Thanksgiving with the Mayor: A Romantic Comedy Holiday Short Story Read online

  Thanksgiving

  with

  the

  Mayor

  M. Mabie

  Copyright

  Thanksgiving with the Mayor © M. Mabie 2019

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of the material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author/ publisher. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, alive or dead, is coincidental and not indented by the author.

  LICENSE NOTICE. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you wish to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  DISCLAIMER. This is a work of adult fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication and use of these trademarks are not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  The author does not endorse or condone any behavior enclosed within.

  Cover Design Copyright © 2019 by M. Mabie

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  Also by M. Mabie

  STANDALONE ROMANTIC COMEDIES

  Fade In

  All the Way

  One Week Stand

  CITY LIMITS SERIES of STANDALONE ROMANTIC COMEDIES

  Roots and Wings

  Sunshine and Rain

  Smoke and Mirrors

  THE WAKE SERIES

  Bait

  Sail

  Anchor

  THE KNOT DUET

  Twisted Desire

  Tethered Love

  THE BREAKING TRILOGY

  Break My Fall

  Break Me Down

  Break the Faith

  1

  The Mayor of Pussyville

  “Yeah, just like that. No, wait. Fuck me harder,” I panted, my cheek against the headboard in Ryan’s bedroom. His hand ran up my back and firmly gripped me where my shoulder and neck met.

  “Well, which is it?” he asked while he rhythmically ground into me from behind. “Just like this or harder? Make up your mind, Lena.”

  I loved that authoritative tone he used with me.

  I’d spent the better part of my collegiate career having casual sex with the same guy. Ryan “The Mayor of Pussyville” Rhodes.

  Our arrangement began the first week of freshman year, clumsily and drunk—pretty much like everything else in those days. But, over time, where oddly no feasible relationship grew, our secret kinky sex life only got stronger. It wasn’t that I couldn’t see myself with Ryan, but more that I didn’t want to ruin a good thing.

  And let me tell you—what we had was good. So good I didn’t waste much time with other men, not that I couldn’t have. I simply didn’t see the point.

  During those few years with the mayor, I found my sexual identity. With him, I was comfortable enough to say or do or ask for almost anything.

  Fuck me hard.

  Flip me over.

  Fuck my mouth.

  Tie me up.

  Fuck my ass.

  Okay, admittedly I wasn’t everyone’s definition of sexy, but he never complained. In fact, he loved it too. Otherwise why would he call me to hang out as often as I called him?

  What Ryan and I had was awesome. There were no deep-seated emotions attached. No fighting. No drama. No fuss. No anxious does he like me or not feelings. It wasn’t like that at all. We respected and trusted each other. He was my safe sex partner—and I was happily his.

  As much as I loved the way he spoke to me in that dominant tone from time to time, I was no wilting flower. Additionally, I loved riling him up.

  My wavy auburn hair whipped my face as I looked behind me and countered, “Don’t be so bitchy, Rhodes. Just like that, but harder.”

  He knew what I wanted—the deep, nearly rough, aggressive sex that I couldn’t get enough of.

  Then again, it wasn’t always kinky and wild. Sometimes it was just amazing sex. Regardless, he had the most pleasing, satisfying penis I’d ever encountered and God-given talents with his tongue. To tell you the truth, there wasn’t much about him or his body I didn’t appreciate.

  He was attractive, fun, adventurous, and somehow into me too. Always quick with telling me how sexy I looked or how delicious I tasted, Ryan never missed a chance to make me feel incredible, both inside and out.

  As he ramped up the intensity, thrusting in and out precisely the way only he did, my body flushed and began to tingle, signaling the beginning of my orgasm.

  Then his phone rang and ruined everything.

  He pulled from me and fumbled around his nightstand.

  “You did not just o-block me,” I complained as he read the screen of his cell.

  His brow creased, and his cheeks filled with air before blowing it out as if he was anxious about something.

  “It’s her. I think I should break things off with her right now,” he said as he bared his teeth, totally breaking his dominant character act.

  Blah. Blah. Blah. Her.

  Frankly, it couldn’t be too serious if he still kept sleeping with me. Right?

  We’d never set up any rules, and I’d had my share of casual dates too. Still, we knew if something ever happened and we became exclusive with someone else, the other would back off.

  Obviously, that wasn’t the case because he wasn’t into her. Much like I hadn’t been into other guys for a while. A long while.

  Why would I want another man? Ryan gave me all I needed and more.

  However, I wasn’t heartless.

  “No. Don’t you dare break up with her the night before Thanksgiving just because you probably don’t want to meet her family. That’s a dick move.”

  It didn’t bother me at all—and I do mean at all—that he wanted to end things with her, but why ruin a holiday?

  Honestly, I just didn’t want him to talk to her so he could give me the attention I came over for. The mayor could break hearts on his own damn time.

  I ran my hands between my legs, my face still smashed up against the leather headboard, and considered working myself past the goal line. The tension inside of me not abating even when he left me to check his phone.

  He ignored the call with one swipe, which made me smile.

  “Fine, but I’m breaking up with her this weekend.”

  “Good. Now that we agree, could you please get back to work? I’m about to lose my m
ojo.”

  He shook his head at me and returned to prime pounding position.

  Rubbing himself through my wetness, Ryan paused. “Before I forget,” he said, “you need to get this mole looked at.”

  Ah, the joys of fucking a pre-med student.

  “Yeah, yeah. Listen, you have about four seconds to put that big dick of yours back inside me before I get dressed, go home, and let my thunderstick finish the job.”

  Once again, I peered over my shoulder at him. His blue eyes pinched at the sides, a face that said challenge accepted.

  Then Ryan gave my body exactly what it craved, as if my inner sexual fantasies had been emailed to him directly and, being the thorough and diligent overachiever he was, he’d memorized every word.

  After my second orgasm, with his hand pinching my clit—which was something new—I felt myself get swept away one more time as he shouted, “Jesus Christ, Lena. I fucking love you.”

  Out of breath and only half coherent, I replied as we fell to our sides, “I love fucking you too.”

  2

  Gym Lies

  Thanksgiving at my family’s house was always fun and always loud. My aunts and uncles—and their hordes of children—would all drive out to the suburbs to my parents’ place. It was tradition.

  It was also tradition for my aunts and grandma to ransack three million newspapers for sale ads while my sister, the men, and I watched football in the huge garage behind our old brownstone. Well, they watched football. My sister and I mostly just drank and talked shit.

  But, before I headed back there, I strolled through the house to say hello to my mom.

  Okay, that wasn’t completely true. I limped my roughly rode body through my childhood home to pillage for food. I needed sustenance, and it was a holiday after all.

  When I wandered into my mother’s zone, the aroma of sage, poultry, and other foods hung in the warm air.

  As if on cue, she bellowed, “Mar-lena Fran-cine Brad-shaw, why do you do that to yourself before every visit?” She shook her head as she popped out of the pantry with her hands on her hips.

  My mother was referring to the lie she believed. The one I’d first told—and kept telling because it worked—my freshman year of college at Thanksgiving. It was after the mayor had his glorious way with me and I could barely walk right for three days. I’d fibbed back then, telling everyone I’d been at the gym. Suckers.

  Don’t ask me why they didn’t question how my physique never improved, regardless of how sore and overworked I continually appeared each time I came to visit. It was totally beyond me.

  The truth was, I always saw Ryan before I came home. Because, when faced with not being around him for a few days, I loved how the feeling of him and what we did together stayed with me.

  “You know I have to work off all of these calories.” Which wasn’t all that facetious since I could have tolerated losing a few pounds here and there. It was more of a convenient truth than a fact. “Now what do we have going on in here?”

  I ran a carrot stick through the dip in the center of the vegetable tray and crunched it in half before double-dipping.

  My mom smacked my hand before I committed the offensive food maneuver.

  “Stop it, you brat. Everyone has to eat out of that. Get a plate and quit behaving like a damn animal.”

  I stole another dollop of French onion dip and gave her my best angelic smile. “You love me,” I chided.

  “I do, sweetie, but why don’t you wobble your ass out back and bother your father? I have a lot of fucking cooking to do.”

  I was truly blessed with my mother’s sharp tongue and salty vocabulary, and, furthermore, knew better than to ask if she needed any help in the kitchen. That woman had one day a year where she was queen of the universe. Thanksgiving dinner was her gift to the world. She wasn’t about to share the glory, especially with me—her heathen child, who would rather get drunk with the rest of my family anyway.

  Back at the sink, where she was peeling potatoes, I gave her a big hug from behind shoving her arms to her sides like the brat she accused me of being.

  “Get off me, Lena. Go away,” she admonished, but she loved me, and there was no doubt about it.

  As instructed, I wobbled my ass to the garage, past the younger kids playing on the swing set and picnic table, and found my crowd. The football game hadn’t started yet, but that didn’t stop all six men and my younger sister from blaring the pregame show from the TV on the wall.

  “There’s my seeeeester,” Katie squealed from her spot around the card table in the center of the room where my dad’s work truck normally sat. It appeared she’d gotten an early start on drinking.

  I shut the door behind me and winced in her direction.

  She rolled her eyes and looked down at her phone, then shot out of her seat and ran by me.

  “I’ll be right back, then you’re going to tell me all about it. You dirty whore,” my baby sister teased after noticing the slow gate in my walk.

  She was in on my lie, but only in the vaguest way. I never said who, but she knew a couple of stories and of the arrangement I had with my casual friend at school. The friend she also affectionately referred to as the Mayor of Pussyville.

  I took her seat and all of the guys glanced at me, said hi, and went back to what they were doing.

  “You need a beer, Marlena?” my dad asked, reaching into the cooler beside him.

  “Yes, please,” I answered and pulled my coolie cup out of my back pocket, deliciously feeling the aftermath of the night before as I leaned to the side. My dad caught sight of my face as my brow bunched and only shook his head. He may have been on to me, but he’d never confirm it.

  Just in case, I threw him a lifeline and said, “The gym, Dad. I worked out last night.”

  His eyebrow pitched skyward. “Again? The night before Thanksgiving and you were on a treadmill? I’m beginning to wonder if I’m paying for your education or just a really expensive gym membership.”

  I laughed at what he said and the attractive pretzel salt in his neatly trimmed grey mustache. I loved my family.

  “Shut up or I’ll move back home after I graduate.”

  “No. No. No.” His hands flew up in surrender. “You win. I can’t afford how much you drink.”

  I stretched forward to grab a handful of snack mix in the center of the plastic, white folding table and popped a bagel chip in my mouth. Then, I nearly choked half to fucking death when Katie came back into the garage…with my long-time fuck buddy.

  3

  Six Pack of Orgasms

  I hacked and nearly gagged as my dad pounded me on the back.

  “Damn. Take a drink,” he said and handed me my beer, but my eyes never left Ryan’s.

  “Dad, Marlena, um…everyone else, this is Ryan,” Katie introduced. She didn’t interpret his pale face correctly, probably confusing his shocked expression with nerves from meeting her—our—family. “He’s spending Thanksgiving with us.”

  Waves and greetings bounced around the room from our relatives, none of which who could probably care less. They were a good bunch, but as long as they had food, brew, and football the rest didn’t matter.

  My asphyxiation abated, but all I could do was stare as she led him to where more chairs were against the wall. They each grabbed one and unfolded them at the far end of the table near me. When they sat, I quickly broke eye contact with Ryan and focused solely on the combination of Chex-mix in my palm.

  What in the hell was I supposed to do?

  Katie leaned over to say something to me, so reflexively I leaned her way, again catching sight of Ryan’s alarmed gaze over her shoulder.

  She tried to whisper, but with the TV almost deafening, it was more like her normal speaking voice. “So you hooked up with the mayor again last night? You guys ever going to get serious or not?”

  Ryan overheard and his charming, bright eyes almost bugged out of his head as redness climbed his neck into his face.

  She w
ent on. “Lena, you know you’re super into him, right?”

  I was going to vom. I was going to die. Worst of all, I was probably never going to get dicked down by the best booty call of my life ever again.

  “Shut up. No, I’m not,” I fired back, almost before she was even finished with her stupid statement. I sat back into the cheap seat and drank nearly half my beer.

  “Since when are you so shy?” she touted and turned to Ryan. “My sister has been banging this guy at her school for four years straight because he has the—what did you call it, Lena?—the most glorious cock in the world?” If I’d had any doubt about how much she’d drank, it was totally confirmed as she spoke. My sister was tipsy and shaking out all my dirty laundry onto Ryan’s lap. Metaphorically, of course.

  Then again, he doesn’t much mind my actual dirty laundry. He had my panties hanging from his mouth last night.

  Swatting away the naughty memory, I thanked God the rest of the group was completely oblivious.

  I took a minute to collect my thoughts as I listened to her pseudo-drunken retelling of my secret, no strings attached, sexual relationship with the Mayor of Pussyville to the man who I shared said private relationship with.

  Then all it once it hit me.

  I was fucking my sister’s boyfriend. I was the worst!

  Plus, my kinky fuck buddy was at our Thanksgiving…with her.

  Still, my heart raced every time his eyes caught mine around her swaying head.

  The whole situation was uncomfortable. My stomach hurt, my head pounded, and my thighs were wonderfully sore. However, it was nearly more painful to sit there and watch her go on and on about our prior sex-scapades.

  The time I nearly broke my neck before Easter. He’d bucked me off the couch during a move we now referred to as the reverse-reverse cowgirl.

  The time I nearly sliced my left ass cheek in half in the shower, standing up too quickly after blowing him soapy bubble balls. I probably should have gotten stitches that time.