We barely make it up the walk before I’ve pressed her up against the front door, the callused pads of my fingers smoothing unspoken thoughts into her petal-soft skin, my split-second decision made that tonight is about Lorelai. After all, it’s what a good friend would do.
I dip my head, capturing her mouth in a searing kiss, and gently suck her bottom lip between mine before using my teeth. Lorelai responds immediately, bucking her hips against me in a torturously slow roll, and my grip on her tightens, my body molding against hers. She twists her tongue with mine and I swallow the little gasps that escape when I drag my thumb across her sensitive nipple hidden under the layers of her tee and bra, once, twice, three times circling in time with my hips.
Her hand reaches between us for my buckle and snaps me back to attention. I pull back, as if drugged, my senses reluctantly allowing in the world around us, and I remember it’s barely dusk and we live on a busy street. Thankfully, we seem to be alone, but it’s Nashville, so I hold a fingertip to her kiss-swollen mouth and turn to unlock and open my front door.
I don’t resume kissing her right away, instead reaching for her hand and leading her in behind me up the stairs and once in my apartment, planting her firmly on the love seat. “Close your eyes and give me a few minutes.”
A teasing smirk dances around her lips. “You’re gonna clean, aren’t you?”
“Hush, woman. Rest up. I have big plans for you.”
Shocking us both, she relents, shutting her eyes and leaning back against the armrest, slipping out of her boots and crossing her socked feet on the cushion.
“You have five minutes, Huck, before I start stripping.”
All the blood rushes from my head, and my cock gives a painful throb against my constricting jeans. Lorelai, eyes still shut, grins triumphantly at my groan, and I hustle before I change my mind and decide to just do it her way.
First, I open a bottle of wine and let it rest on the island while placing two stemless glasses next to it. Second, I pull out my phone, turning off all notifications before scrolling to some music. Willie’s “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain” cues up and I increase the volume. It’s not the sexiest song, but it does a good job of setting the atmosphere and I instantly feel more relaxed.
And believe me, I need to calm the fuck down or this is gonna be embarrassing. One day, maybe, Lorelai and I will have enough sex that I can convince my dick to be patient.
Today is not that day. Tomorrow isn’t looking great, either.
Then I rush to the living room, where there’s a small brick fireplace in front of the couch where Lorelai is pretending to rest. I grab the bundle next to the hearth and have a cozy fire going in under a minute, crackling softly and painting everything in a warm glow.
For a final touch, I spread a large quilt on the floor, tossing a few throw pillows around and laying a couple of extra blankets over the opposite arm of the love seat just in case. I’m about to change the song to something sexier when a soft snore stops me in my tracks.
Hell.
She’s asleep.
In an instant, I’m shifting gears. A blanket covers her exhausted form, the music is turned down, and I collect a few more logs off the back patio to stock up for when the flames get too low. When I return, she’s snoring louder and I’m staring at her like a sappy lovesick idiot. Before I overthink it too much, I grab a book off my shelf, this time a collection of Mary Oliver poetry my parents bought me for my high school graduation, and gently lift her feet before sitting and replacing them over my lap. I slip on my glasses and settle in. Maybe reading will keep me from dwelling too much on how this feels exactly right and how if I got nothing else for the rest of my life, this would still be enough.
22
LORELAI
BREATHE
I wake up and it feels achingly familiar. An echo from a long-ago memory. Before I even open my eyes, I can feel him—his steadfast presence, solid and comfortable wrapped all around me—and it nearly takes my breath away. The scent of his laundry soap and shaving lotion pulling me in.
When I finally open my eyes, I can tell it’s late. The sky is dark outside the windows and the fire I’d heard Huck fixing up earlier is mostly embers. I shift inside a pair of arms, feeling more awake by the second.
I consider sneaking out from his embrace and maybe building up the fire again. Or pouring myself a glass of wine. But every inch of this man is pressed against me, my back to his front, and every last one of those inches feels really, really good. Too good to rip myself away from, so instead, I press impossibly closer and spin in his arms to face him before covering his face in slow, methodical kisses, curling his wavy hair around my fingers at his nape and tugging with the slightest pressure. Then I gently nudge my thigh between his, sliding along his rising erection. I’m making a wild guess here, but I’m thinking he won’t mind waking up this way.
A breath later, his hands are inside my shirt and slipping skillfully underneath the cups of my bra. We start making out to the sound of embers popping like we’re two teenagers on a couch in his parents’ basement, ramping up heartbeats and chasing the sparks zipping through our bodies. Over clothes, under clothes, I haven’t even taken off my clothes and I’m nearly there just from the delicious friction of his body against mine.
Huck catches my gasp in his mouth and slides his hands from my breasts, gripping my waist in one and pressing a finger to my lips.
“Don’t you dare. Not yet.”
I whimper and his lips quirk in a happy grin, his eyes tender. He surges up and over me, standing. His hand reaches for mine.
“C’mere, darlin’.” And he’s leading me to his room.
“Oh, but you spent all that time setting up…”
He raises an amused brow. “It was barely five minutes, not that you’d know, Sleeping Beauty. Besides. A man can change his mind, and right now this man wants you naked in his bed.”
“Oh, well. All right then,” I agree, following behind him, his hand tugging me along. “That’s a good idea.”
“I’m full of them,” he teases. We make it to his room, which is a healthy mix of masculine and neat, his bed made, his clothes put away.
“Did you do this when I was sleeping?”
He pulls on the hem of my shirt, peeling it up inch by teasing inch and shaking his head. “I’m tidy,” he says in between following the path of his hands with his mouth. “Melissa’s fault,” he continues in between kisses. “She told me back in high school that I’d never have sex if I didn’t have clean sheets and a made bed.”
I whip off my shirt the rest of the way and grasp his stubbly face between my fingers. “Bravo, Melissa. Remind me to bring her an expensive bottle of wine the next time I visit.”
“Absolutely. As long as you swear never to say my sister’s name during sex ever again.”
“You started it.” He nibbles in between my cleavage and I give a yelp that he answers with a lick. That might leave a mark.
God, I hope it leaves a mark. Just a little one. I never wanted to be marked before. It always felt misogynistic or something, but the idea of being marked by Huck …