“Sweetheart, I think you just topped my spank bank material.” He reaches down, runs a finger through his cum and circles my nipple.
“Get it off me.” I release my hands, letting my tits fall naturally apart. The sexy part now over, I’m left with the aftermath of his release all over me.
I’m all for swallowing it, spitting it, even taking it, but wearing it, not so much.
“I don’t think so, babe. I’m gonna fuck you like this now.” He moves his body down mine, taking his cock and leaving his cum.
“I’m serious. Get it off.” I start to wiggle out of his embrace wanting to be cleaned up before we go any further. Hetch, having other ideas locks his grip on my thighs, spreads me open then lines himself up at my entrance.
“It’s staying there while I fuck you. Maybe next time you’ll learn not to be a greedy little thing,” he taunts while gliding himself into my wet and waiting *.
My body wants to argue some more, my mouth open and ready, but before I get a chance, he picks up his pace and all thoughts of cum and where it doesn’t belong have left my mind.
“Ahh, harder,” I groan, lifting my hips to meet each one of his thrusts.
“You have no idea how fucking sexy you look right now. My cum all over your tits and my cock filling your *. Maybe I should fuck you like this every day, sweetheart,” he teases some more, pushing into me with harder, longer strokes.
“You wish.” I gasp, body coiling up ready to find my own release.
“Are you going to obey me next time I tell you not to come?” he asks, but my orgasm is barreling toward me in record speed, and I don’t want to lose it.
“Answer me, sweetheart, or this ends,” he warns, and it's all the incentive I need to let go, screaming out my release with my answer.
“Yesss! Yes. Yes, I’m going to obey.” I tell him what he wants to hear, but I’m not sure I mean it.
Maybe disobeying every now then wouldn’t hurt.
Even if it means a repeat of what just went down. Sticky mess and all, there was no denying I would do it again.
Hell, I’d do anything Hetch asked me.
Now that is a dangerous thought.
Nineteen
Hetch
“You know what I think?” Mitch pulls me from my staring and back to the moment at hand where I should be paying attention.
“What do you think?” I focus back on the game in front of me, wondering how the fuck he could enjoy this.
“I think you love her.”
“W-who?” I’m at a loss for words. Unsure where his assessment comes from, and how to respond to it.
“Liberty. You haven’t stopped looking at her since we came out here.” He raises a brow looking way older than his fifteen-year-old self.
I’m at Boys Haven a few days after the fundraising car wash, having some one-on-one time with Mitch.
“Yeah, not something I’m talking about with you.” I make my move on the chessboard we have set up on the patio table. I’m not very good at this game, my confession ringing true when Mitch makes his move and calls out “Checkmate.”
Fuck.
“Seriously, where the hell did you learn to play?” I ask, more than impressed.
“My dad.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but I know that shrug. I think I might have invented that shrug.
“Oh, yeah? He good?” Liberty briefed me on how to act and what to expect when talking to the boys. Generally, they tend to keep to themselves, only sharing information when they are comfortable. I’m not expecting any miracles, but something tells me Mitch is comfortable enough to share.
“He was. Before he stopped playing.” He pauses for a minute, twirling the king piece between his fingers. “Before the drugs.” I don’t know what to say to his confession. I’m not trained in the whole how-to-talk-to-a-teenage-kid thing, but something tells me he wants to open up to me.
“When did things start getting bad?” I might not know what he’s been through, but if his dad slipping away due to drugs is anything like my father slipping away due to a mental illness, I may have something to work with.
“It kind of happened so fast, you know? One minute he was the best dad, taking me to baseball practice, and the next he was strung out.”
“It must have been tough.” I recall the first time my father tried to kill himself. I was fifteen. Mitch’s age. I walked in on my mother giving him mouth-to-mouth in his office. She screamed at me to call 911. I think I froze for a second. Seeing him lifeless. Seeing my mom try to save him. Seeing my sister rocking in the corner. Confused. Scared. Broken. I had only left to hang out with some friends down at the basketball courts a few hours before. Dad seemed his normal happy self when I said good-bye.
How did he go from laughing at breakfast to swallowing a whole bottle of pills by lunch?