His Friend at the Barbecue

My stepdad has this best friend, Mark, who's been around since before my mom married him. He's one of those men who's always at our barbecues, always manning the grill, always with a beer in his hand and a laugh that's a little too loud. I've known him forever. But this summer, at our big Fourth of July barbecue, I started noticing him noticing me, and it lit me up inside.

It started at the grill. I went to grab a burger, and he was there, spatula in hand, and his eyes did this slow trip down my body in my little sundress. He didn't even try to hide it. He smiled at me like he knew exactly what he was doing, and I felt this flutter low in my stomach. All afternoon, it kept happening. He'd brush past me a little too close. He'd hand me a drink and let his fingers linger. Every time my stepdad wasn't looking, Mark's eyes were on me.

I was getting so worked up I could barely eat. I kept sneaking glances at him across the yard, at his big hands on the tongs, his forearms all tan, the way his t-shirt clung when he got close to the grill heat. By the time the sun started going down, I was aching.

Then the beer ran out, and my stepdad called for someone to grab more from the garage fridge. Before anyone else could move, Mark said he'd go, and he looked right at me when he said it. My heart started pounding. I waited about ten seconds, told my mom I was going to help carry, and slipped away toward the garage.

He was waiting just inside, in the shadows by the fridge, and the second I stepped in, he pulled the side door shut. Not locked, just shut. The sounds of the party faded to a murmur, and it was just us in the dim garage, surrounded by coolers and boxes and the smell of charcoal drifting in.

He backed me up against the workbench, his hands on my waist, and I didn't resist for a single second. This whole stepdad's friend taboo thing had been building all afternoon, and I wanted this. His mouth found mine, hungry and certain, and I melted into him, my hands fisting in his shirt. He tasted like beer and smoke, and it was intoxicating.

His hands slid down to my thighs, pushing my sundress up slowly, bunching the fabric at my hips, and I gasped when his rough palms found my bare skin. He lifted me onto the workbench like I was weightless, the cool metal edge pressing into the backs of my thighs, and stepped between my legs, kissing my neck while his fingers traced the edge of my panties, teasing, circling, making me squirm. I was so wet already, embarrassingly ready, and when he slipped a finger inside me, I moaned into his shoulder.

He pulled my panties aside and freed himself, and I watched, breathless, as he positioned himself. When he pushed into me, slow and deep, I had to bite my lip to stay quiet. The party was right outside. My stepdad, my mom, everyone I knew, just yards away, laughing and completely oblivious while his best friend was buried inside me in the garage.

He moved with this steady, driving rhythm, one hand gripping my hip hard enough to leave fingerprints, the other tangled in my hair, pulling my head back gently so he could kiss my throat, my jaw, the sensitive spot behind my ear that made me shiver. The workbench creaked under us with every thrust, and every sound made my heart race, but I didn't want him to stop. I wrapped my legs around his waist and pulled him deeper, and he groaned against my neck, his rhythm faltering.

I came first, clenching around him, shuddering silently while he held me tight. He followed a moment later, burying his face in my hair. We stayed like that, breathing hard, until the screen door banged and someone called for the beer. We scrambled apart, straightening clothes, grabbing the case with shaking hands like nothing had happened.

Nobody noticed. My stepdad clapped Mark on the back and thanked him for grabbing the beer. I sat there with my cheeks burning, my thighs still trembling under the table, tasting him on my lips, trying to look like a girl who'd just gone to help carry a case of beer and nothing more.

Mark still comes to every barbecue. He still mans the grill. And now, every time he looks at me across the yard with that knowing smile, I get wet. Last weekend he texted my stepdad about coming over to watch the game, and I've been thinking about that garage ever since. About the workbench. About what we'd do with more than five stolen minutes and no party outside to hear us.