Letters to the Baumgarters by Selena Kitt Page A

echo of a memory cried out, “Not again, never again.” And
then my body betrayed me, every single time I was with one man or the other.
    “So consider this your first warning, yes?” Her eyes met mine. “No more
visitors.”
    “You don’t have to worry,” I assured her, although I didn’t explain that
both Nico and Mason had found their own place—together. It was too weird, even
for me.
    “Good.” She nodded her head, satisfied. She turned to go and then turned
back, looking like she wanted to say something. “Are you all right?”
    “Fine,” I replied, attempting a smile, but I felt dizzy with my own
realization. Did I want what she claimed I wanted? A husband? A child? A
family? “I’m sorry about the…visitors. It won’t happen again.”
    “Good.” She hesitated again. “I think those boys are taking too much out
of you. Maybe you should lie down. Get some rest. You look pale.”
    “I will.” I pushed Jezebel out of the way again and shut the door,
leaning against it for a moment, my head swimming. I was going to read and work
on my thesis, but when I got the couch, Cara Lucia’s suggestion was too
powerful and my thoughts far too overwhelming. I fell asleep with Jezebel
curled on my lap.
    * * * *
    “This is too weird.” I glanced at the bedroom door as Mason closed it
behind him. The bed was the only thing in the room, so I sat there. They still
hadn’t purchased much in the way of furniture. There was a kitchen table now
but no chairs, and a coffee table and a television in the living room. “Where’s
Nico?”
    “He had to go help a guy with a leaky pipe.” Mason grinned. “At least,
that’s what he said.”
    I rolled my eyes. “Was it Sal? His sister’s husband?”
    “I don’t care.” He came to sit next to me on the bed, his hand already
moving up my knee, under my skirt. “I’m just glad we have the place all to
ourselves.”
    “Still, if he comes home…”
    “I locked the door.” Mason captured my mouth with his, insistent.
    Our dinner had been good—it was hard to get a bad meal in Venice—and our
conversation even better. But both of us had been impatient for time alone.
Every time our hands touched or our eyes met or my knee brushed his under the
little café table, a spark of electricity passed between us, a surge of desire.
I was already wet for him, had been for hours. And he knew it.
    During dinner, he had leaned over and whispered, “Go to the bathroom and
take your panties off.”
    And I’d done just as he asked, passing them under the table into his
hands, letting him feel how moist they were, still warm from my pussy. His eyes
had darkened with lust when he took them from me and slipped them into his suit
coat pocket. It hadn’t been long after that we were alone in a water-taxi
heading, so eager for each other his hand had found its way under my skirt to
my bare pussy, flicking my clit, teasing me as we sailed toward home.
    We were just as eager now, his hands roaming over my blouse, pushing my
skirt up to my hips, my aching clit finally getting his full attention. He
rubbed it with his thumb as he kissed me down onto the bed, undoing the button
of my blouse with his other hand.
    Not to be outdone, I peeled his suit coat off, working the buttons on his
shirt too. I was still getting used to Mason all dressed up in suits. The
husband I’d been married to wore the typical college uniform—jeans and a
t-shirt. I found this new Mason irresistibly sexy. It was the same man but
different, and the change was exciting.
    “God, I love your tits,” he groaned, finally reaching his destination,
undoing the front hook of my bra and letting them spill out. He grabbed them in
both hands, his knee going between my legs so I could rub myself against his
thigh. His tongue made circles around my nipples, tracing delicious patterns
over my skin from one breast to the other.
    “Mason,” I whispered, arching my back, my pussy swollen against the press
of his leg between