The porch light was covered in the dust kicked up from the tires that crunched gravel on the winding road up to the quiet home just north of the river. Peter never bothered with the dust. No one saw his home and anyone that did, wouldn’t care. The softly faded light still attracted small bugs that pinged the windowpane in a drunken haze, seeking the light that would singe their wings. You could hear the crickets on a hunt for their mate, but unless you were searching for the smallest cherry of light, you wouldn’t know someone was brooding in the darkest corner, sipping on a single malt whiskey and a Dominican cigar in turns.

It was a long day tied onto a long week and he just wanted his tense muscles to soften into less pain. He was trying to let the worries of his world worry about themselves as he sunk deeper into the wicker rocking chair that creaked as he shifted his weight, rocking back on his dirt crusted black leather boots.

One of the perks of living alone out here was the quiet. It was also one of the downsides. If you weren’t watching for it, the loneliness would creep up and pull you down, and he could feel the edges of it slipping into his thoughts. The wind seemed to sigh and it sounded like a woman. He could almost smell perfume pulling some of his deepest held memories. It was spice and vanilla with just a bit of earthiness. She will always dance on the edges of his mind.

Things fall apart for a reason, but she wasn’t there when it was time for them to fall together again. He never thought she’d leave but she also thought he’d never change. They were both wrong but she has a new life now, and he has his freedom. It just feels like prison. He felt the drain he was circling would hold him on the edge just a little longer, but his grip on his glass was slipping just as quickly as his grip on the sad reality of his life.

The crunch of gravel arrived with the low purr of a v8 engine. The bass of the radio pulsed violently on the quiet air and he wasn’t sure if he was seeing reality or a dream. No one came up this far north. Not without calling him first.

The Maserati Levante pulled up aggressively and he sat up in his seat, placing his drink gingerly on the table beside him, and setting his cigar on the ashtray. The door opened just as aggressively as the petite woman that got out of the car. He’s had the vision of her etched in his mind for years, but she always arrived in that Ford 150 she drove away in. Her hair had changed, and there was a softness to her body, but that determined hell gaze was the same he remembered. He noticed a few laugh lines with it. She was wearing a wrap dress and sandals, stumbling across the gravel. He was just struck dumb. It’s not at all how he imagined it would be. It was better. She was beautiful and it looked like the years were treating her better than they had treated him.

“Peter, if you hadn’t blocked my Mother, you would know I was trying to reach you,” she said. Her exasperation was adorable and he had a hard time not smiling and picking her up. His mood improved significantly, and he was going to ignore how much that whiskey was helping.

“Darlin’, I never wanted to talk to her, but now I don’t have to. You’re not blocked. Not the old number or whatever you have now. What brings you back?,” he asked with a smile in his voice. He was trying to hide the excitement building and couldn’t look into her eyes. He would have started begging her to take him back again, and that went badly last time.

“I want to sell the Ford. It’s been sitting for long enough that it won’t start and I can’t deal with that,” she still had that petulant whine that made him do anything she asked for. Except when she begged him to not chase other women. He couldn’t stop when they were together, but he hasn’t touched another woman since she left. He knew she wouldn’t believe that. He could smell her hair, like flowers on the warm summer breeze. He wanted to touch her. He wanted her to take control like she used to. He wanted to push. He wanted to be dominated and he needed her to do it like before.

Peter shifted slightly, but she knew that stance. She knew the change in his posture and his voice. She swallowed heavily and he knew she was just as affected as he was. She could feel herself getting wet.

“Yes, Mistress.”

Two words. It only took two words and her passion flared into embers. The flush heated her skin and her belly tingled in the lowest parts. She was suddenly hoarse and took a step back.

“No, Peter. I can’t. This was a mistake.” She pivoted to leave but before she fully stepped off the porch, she tripped on that same damn step he was supposed to fix five years ago. “Dick. You haven’t fixed this fucking step and I nearly broke my ankle. You don’t do dick to make your life better and I’m tired of this shit!” She turned toward him, to find him right at her heels, standing still and towering over her.

“You sure say dick a lot,” he smirked.

“Maybe I like the way it feels on my tongue,” she said. He lost all reserve and pulled her in for a kiss. His hands wrapped around her waist, and her palms pushed against his firm chest before she reached up to twine her arms around his neck. The gentle breeze blew harder, and the clouds parted for the full moon to illuminate the embrace she never planned on, and the one he had been dreaming of. It was like the wind was pushing them closer and the slight chill made her pull closer into him. She was wrapped in the warm musk of his scent. She could smell the day on him in that delicious scent that was his own mix of deodorant and fresh sweat.

His kisses trailed down her neck and her breathing became jagged and forced. She struggled to regain her senses, and breathed out, “You’ve been a bad boy Peter.”

He mumbled, “beg your pardon,” along her collar bone and she shifted her weight away from him and stood powerfully.

She looked down where she expected him to kneel, and commanded, “go ahead. Beg my pardon.”

Peter stepped back and fell to his knees.

“Spread your knees apart,” she commanded.

“Yes mistress,” he said. His contrition was immediate. He wanted her to be proud of him.

She stepped toward him, slipping out of her shoes. Evelyn traced his right outer thigh with her left foot, stepping just beyond his firm ass. The flush through Peter’s face went straight to his cock. She straddled him standing, bent her knees gently and leaned forward to whisper in his ear, “you’re still my little puppy. Too bad I’m not into little bitches anymore.”

She knew the torture she was inflicting. She straightened her back, lifted her ass and stood up. Just as she was about to step over him, he grabbed her and pulled her down into his lap. She crashed into his solid body. His warmth and his scent pulled on her senses. He could see her struggling with the sensations he was creating. He held her firmly like a child and looked into her eyes.

His hands were still but his look of love burned through the ice she felt toward him through the years. This was the bastard that flirted in front of her. She washed his laundry and found panties in his pocket and lipstick on his collar. There was so much bad in their relationship, but in that moment she couldn’t remember most of it. He needed to let the floodgates of his longing wash over them. He needed to hold her and bury himself in her. He wanted her to know he was wrong, and he knew he was wrong. Later he would remember what she did, but in this moment, he was just going to hold her.

“I’m sorry Evelyn. You didn’t deserve the way I mistreated you. I’ll never forgive myself, but I’m begging you to forgive me.” They were locked in place, holding the same breath in the same night air. She could taste the whisky and tobacco from his kiss and it took her so far back to a happier place. She began to shake her head as if that would help her remember the truck. She needed it gone to make room for Owen’s boat. There was a reason she wanted to go through her Mom.

“No. No. Not now. It’s too late,” Evelyn scrambled away on hands and knees to get away from Peter. He loved the way her ass looked in that dress on her hands and knees. “That was a dick move. You mean absolutely nothing now.” She scrambled toward his dark corner before standing up. She grabbed his glass and gulped down what was left in it, visibly shaken.

“There you go with that dick in your mouth. I’ve never seen you try to get drunk so quickly. You were always a white wine kinda girl,” Peter said. He was still sitting on the ground, determined to get further than they had the last time they talked. He saw his chance in her eyes. He knew this woman. She was still his woman.

“I’m still a white wine kinda gal,” she said. He could hear the forced laughter she was trying to feign. He couldn’t quite see the face she was making, but she knew that was a dumb move. She was never a drinker and she could already feel the warmth of his drink softening the rod rammed up her ass about the whole thing. She knew she was being unreasonably angry but he did that to her. He got under her skin and brought up all the feelings she fought so hard to contain. He made her feel the things that never came up with Owen.

That realization brought so much clarity. She knew she didn’t want Owen’s safety. As that drink started hitting her, she sank into the rocking chair and knew she still loved Peter. After all this time and through all this rage she still felt, she felt more in that moment than she had in the last six months with Owen.

“I have a bottle of Chardonnay with your name on it,” he said. They could both hear the hope in his voice.

“Dick,” she said. It was both resignation and an olive branch of sorts. She was going to stay for the night. He was going to remind her of the many ways he knew her body and she was going to love every second of it.

He stood up and walked toward her, holding his hand out. “Keep making that offer, I’m going to take you up on it.”