Brady
She tastes like sugar and spice and my own wicked fantasy.
I could hear her reacting to the game I was watching through our shared wall. What I couldn’t figure out was why she’d rather watch it alone than with me.
It’s been hard to resist her this week—telling her no all the while wanting to make her scream yes.
My resistance was hanging by a thread. Especially once it looked like she accepted the fact I wasn’t going to make a move.
Because, yeah, I want her to want me. And yeah, I get that this makes me an asshole.
But coming in here and finding her sweet ass on display in those hotter-than-hell booty shorts had me instantly hard. And when she decided to unleash that smart mouth on me? Game over.
And goddamn. She feels good.
I’m nestled between her legs, mulling over the genius of these thin track pants I’m wearing. Because right now, my cock feels like a heat-seeking missile homed in on the warmth of her *.
One that I know is bare except for a small triangular strip.
She arches, her soft curves fitting to my hard lines, and I wish the lights were on and not just her ancient TV set so I could see her beautiful body. Her breasts are pebbled against my chest, and with every thrust, they bounce.
I tug her hair so her head tilts over, and I bury my nose against her skin. This scent will forever remind me of this girl. Clean, floral, sweet.
Reaching behind her, I run my hand down one of her legs, dipping underneath the crease of her thigh until it gets close to where I know she needs me. Back and forth I stroke, under the gorgeous globe of her ass until she gasps, and I grip her hair tighter.
Her panting breaths are the only thing I focus on as I gently bite her neck. I’m rewarded with an unintelligible sound from her mouth.
“Feel good, baby?”
She groans her response, and I run my finger against the hem of her boy shorts. Her legs drop open beneath me, and I hold in a chuckle. My girl wants it. But Jesus Christ, so do I.
I pause.
My girl?
Fuck.
I shake my head.
I shouldn’t be thinking this way. I shouldn’t be thinking about her so possessively.
This is wrong. We are wrong. Deep in my heart, I know I shouldn’t let this happen, but I want her too fucking badly to stop.
She arches beneath me, and that’s all it takes for my brain to shut down.
I let go of her hair to caress her breast that fills my hand so exquisitely my cock throbs.
Dipping down, I lick and suck and tease her dusky pink nipple, and her hands dig into my hair. And then I move my hips back so I can reach between us where I find her soaked underwear. I slide them down, pulling up on my knees so I can tug her panties off her leg.
At that moment, the TV brightens the room and I take in her arched back. Those beautiful plump breasts. Her trim waist and lean thighs. Those glistening lips between her legs.
“You’re beautiful, Katherine.”
Her hazy eyes open, and she gives me a shy smile.
Fucking hell. This girl. Equal parts vixen and virgin. Though I know she’s not really a virgin, I can’t escape the vulnerability in her expression.
It’s a look I’ve seen on her face all week.
And then I say something I probably shouldn’t. “You know I want you, right?” Because the last thing I want is her thinking my resistance had anything to do with her or her beauty or intelligence. She’s grade-A girlfriend material. I’d be a lucky asshole to be dating her back home.
Her eyes close briefly while her smile widens.
I fight the urge to kiss her because while she should know how much I want her, I know I need to minimize any tenderness. We agreed that this is fucking. Fucking I can do. Making love, though, is off the table, and if I kiss her right now and give in to the way I want to hold her, I think we’d both walk away confused.
Ignoring the twinge of guilt in my chest for taking something that can never ultimately be mine, I lower myself to her warm body. Fucking will have to do.
33
Katherine
Something changes in Brady. It’s like the moment he realizes he’s being vulnerable with me, the shutters come down.
I want to analyze it and deconstruct everything that’s just happened, but when he takes a long, slow lick between my legs, all rational thought dissipates because…
It.
Feels.
So.
Good.
He grips my thighs, pressing me wider and into my bed while his wicked tongue strokes and soothes the painful pulse.
All I can hear are my panting breaths and the sound of him licking. It sounds so dirty. So illicit.
When I glance down and see his dark head of hair between my thighs and those powerful arms, colored and swirled in ink, wrapped around my legs, I want to sing a hallelujah chorus.