It was Friday night and Mindy struggled to stay awake on the tube ride home. She was so tired. Working late, only after everyone else had left, she finally finished her tasks. Human Resources had called to schedule a meeting for the upcoming Monday. They wanted to address her supervisor's concerns...not about HER productivity but rather about how her constantly talking to everyone else in the office was affecting THEIR productivity. As the message that she was about to have jammed into her brain hovered excruciatingly on the conclusion of the weekend, she rubbed her chest and gazed morosely through the window at the cement walls flashing by beyond the window. Her feet were sluggish as she got off the tube and walked home.
With the air of defeat, she entered the door to her apartment. It was dark, but she didn't turn on the light. It suited her mood. And she really didn't want to face Scot. Dropping her backpack and jacket at the door, she headed to get ready for bed.
What's that
? She paused to look at her pillow. A flower and paper lay on it. She frowned.
Don't get your hopes up
. She picked up the paper and went to the bathroom.
She sighed, her weak flicker of hope blown out. There was no note on the paper. It was just a pamphlet.
For some lousy remote bungalow. Why does he do this
? When she was done with her shower, she put the pamphlet back on the pillow and headed for the couch, leaving the sleeper on the bed undisturbed. Her thoughts were dark, darker than despair.
The silence that permeated her 8 months of married life greeted her in the morning. She moved through it like a freshwater fish in a salty pond. The sounds of Scot moving silently broke the white noise of the various machines in the space. She dressed and cooked and cleaned as she had every Saturday for 8 months. She couldn't look him in the eye anymore. It was as he took over pouring her another cup of tea that she furrowed her brow. "Thanks," she finally said.
He sat next to her on the couch. She didn't look at him as she scanned the bills.
I can't lose this job
.
"Let's go on a road trip," he rumbled.
She used to love his voice. He couldn't talk when they first met; he had a broken jaw. But then as he recovered, he would ask her questions. She loved telling him stories. He would snort and smile at all her silliest parts. His stories were always brief, but he'd TALK. "No," she answered, "You go ahead." Last person she wanted to be stuck with in the middle of nowhere was the man who was breaking her heart. He got up and left to the bedroom, shutting the door. She inhaled a deep breath, finished the task, and then snagged a bottle of wine from the pantry.
Running low in there
. It became her weekend habit around 6 months into their marriage when she realized she'd doomed herself to a consistent and insidious form of ostracization. Snagging an opener and her sketch tablet, she stepped outside, the neighborhood lush, to sit next to entrance to the apartment, greet her neighbors, chat, and sketch.
A few hours later, she was tapping the last of the wine into her glass, somewhat missing it and spilling, when she frowned. The why she missed it involved her wrist being grasped by a large male hand sporting a familiar marriage ring. The realization came around the time another hand from same male, grasped her upper arm on other side to leverage her out of her seat. "Scot, what?" she slurred when his arms shifted, swinging her up. She clung to her sketch pad as she was bodily transported to a small-occupancy-vehicle. When the door shut, she blearily tracked her endlessly silent husband as he circled it and climbed in on the other side to settle next to her. "Am I hallucinating?" she asked while reaching over to pinch the miserable man next to her. A brief intake of breath from the pain, the snatching of her fingers, and his lips on their tips was the sole response she got. Groaning, she pulled her hand away.
Staring out the window as they moved, she thought back over the past several months. She'd tried being playful to get him to talk to her. She'd talked about how his silence hurt her. She'd tried to give him a dose of his own medicine, which was when she started drinking. She yelled at him. And then she cried. A few minutes at a time, but occurring almost every few hours, she cried. Sometimes it was sobs, other times just tears, and then it all just went inward. Her heart ached. She was alone. The man she loved didn't care for her enough to share his soul, too.
After a while, in complete silence except for the road, she sighed. "Where's the wine for this shindig, sweetcheeks?" If she downed another 2 glasses, the pain would shut down. Rolling his eyes, Scot reached behind her seat and handed her a bottle. A bottle of water. "Where's the fish?" she snarked at him. He smiled back at her with that extra curl of amusement. Opening it and drinking, she sighed again and stared back out the window.
Scot's smile sank, and he clenched his jaw.
An hour later, Mindy announced, "Pull over, I need to go bathroom."
"Rest stop in 5 minutes," he murmured.
"Fine." After a minute, she finally summarized to her reflection in the window, "I don't know what I'm doing here, you know 'us', anymore." She missed Scot's hands spasm on the steering.
The rest station was mostly empty when they arrived. Climbing out of the vehicle, Mindy followed Scot towards the entrance, but when he held the door open for her, she stepped to the side at the next door over and let herself in instead. Scot clenched his jaw.
Weaving unsteadily towards the bathrooms, she stopped and groaned. It was closed for cleaning. Right next to it was the 'Family Bathroom' for parents to change diapers. Muttering, "Whatever, my life is shit anyways," she entered. But as she shut the door, it wouldn't close. A hand was in the way. And then an arm and a shoulder, and a large, impossible man.
This is different
. "In or out," she grumbled at him. He finished stepping in and then turned the lock on the door.
Ignoring him and thankful that the space had been cleaned recently, she settled herself on the toilet. Scot went to the sink and dampened some soapy wipes that were available. He stepped back towards the door to let her wash her hands, but when she turned around to face the door...and him...he hit the lights. "Scot?" she squeaked.
"Shhh," he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her head, while turning and backing her up into the surface of the door.
She shivered as her back pressed against the locked door and one of his hands wrapped around the back of her head, holding her in place as his lips found hers in a soft caress. When his lips moved to her jaw, she murmured, "I can't read your face like this."
What little he does express
.
His mouth nipped her neck where it curved into her collar. "Feel," he mumbled into her skin. His hands, wrapped around her back, petted her.
"I never stopped feeling, damn you," she grumbled.
A puff of amusement warmed the skin on her shoulder through her shirt. One of his hands snagged the bottom edge of her shirt and freed it from her pants' waistband.
Warming up bodily, despite her mental wishes, Mindy grasped his shoulders for balance. The darkness was dizzy and disorienting in her inebriated state. As his hands moved across the skin of her back, her waist, and then slid upward, she reveled again in the strong musculature she touched that delivered such gentleness. Then the flexing beneath her fingers briefly intensified as her bra was unclasped. She inhaled sharply when his hands lifted her shirt and bra and his wet tongue lapped the underside of her breast. "Why..." she began asking softly. Then she shuddered as her nipple was licked.
As Scot laved and nipped with his lips on first one of Mindy's breasts, then the other, his hands dropped to her waistband again, this time tugging the material down with her panties. Through a thin soapy wipe, he gently touched her vulva, starting with a soft caress.
As her internal fire caught, her breasts shot sparks into her with each delicious press and suction from Scot's mouth. His fingers on her swelling labia as he carefully wiped her clean accelerated the burn. Mindy licked her lips before letting her breath ease out in a sigh of pleasure. "Why are you doing this?" she finally asked. She didn't expect an answer.
"Mine," he roughly declared. His fingers dropped the wipe and danced in the wetness her aroused state was producing.
She mentally wasn't sure that was true anymore, but nothing came out except a choked squeak as his fingers brushed her swollen clitoris at that moment. Moving back from her, for just a moment, she found him tugging her away from the door and turning her to face the changing table. Scot palmed her back with just enough pressure to urge her to bend over.
Then he knelt behind her. "Here?" she queried softly, wondering,
A public toilet?
His tongue in contact with her clitoris blew away her thoughts. He licked and nibbled on her fleshy happy button when he wasn't licking to the side of it and thrusting his tongue into her vagina. Her long lost desire to orgasm roared through her veins. Panting, she pushed back on the urge, focusing on Scot instead. "Not," she licked her lips and fought making any sound that could give away what they were doing. "Not that I'm complaining, but," she fought another urge to release, "but," she couldn't finish the thought. Her orgasm wasn't to be denied this time. Clinging desperately to the changing table, she stiffened and shuddered with the force of it. Only with desperate, heavy breathing was she able to avoid vocalizing its wonderful sensation.
Buzzed by a combination of hyperventilation and alcohol, she was vibrating with desire for Scot's promised followup. As his pants dropped and the glans of his erection swept through her wetness, she trembled. When his silence drew out, she was relieved that he didn't called her 'My Mayday-Mindy' again. The sour thought, of a reference that never ceased to trigger her PTSD, lowered her passion enough to think. "Stop moving," she ordered.
Scot grunted, a remarkable sound from him, but he stopped. His glans had just begun to breach her vagina. He wrapped his arms around her hips, placing a finger along her clitoris, and across her torso, catching a nipple between his fingers.
Fighting the rising heat as his hands moved, she clearly enunciated, "Agree to go with me to marriage therapy or let me go."
Scot settled his weight against her back and bit her shoulder. "Anything," he breathed, then pressed himself into her.
Flushed with heat, amazed that he'd agreed, she shivered uncontrollably as his thick erection penetrated deep into her. It had been a while. She was tight, and if she didn't know any better, he was wider than usual, too. Fully engaged, pressing against her cervix, he paused. His lips on her shoulder shifted and he nuzzled her back. "Mindy-mine," he moaned.
And then he levered back, making her gasp, and pressed deeper. Scot was always mindful of his strength, and their spontaneous reunion was no different. He moved inside her slow and deliberate. Every nerve he triggered stayed triggered, and Mindy stiffened as her arousal rose, promising.
