she was fucking someone else, and that he could see every movement replicated for someone else. For fucking Barry. Fuck. Barry.
He wanted to go out there screaming, pull him off her, demand to know what the fuck was going on. And he wanted to watch. He was watching and he wanted to keep watching, and so he kept quite, aware of the hardening of his cock as he watched Esme's breast bounce and Barry slid into her, over and over, his mouth open, his expression looking pained. He was trying not to cum, Ben could tell, because you had to try. You had to force yourself not to unload the second you slid inside her.
Barry grabbed a fistful of Esme's hair, pulling her head back and kissing her. He back arched and those tits were on full display. Ben slid a hand over the front of his pants, repositioning his growing cock, and breathed in as Esme's hair came loose from the clip, and curls as dark as coffee fell down, obscuring his view of her perfect little tits. He could see her lips moving as Barry moved behind her, could almost hear the words he could see her lips form. "Fuck me. Please, fuck me." He could hear her voice in his head, breathless and raspy, urging him on.
The living room wasn't pitch black, there was light coming from the fireplace, but he hadn't been worried about being spotted. They were too absorbed to see him, not even conscious they should be looking, out in the middle of nowhere. But he must have moved, or she must have felt him, because out of nowhere she looked up, looked into the house. She saw him, he knew, because their eyes made contact before her mouth fell open she started to shake, and she came for him, one more time.
