Текст книги "Seth"

Автор книги: Jo Raven

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

Additional credits will be awarded for classes I’ve completed. There was even talk of the possibility of a small stipend. Once I get my degree, I can do a Master’s in physical therapy.

I can do this. I can.

Now I need to see if I can find work teaching dance classes, and I’ll be ready to tell my dad. As for my mom…

Yeah, that’ll be a tough one. She wanted me to be a ballet dancer. It was her dream, since she was little, and she passed it on to me.

Well, dreams change. They transform, and the more I think about becoming a physical therapist, the more I want it. And if it doesn’t work out in the end, I’ll have a degree I can use in lots of professions, specialize in lots of different things.

I feel as if my horizons are expanding. Ballet was lovely, but the outcomes were specific and uncertain. Get picked by a dance company and be a dancer—or not be picked and become a teacher, which isn’t something I really wanted. Teaching yoga or belly dancing on the side is one thing. Teaching the one thing I wanted to excel in is another.

As I run from appointment to appointment, a little freaked out, stressed and harried, as I jog in the mornings, and then do some stretches, do my routine exercises and work up a sweat, as I buy groceries and make myself some dinner—I’m glad for it.

Because it keeps my mind off Seth—at least during the day time hours. That kiss… it haunts my dreams. I keep waking up hot and throbbing with the ghostly memory of his lips on mine, his scent and taste filling my senses.

So I fill my days with more things, set myself deadlines. This is important. This is about my future. And Seth may have kissed me, but it was a challenge for him. I’m sure he’s forgotten all about it—all about me—by now.

God…

By Thursday evening, I sit by the phone and steel my nerves to call Dad.

“How’s my ballerina?” he says in lieu of greeting, and I wince. “Manon?”

“Hey, Dad.”

“Is everything okay? You never call me mid-week. All those rehearsals and training until late.”

“Yeah, about that…” I pull my legs up on the sofa and fold them underneath me. “Dad, I’m changing career. I had this thought to become a physical therapist, but that’s long-term. I’ll enroll in sports kinesiology at the university here and then—”

“Whoa, hold your horses. What are you talking about? Sports kinesiology? Physical therapy? What the hell?”

Ow. Dad never swears, so he’s either pissed or so overwhelmed he didn’t realize.

“Daddy.” I wait for him to quieten down. “Daddy, listen. The dance school kicked me out because of my ankle. Remember, the injury I had?”

“How can I forget? Baby girl, we thought it was all over, but you made it back into the game. They have no right to kick you out, I’ll come over and talk to—”

“No, Dad.” No matter how I wish I were still his little girl in times like this, I’ve got to handle things on my own. “I talked to them several times, and they explained the issue. If I continue with the intensive training, I’ll hurt myself more. This isn’t just them not wanting the responsibility: it’s my decision, too. My chances of becoming a professional ballerina were slim at best. My injury ensures that they’re non-existent, and that if I force myself, I may have trouble dancing or even walking in the future. I don’t want that.”

“Don’t want that, either,” he says, his voice hushed. “God almighty, I didn’t realize it was so serious.”

Me neither. Not until the director talked to me and I read the medical report.

“Are you okay with my decision, then?”

“I’m one hundred percent behind you, baby girl.” His voice is warm over the phone, and I relax back on the couch. “You know that. Do whatever’s best for you. Just let me know.”

“Thank you, Daddy. Need to tell Mom, too.”

“That’ll be a bitch,” he says, and we both laugh, because it will be.

Le sigh… Not looking forward to that conversation.

***

Friday rolls around. I’ve enrolled in belly-dancing, classical ballet—of course—and Pilates. My first belly-dancing lesson was today, and it rocked. I love the freedom of it, the sensuousness.

My feet aren’t sore from pointe dancing anymore. The blisters are going away. It’s weird.

But not necessarily bad.

My day is full. After a few more classes, I head out to town. I called around the gyms to see if I could offer classes there, and a couple replied positively. I have a few interviews lined up.

I should be pleased with myself. Things are slowly falling into place.

It’s just that not everything is settled yet.

Seth isn’t the only person I’ve avoided thinking about this week. Fred is another. He did text me once to ask if I wanted to catch a movie with him and friends, and I declined, buried under a mountain of forms to fill out for the university.

But I need to see him. The way we parted last time was awkward, and after the kiss with Seth… I need to clarify things with Fred.

Was it wrong, what I did, asking him to kiss me? Are we together? He did ask me out—did I misunderstand him? He said I’m pretty, said he likes me—but he has never tried to kiss me or grope me or do any of the other things boyfriends are known to do.

Not that I want him to grope me.

Not sure what I want. It still bugs me, though, and it gets worse when I text him ask if we could talk, and he says he has his whole weekend booked with rehearsals and studying.

The whole weekend? Jeez. I stare at the text message, not sure how to react—how I’m supposed to react. As a friend, a buddy, I should send back a “no problem” and a smiley face.

Am I really his girlfriend? Sometimes I’m not sure. Is it supposed to be like this?

Biting my lip, I send off a “have fun” and put my cell down. Take stock of things. It’s Friday. Almost the weekend.

Fred may be studying, but I have time on my hands. I’m a college student. I’m supposed to go to parties and to bars and have fun.

No idea how to do that.

I shoot off a text to Cassie, asking for ideas, and she invites me to a street party downtown tonight.

This girl parties even when she’s down. Or maybe because she’s down? Either way, I say why the heck not?

I’ve worked hard this week to set my life back on track. I might as well party on this Friday night.

And not think of Fred. Or Seth. Or the death of my ballet dream.

Or Mom’s ballet dream. I don’t even know anymore. My heart isn’t as heavy as I thought it would be. I want to have some good fun, maybe meet new people. Literally let my hair down. Feels as if I’ve had it pulled back in this conservative bun for all my life.

Ballerina rules are going out the window. Time to learn to enjoy freedom. Loosen up. Learn new things.

The fact the street party isn’t far from Seth’s place has nothing to do with my decision to join in.

None at all.

Chapter Eleven

Seth

“So your mom was gone for two years, and now she’d back from the dead? What the fuck, man?”

Micah is pacing my tiny living room, waving his bottle of beer about. I sit back and watch him. It feels damn good having someone else speak the thoughts that have been spinning around in my head for this past week.

Fucking bad week that was. Without Manon. With job interviews falling through and calling job ads only to find out the positions had been filled. With potential roommates calling but never actually showing up, and my landlord calling every day to remind me I owe him money. With my little cash close to running out, and no solution I can think of.

Damn, I need a break.

“Yeah, my mom.” I swallow the rest of my lukewarm beer and slam the bottle on the low table. “And she wanted me to bail her out.”

“Jesus Christ.” Micah comes around the sofa and plants himself in the chair across from me. “She’s got some balls.”

“Yeah.” I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand, survey the line of bottles. “I think we need more beer.”

“Just… what exactly happened?” Micah is still nursing his beer. “When was the last time you saw her, man? Why did you think she was dead?”

Fuck. He’s going straight into dangerous territory.

“Long story,” I say, “and I’m kinda tired.”

“What, is that code for I’m-not-gonna-talk-about-this-so-fuck-off?”

“More or less.”

Micah laughs. He’s a good guy. The golden boy of Damage Control. Not because of the hair. It’s his heart. One hundred percent, twenty-four carat gold. He’s so kind he’s still beating himself up over not believing Jesse when the shit went down with Cassie at Asher’s wedding—over believing Jesse was cheating on his girl. For Micah, that’s serious.

“You can trust me,” he says, and I know I can.

For most things. Normal things.

Not this, though.

“I’m just unlucky,” I tell him, and hope he drops it.

“Buddy, getting struck by lightning is unlucky. Or by meteorite.”

“Meteorite? You’re making this shit up.”

“I’m not. My point is, whatever happened isn’t bad luck. Just life.”

“Well, life sucks.” And he has no clue what he’s talking about.

“There was also this guy who survived two atomic bombs. In Japan. Heard of him?”

“All right, shut up, okay? Shut up.”

He laughs again, drinks up the rest of his beer and lifts his hands in surrender. “I’ll leave you to your beauty sleep.” He gets up, shakes his head at the forest of bottles. “Man, can’t believe we drank so many.”

“Good thing you’re walking.”

“Yeah, Halo isn’t far. You should come.”

I don’t reply. Don’t wanna see the guys, talk and shit, though I know that, come Monday, I really have to go to the shop, pick up my training. Don’t want them asking questions, like Micah.

Rafe keeps asking how my knee got fucked up, Asher why I picked a fight with that guy the other night at the party, Zane wants to know what’s going on with Manon—which is exactly nothing, nada, zero—and the girls who have a sixth sense keep asking if I’m okay and if I’ve found a job.

I haven’t. Like I said, it’s not like I haven’t looked. I just can’t find one. I’ve tried everything, and got nothing. Yeah, they didn’t come out and say it, but even the freaking burger joints don’t want someone like me, and if I don’t find something… Shit, the thought of returning to the streets terrifies me.

“Bad luck,” Micah says, grabbing his jacket from the hook by the door, “afflicts people who believe in it.”

“And your point is?”

“Start believing you’re lucky, and you will be.”

“You serious? Want a fist in your face?”

“Kayla says that. Start believing you’re lucky. You should call her to cleanse your apartment or something. Read your fortune.”

“The only thing she’ll read will be the imprint of my fist on your stupid face.”

He’s still laughing as he lets himself out and closes the door.

But I’m not.

Fuck my life.

***

I’ve rolled myself into an old blanket on the sofa, half-dozing, the picture of my mom beside me. I thought I’d thrown it into the trash, but I found it straightened and flat on the table the other day.

Like a sign—though of what, I have no fucking clue. I can faintly see its shape in the half-dark. Ribbons of light from the street below cut through the slats in the window. I can hear distant music. A street party. Micah mentioned it. They were heading there after a few drinks at Halo.

I used to do that. Used to believe things would finally turn out all right. That I was free of the curse of my past.

What the fuck was I thinking? Now I’m avoiding the only family I’ve ever really had to escape the truth.

The truth, goddammit. A truth that will damn me in their eyes just like it does in the eyes of everyone who knows.

Shane has texted me a few times. He knows something’s up, ’cuz I’m avoiding him, too. We’ve always been tight as brothers. But he’s got his own demons to fight. Bigger, badder demons than mine. Can’t heap mine on top of them.

‘Sides. What can he do? Nothing, that’s what. Talking about the past will only serve to make his nightmares worse. No fucking way am I doing that to him. If push comes to shove, if Zane and Rafe find out about my record, I’ll leave.

Damn. A knot forms in my throat at the thought of leaving, and I pull the blanket over my head.

Chill, Seffers. Nothing happened. It’s just been a bad couple of weeks.

Months.

Years.

Fuck.

I drift, and it’s cold all the way to my fucking bones. I’m in my cell, the steps of the guard approaching. Dread curls in my stomach, burning acid. Can’t do this again. Can’t let it happen.

Can’t stop it.

But the guard’s steps falter. Their rhythm changes. They stop.

Another sound reaches my ears and I blink, taking in my dim living room, the table, the sofa I’m on.

Not the cell.

No danger.

Still my heart is racing a hundred miles an hour as I lower the blanket and sit up. Sounded like a knock.

There it comes again—a knock on the apartment door. Frowning, I throw my legs off the sofa and scratch at my jaw. Who can that be? Jesse, trying to drag me out for drinks? I wouldn’t put it past him, but fuck, I need a shave. And a shower. I’m only dressed in my sweats and a T-shirt.

I wait, but silence spreads. Did I imagine it?

Cursing to myself, I push myself upright and test my knee. It holds, so I limp to the door and open it.

The last person I expect to see tonight is standing right in front of me, her small fist raised to knock again:

Manon.

***

“May I come in?” she says, and I realize I’ve been staring at her like an idiot.

“Sure.”

She steps inside, her heels clicking on my bare floor. “Oh, I’m sorry.” She glances from the blanket on the sofa to me and back. “Did I wake you up?”

“Good thing you did,” I mutter, my brain still short-circuited from dozing, from the snatches of memory-dreams and her unexpected presence at my door.

“Are you all right?” She steps closer, her eyes concerned, and I step back, not sure I can take this show of caring when I know she doesn’t really mean it.

She kissed me back last time and then vanished for a week. Just like she vanished the time before. And I’m pretty sure I know where she’s been: her boyfriend’s arms. I wonder if this time they did it, if everything’s fine now between them.

I don’t wanna know.

“What brings you here?” I wander back into the room, leaving her to close the door, if she’s staying, go if she’s leaving. “Didn’t my lessons help? Want a refund?”

And there I go again, where I shouldn’t. The memory of kissing her burns through me like a wildfire.

“I was at this street party. It’s close by. Thought to ask if you’d like to come.”

“You did?” I try to rub the sleep from my eyes, clear my head. “Nah, I’ll pass. Thanks anyway.”

Her face falls. “You’re probably still tired from the concussion and all that. And that’s my fault. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I sure as hell am not.”

“You’re not? I almost killed you, and even though I didn’t, you got a good hit to the head.”

I sigh, because my mouth’s still not connected to my conscious brain. “Yeah, there’s that. But it was still nice meeting you.”

She snorts, and I smile. Hey, it’s the truth. She probably thinks I’m teasing. I’m not. She’ll never know how much I mean it.

“Wanna stay a while? Order some takeout or something?” I mentally count the money I’ve got left. Fuck, it’s not much.

Sudden panic grips me. The money’s running out—between food and bills, and damn what about the money I owe the landlord—and I still don’t have a goddamn job.

“Not sure,” she says, and I nod, turning away and rubbing a hand over my chest.

“It’s okay. Forget it.” I’m not gonna push her if she’s so uncomfortable and hey, it’s not like I’m good company anyway—torn between angsting about tomorrow and lusting after her. “Fuck.”

Can’t breathe. I grab the hem of the T-shirt and pull it over my head as I limp toward my bedroom. I throw it to the floor and sit down on the bed, trying to get some air back into my lungs.

What the fuck’s happening to me? Haven’t had this in a while.

“Seth?” I start when she enters my room. Didn’t hear her. She’s kicked off her shoes, and her feet whisper on the thin carpet as she approaches the bed. “Hey.”

She’s wearing a low-cut white blouse and a flared black-and-white skirt that leaves her pretty legs bare. I gaze at her, waiting for my lungs to start doing their thing again, allowing me to breathe.

“Something’s wrong,” she says, not asking, and comes to sit beside me. She places her hand over mine. Over my heart. “Tell me what it is.”

Shit. Can’t. I shake my head.

“Is it your mom? Did she call you?”

Goddammit, I forgot about her for a while there. I groan between my teeth.

Seconds tick by in silence.

“You were right, you know,” she says at last. At my uncomprehending look, she leans closer, putting her other arm around my back. “That everything would be okay. I made up my mind about my studies, and somehow I’m not as sad as I thought I’d be. In fact I feel… free.”

She’s looking up at me, her eyes bright, and the knot in my chest eases a little.

“That’s good,” I manage.

“I’ll transfer to the sports department, and later I hope to become a physical therapist. How does that sound?”

I smile. “Sounds awesome. Anything you decide to do would be awesome. You’ll do great.”

She smiles back. “You’re a really nice guy, Seth.”

Yeah. Only “nice” isn’t what I want to be with her. I want more. What I want is to kiss her, fuck her, brand her. Hold her. Make her mine.

What a clusterfuck.

“You should go back to the street party,” I say, trying to be gentle but sounding gruff and winded. “Celebrate.”

“Only if you go with me.”

I huff, press the heel of my palm into my chest. “Some other time.”

She lets go of me and gets up, leaving me cold. I think she’s about to say goodbye, but instead she says, “I’ll make you some tea, warm you up.”

“I don’t have any.”

“Oh.” She looks unsure for a second.

My breathing is easing, at long last, and I prop my hands behind me on the mattress and lean back. “Manon.”

She’s staring at my chest, I realize, her eyes lost in shadow. Chicks generally seem to dig my ink. But a ballet dancer, a rich girl like her, maybe not. Can’t remember if she seemed repulsed last time, too lost in tasting her mouth and touching her to notice.

Only one way to find out.

“Come here,” I say, and she wavers briefly before giving in and coming back to me. I take her hand and press it to my chest, skin to inked skin.

Her pupils flare, black swallowing green. Her lips part and she draws a shallow breath.

Well, well. She may not want to go out with me, but her body wants me. That much is clear.

“Your boyfriend still hasn’t fucked you?” I ask under my breath, rude of purpose. Pushing her. Searching for a reaction, a glimpse of the truth. “Still hasn’t kissed you?”

She jerks, but doesn’t pull her hand away. The crimson blush rising over her neck and face tells me all I need to know.

That bastard.

But I’m so glad I could whoop for joy. Stupid, I know. He’s the one she wants, and that’s all that matters, but he still hasn’t claimed her.

“Are you two really together? Is he really your boyfriend?”

She shrugs. “He asked me out. But not officially, no.”

I turn my face to the side to hide my smirk.

Don’t, Seffers. Just fucking don’t.

“So you’re back for more lessons?”

Yeah, don’t listen. Suit yourself. Dive headfirst into this shit and see if you can swim before you hit the bottom.

“Lessons,” she whispers, and the satiny sound goes straight to my already hardening cock.

“Yeah, that’s right. In fact, I think it’s test time. See if you learned what I taught you.”

She’ll flake. She’ll run. I just know it. Maybe that’s why I’m pushing her. To make her go and not come back. Save us both.

White teeth sink into that soft lower lip, and I swallow a whimper. Fuck, I’m so hard it hurts.

Then she lifts her skirt and straddles my legs, looping her arms around my neck, and she’s kissing me.

I’m sinking. The feel of her weight in my lap, her arms pulling me to her, her legs braced at my sides, her pussy pressed to my hard-on—her soft, hot lips on mine. I’m gone. I grab her waist, deepen the kiss, and to hell with it. She gasps, and I fuck her mouth with my tongue, my cock giving desperate little jerks inside my sweats, trying to drive through two layers of cloth to get to her.

Oh fuck. Heaven.

She breaks away all too soon, and it takes all my willpower not to throw her down on the bed and bury myself in her so deep, deeper than anyone before.

“Good enough?” she pants, and it takes me a few heartbeats to understand her question.

“Could use some more practice.” I lick my lips, tasting her, and it only makes me want her more. “And there’s more I could show you.”

She gets up, moves back. “Is there?”

“Yeah. Lots.” Can’t help how husky my voice is. My cock is trapped at an awkward angle in my briefs, and I reach inside to straighten it. I sigh in relief once it’s done, and when I glance back up, I find her gaze on my crotch.

“You’re…” She waves a hand at me, turns her gaze away. “Excited.”

I blink.

“Shit, yeah, I’m excited. A pretty girl kissing me, sitting on my lap… How couldn’t I be?”

“So it’s automatic? Any girl kissing you and sitting on your lap would produce…” That wave of the hand again. “These results.”

Results. Holy shit, she’s something.

Okay, it’s not exactly a question, but I reply anyway. “Not any girl. As a matter of fact, I don’t kiss girls I don’t find pretty. And I haven’t seen any as pretty as you.”

A beat of silence greets my words.

“You’re kidding me,” she whispers.

“I’m not.”

See, I can’t lie to her. And the whole problem with this potentially sticky situation—sticky in every way—is that she’s playing a game, and I’m dead serious.

“I want to know more,” she whispers.

“Then I’ll show you.”

She wants to test the waters with me. Run some tests with me. Fool around. I’ll take it. If that’s all I can have with her, I’ll damn well take it and shut up.

Because it’s something, and I have nothing. I want her, and I’ll take whatever she gives me. I’ll be fine. It’s just lust. It will blow over. In fact, this is perfect. I’ll get exactly what I want.

Except I want more, and for the first time ever, I can’t just roll over and let life kick me in the nuts.

And I know it’s not her who’s about to get hurt.

It’s little old me.

***

“Come, sit here.” I pat the mattress beside me. “Get comfortable.”

She holds back. “We can’t have sex.”

Because she wants this asshole, Fred, to be the one. Fuck him. “Got it. No sex. Just gonna show you a few things.”

She sits down, then lifts her feet up and curls her legs under her. Like a cat. Like a dancer.

So sexy. And the things I wanna do to her… Shit. Gotta restrain myself.

Her gaze keeps returning to the bulge in my pants, and my cock twitches in response.

“Wanna touch?” I ask, my voice hoarse. “Feel how hard it is?”

Feel how much I want you?

Her tits heave, her nipples taut, poking through the soft cloth of her blouse. Jesus, this girl. Does she even know how hot she is?

“Over the clothes?” she asks.

“As you like.” I guide her hand between my legs, spread them more to give her better access and place it over my hard-on.

She shudders. I stifle a groan. She’s leaning forward, staring down at her hand, her dainty little hand splayed over my big cock. The way she’s pushing down, through the thin material of the sweats, the shape of my balls and dick is perfectly outlined.

Letting out a slow breath, I lean back. Breathe in, breathe out. Don’t come. Don’t fucking come.

Don’t scare her away.

“Does it feel good?” Her voice is low and trembly. I can’t look away from her tits to see her expression. “Like this?”

“It’d feel much better if we were naked,” I grumble.

She pulls her hand back. “Seth…”

I close my eyes tightly at the loss of her touch. “So now you know what it feels to touch a guy’s erection.”

She shifts on the mattress. I peek under my lashes at her. She’s not running away yet. She seems, in fact, sort of pleased with what she’s done.

Damn.

“So, there’s a lot of things you and your boyfriend can do without actual fucking.” I clear my throat, my voice inexplicably thick. “Without intercourse.”

“I understood what you meant.” A faint smile tugs at her mouth, and I drink in the sight, dazed.

“Right. Touching is a big part of it.”

“You sound like you have lots of experience.”

I shrug. Not really. “It’s not the amount of experience that counts. It’s the quality.”

She nods. “Okay. So now what?”

“Do you ever touch yourself?”

She flinches. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“And if I do?”

Fuck. Me. “Show me.”

“Why should I?”

“Because it’s hot, and then I’ll show you what a guy wants to see.”

I see understanding flash in her eyes. Also nervousness, fear, and shame.

Uh-uh, none of that. “You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen,” I tell her, putting the truth in my voice, hoping she’ll hear it. “You got nothing to be ashamed of. Every part of you is beautiful. Touching yourself, giving yourself pleasure is goddamn beautiful. Remember that.”

She slips her hand between her legs, and my mouth goes dry. Would she do this for any guy? Or is it only for me?

Stop thinking, Seffers, and pay attention.

To her bent legs, parting on my bed, her hand sliding down between them to rest over her silky black panties, on the mound of her pussy. Her fingers twitch, then they pull back and slip under the thin black cloth, disappearing.

A moan leaves her lips, and I can’t take my eyes off her hand, the small, circling movement barely visible under her panties as she teases her clit.

Fucking hell. She’s really doing it, pleasuring herself in front of me. My dick throbs madly, hardening more, trying to push out of my pants. I shift, trying to find a comfortable position. Heat radiates up my chest. My heart is racing, the beat pulsing in every goddamn part of my body.

“That’s it,” I whisper when her movements change. “Lower. Use your fingers. Push them inside you.”

She whimpers and I know she’s doing it. Her hips lift and fall, lift and fall, her hand sliding up and down, faster, harder.

Hot damn. I thought I could handle this, but now I’m not sure. The need to come is fucking with my head, and I find my hand drifting down to my dick to relieve the pressure.

“Spread your legs more,” I whisper and almost come when she obeys. “Yeah, that’s it. Lean back more. Show me what you’re doing. Let me hear how much you like it.”

She moans, her hand pumping, and I cup my hard-on, almost weeping with need. She’s close, I can tell from her movements and the sounds escaping her, and it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

“Imagine it’s my hand,” I say, not even sure what I’m telling her anymore. “My hand stroking you, fucking your pussy. My fingers sliding deep inside of you, making you come. Damn, Manon…”

I grimace, the pressure behind my balls and in my cock painful, but I manage not to move, not to grab my dick and jack off until I see stars. My focus is on her, the girl who erased all others from my mind—and I haven’t even seen her naked.

Jesus Christ.

“Let it go.” Please. “Come for me.”

“Seth!” she breathes and lets out a small wail as she comes, hips jerking, then stills, her hand relaxing, withdrawing from her panties to rest on her lower belly. She drops back on the bed, panting, her dark curls framing her heart-shaped face.

I’m in love with her. Fucking in love with her, body and soul.

Fuck. Guess there’s no turning back for me now.

***

Enough of this. Enough torture. I wait just enough for her to come around, and I push to my feet.

“Gonna hit the shower.”

“Seth…”

I gulp, keep my back to her. “Yeah?”

My dick is touch and go. I’ll rub a quick one off under the spray, and she won’t even know how much she affects me.

That’s the plan.

“Won’t you show me?”

“Show you what?” I turn around slowly. What the fuck am I missing?

“Yourself.”

Myself. I glance down at the tent in my pants. “You really wanna see?”

Her eyes sparkle. Embarrassed, shy, horny. She’s breathtaking.

“I want you to show me,” she says softly. “How a man likes to be touched.”

Oh hell. She’ll be the death of me, I just know it, but I’m the only one to blame for this particular mess.

I return to the bed, sit back down, run a hand over my mouth. “You sure about this, girl?”

“Can I see it?”

“My dick?”

She nods and I almost come on the spot.

Fuck, I’m so hard I’m damn uncomfortable. I press down on my hard-on, trying to ease some of the pressure.

Then her hands are there, tugging on the waistband of my sweats. Fucking Jesus. I let her have her way, lifting my hips so she can pull the pants down.

Which leaves me in my boxer briefs with a monstrous tent in the front and her face dangerously close to it.

She puts her hand over my hard-on like before and I hiss. The muscles in my stomach contract and my dick twitches.

“It’s wet,” she whispers. “Why?”

Fuck yeah, I’m leaking like a faucet, drenching my briefs. “Because it feels good.”

Something passes over her face, a subtle shift, and she lifts both hands to the top of my briefs. She tugs them down.

Oh man. Things are moving fast. The thin cotton catches on my cock, making me moan, and then it’s off.

My dick springs free, slapping my stomach wetly, wringing another moan from my chest.

Shit. Oh God.

And then her hand closes around the base and my hips arch up.

“Fuck!”

“Feels good?” she asks.

Is she serious? “Fuck, yeah.”

“How do you do it? How do men do it?”

I put my hand over hers. “Just… move. Squeeze.”

The words catch in my throat when she does just that. Fuuuuck. I can’t help it, I rock my hips, pushing my dick into her grip.

“Like this?”

I don’t have breath to reply. Can’t remember why we’re doing this, but thank fuck we are.

Almost there. Everything in my body clenches tight, the pressure bending me in two.

“Should I stop?”

Yes. No. Can’t stop.

Gritting my teeth, I move her hand on my cock, up, down, guide it to the small slit on the crown. It’s completely wet, and her touch there makes me shiver. This is so good. I rub it up and down, making the hold more slippery, and…

Fuck. I start to come. Not sure we were supposed to go this far, but I can’t stop it. Pleasure is ripping through me, crashing into me like a freight train gone off the tracks. I cry out her name as I fall back, coming and coming, spraying my chest with sticky ropes of cum.

Shit. What have I done?