by Sara Ney
Which isn’t the point. The point is, he thinks I’m a buttoned-up, uptight goody two-shoes.
AKA boring.
AKA a prig.
AKA prissy.
AKA I have to stop mentally saying AKA.
My chin goes up haughtily, and I defensively cup my boobs in my hands. “Fine. Maybe I’m not the type to give a tease worthy of a gentlemen’s club, but I would do one for the right person.”
“Incidentally, if you did do one…” He yawns, reaching forward to spoon some chicken and cashews onto his big, round, white plate. “Who would you give a lap dance to?”
I glance around the living room, at its bare walls and stark, modern furniture. It’s a bit cold and sterile, lacking personality and warmth. But as far as backdrops go, it would work.
“You.”
“Bullshit.” He laughs, licking sauce off his thumb. “And I wouldn’t expect you to.”
“Maybe I want to.” Shut up, Abbott—since when have you ever wanted to do a striptease in a man’s living room? Since never, that’s when.
Jealousy rears its ugly head—not jealousy of another woman or of sexier women, but jealousy for women with balls bigger than mine. Big enough to get on a stage with one single objective: make a man go wild by showing off her body. By flaunting what the good Lord gave her. Maybe by sticking her boobs in a man’s face? That seems like a good place to start…
“No you don’t.”
He can’t tell me what to do! “Yes, I do.”
Brooks laughs a strangled laugh, almost choking since his mouth is filled with food. Disgusting. “Sure, sure.”
He’s no longer looking at me, his attention on dinner and the television, which he powered on shortly after plopping himself down beside me, remarking how great it felt not to worry about the attack cat.
Earlier tonight I joked about giving him a kitten as a Christmas gift, to which he replied, “Don’t you fucking dare.”
I remove the napkin on my lap, dabbing at the invisible mess in the corner of my mouth before excusing myself to use the bathroom.
Brooks barely spares me a glance, cramming chicken into his gullet as if he hasn’t had a meal in weeks.
Gross. I hope he cleans that up by the time I get back.
It takes me no time at all to do my business, wash my hands, and—what’s this now?
The blue velvet jacket is hanging in the laundry room, catching my eye as I walk past, hands still damp from the sink. I wipe the moisture off on my leggings, detouring into Brooks’ mini laundry center.
I finger the fabric of his smoking jacket; it’s cool under my touch, but soft. Rich. Quite exquisite, actually. I briefly wonder where it came from, reaching up to remove it from its velvet hanger, and hold it out, arms outstretched in front of me.
The tiny room is chilly, but I remove my leggings first, shivering as I pull my shirt up over my torso. Then my underwear. Stand in the center to unclasp my bra and what hell are you about to do, Abbott Margolis?
This isn’t you! You are not the girl who gives lap dances or stripteases. Put your clothes back on before you make a decision you’ll regret.
But I can’t silence the other voice, the one telling me to take a chance—the one telling me to step out of my comfort zone and have fun, fun, fun for a change.
Therefore…
I kick the pile of clothes aside and slide into Brooks’ gorgeous blue jacket.
It hangs on me, hitting just below the hips, loose. The material lining the inside is silky smooth, gliding over my skin luxuriously.
I wish I had a mirror so I could see myself, and I imagine the look of shock he’s going to have on his face when he sees me in this.
I shiver again. This time, it’s not from the cold.
21
Abbott
It takes Brooks a few seconds to notice me standing at the entry to the living room, framed by the doorway, not wearing any pants. Takes him so long to notice I actually have to clear my throat to get his attention off the television, and when he moves his neck to glance in my direction, it’s in slow motion.
Takes another silent moment for him to notice I’ve donned the smoking jacket. My lack of pants.
His reaction is delayed. Stunned. “Wh…at a-are you doing in that jacket? T-Take it off!” he damn near shouts, panic in his eyes. Legitimate panic.
Lord, what on earth is his problem?
Why on earth would he be panicked that I’m wearing this dumb jacket? It’s outerwear, for crying out loud, not the precious tears of a unicorn or a diamond he must protect with his life.
He needs to relaxi-taxi. “You need to calm down.”
“You need to take that off.”
If he notices my hands trembling, he’s polite enough not to mention it. “That is part of the plan.”
“Take it off.”
Duh, I’m getting to that part and he’s ruining it.
“You want the jacket off? Fine. I’ll take the jacket off.” I slide it down my arms, shrugging it off, enjoying the feel of the rich velvet on my bare skin and the dazed countenance flashing across his eyes.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Wait. Abbott…” Brooks’ voice is hoarse. “Where are your clothes?”
Why is he asking where my clothes are? What does it matter? He either cares that I’m naked and wants to see my bare skin, or he doesn’t. I’m naked over here and all he seems to care about is this dumb coat?
“My clothes are on the laundry room floor.”
This conversation is humiliating. Brooks was right; I’m not the type of girl who can pull off a lap dance—I can’t even get the approach nailed down, standing in front of him now like a defeated puppy dog.
Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. Maybe I should get dressed. Maybe I shouldn’t give him a lap dance. It seemed like a good idea at the time, moments ago when I spotted the coat hanging above his washing machine, taunting me.
Daring me to take a chance.
In my defense, Brooks never said I couldn’t try it on. Then again, he didn’t exactly give me permission, either.
Too late now.
The luxurious fabric lies in a heap at my bare feet and I am wearing my birthday suit. “Do you want me to cover up?” He’s already seen my pussy—had his mouth on it—so what’s a fantastic pair of breasts thrown into the mix to get the guy twisted up?
My boobs are quite fantastic.
I stick my chest out, posturing, letting him look his fill. “If you want me to cover all this up, say ‘Abbott, go get dressed. I do not want to see you naked.’”
His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat, head gives a jerky nod I can’t translate.
I cup a hand around my ear. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.” I step closer, one foot after the other, creeping slowly like a tigress stalking her prey—Desdemona would be proud. “If you’re disgusted by the sight of these”—I cup my breasts—“I want you to say it.”
Brooks gulps.
I reach him on the couch, nudging his legs apart. As I step between them, his hands automatically reach around my hips and grip my ass, sliding up and down the backs of my hamstrings. Forehead pressing against my belly, he runs his lips across my abs.
“I don’t want to pressure you,” I tell him, heart beating wildly. This isn’t like me at all, but sometimes, you go for broke. Perhaps my goal is to call his bluff; maybe once he’s slept with me, he’ll realize he can’t live without me. Maybe once he’s slept with me, he’ll lie in bed thinking about me, too.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
My fingers slide through his hair, and I’m able to bend down and kiss the top of his head as he kisses my stomach.
“You, pressuring me?” He punctuates the statement with a low laugh. “Babe, there is no such thing as you pressuring me. I don’t do anything I don’t want to do.”
His body is big and warm and wrapped around my naked flesh, more calming than sensual.
Ready or not, here we are…
His breathing is labored, like it
was when he got out of the elevator tonight. Like it was the day he walked out of the stairwell. Like he sounds after he’s been out for a run. In and out, breathing hard, breath hitting my belly as his hands stroke my spine.
Fingers pressing into my flesh, wanting but controlled. Big, strong hands, fingers calloused from utilizing technical pencils at work. Working hands. Skilled hands that create buildings and communities and jobs.
Smart men turn me on.
Clever, sarcastic men turn me on.
Sweet, considerate Brooks is turning me on…
In one motion, he’s standing, sweeping me up, hoisting me by the hips, hauling me over his shoulder and starting toward the bedroom.
I gasp, startled. “Brooks, what are you doing?”
“Taking you to the bedroom.”
“But I didn’t get to do my striptease or my lap dance.”
“Sorry, babe, but you suck at sexy seduction.”
Babe, babe, babe.
This is the second time he’s called me babe, and I blush, basking in it.
“I just need practice,” I tell him, just as he unceremoniously dumps me in the center of his bed. I fall in a heap onto a dark down comforter.
“You don’t need practice, you need to stick to being sweet and sassy—you don’t have to get naked to turn me on.”
He’s pulling at the hem of his hooded sweatshirt, yanking it up over his head and tossing it to the ground. His chest is broad and smooth, sculpted from hours of working out at the gym with his buddies.
I lean back on the mattress, admiring his pecs and wide shoulders—two of my favorite male body parts besides the pleasure trail leading down to the dick.
“You think having sex is a good idea?” I raise a brow, making room for him on the bed as he strips out of his low-slung pants.
“No, I think it’s a horrible idea.” Naked Brooks is a sight, lean and fit but not perfect. A surgery scar cuts across his abdomen, marring his skin. “If you want me to go down on you, I will—we don’t have to have sex.”
“Yeah, that’s not happening.” I laugh. “We’re having sex.”
“You’re the boss.” Brooks is crawling up my body, trailing kisses over my calves. My knee. The tender skin of my inner thigh, making me shiver. “Cold?”
Yes. “Warm me up.”
With two hands, he spreads my legs, elbowing them apart. Settles himself in, blowing puffs of air at the apex before planting a kiss on my pussy. Thumbs the folds apart before licking, tongue tentative.
I prop myself up on my elbows, no intention of missing the show.
There’s something about seeing a man’s head between your legs that’s as seductive as the act itself. An aphrodisiac. Sexy.
Erotic.
Brooks licks. Sucks. Runs the scruff from his unshaved beard stubble against my clit until I throw my head back, letting my body relax against the pillows.
I spread my legs wider, propping a foot on his shoulder, ass lifting off the mattress.
Squirm.
Moan.
“F…fuck me.” I want him inside me.
He sucks harder, ignoring me.
“Brooks.” I run my fingers through his dark hair, tugging. “I need you inside me.” Pause. “Please.”
I’m nothing if not polite; that’s the way I was raised.
Sucks and sucks and sucks some more until I whimper. The sound of my groan has his head pulling back, and I see him lick his lips. He bends again, this time kissing my pelvis with a soaking-wet mouth.
“You taste so good.” He kisses my belly. Sternum. “I could live down there.”
And I’d let him, forever and ever, amen.
“Slide in slow,” I demand when he’s braced above me, one arm on each side of my head. It’s going to be easy for him to penetrate me; I’m soaked. Giddy and excited.
“I don’t know if I’ll last ninety seconds,” he jokes, voice hoarse when the tip of his cock brushes against my pussy. I reach up and run my palms down his arms, clasping his firm forearms.
They’re quivering, slightly unsteady.
I can’t see his eyes; he has them squeezed shut, brows furrowed into a deep line of concentration. He looks serious and stern—not the cavalier Brooks I’m used to.
And then…
…he slips in.
Slowly, a little bit at a time, killing us both.
We moan in tandem, tortured. His dick is gloriously snug as it stretches me; I feel full.
“Jesus. Christ.” He’s panting now, pausing for a break. “I’m never going to last—you’re so fucking tight.”
“Are you going to start dripping sweat all over me?”
Brooks laughs, head bowing so I can kiss his forehead.
“Fuck, Abbott,” he curses again. “I’ve fucking dreamt about this.”
He has? When?
I don’t ask, can’t get the words out, suffocated by the sensation of his body against mine. By my breasts brushing against his chest, our pelvises connecting, his thrusting in and out.
I want to remember this moment forever. Not sure if I’ll have it with him again.
When I imagined myself having sex with Brooks, it was fast and hot and heated, not the slow and methodical reality—the kind of sex you have when you’re not just having sex. It’s the kind of sex you have when you’re making love.
He’s watching my face as he moves in and out. He’s kissing my lips. Kissing the sensitive skin in the corner of my eye.
Burying his nose in my neck as if memorizing the way I smell. Stroking my hip with his palm as he strokes me on the inside. Saying my name, repeating it like a prayer.
“Abbott…Jesus, Abbott…” Low and gravelly. Hoarse.
My hands caress his back while he moves above me, grazing his skin, and I marvel at how smooth and soft it is. If I could touch him like this all night, I would.
My eyes trail down the length of his torso, the sight of our bodies connected fueling me on. I flex my Kegels. Flex my ass. Run my hands down his backside and squeeze his rear-end, pulling him up and in so he’s deeper.
His body is beautiful. The perfect balance between fit and normal, Brooks is no superhero. He’s not too hard and not too soft.
I come before he does, moaning out his name when the quivers rack my ovaries, lifting my head so I can kiss the center of his chest. Turning my head so I can press my mouth against his bicep as I whimper.
I’m not a screamer. Not a loud moaner. Not the theatrical type of girl in bed. I’m silent, with just enough noise to let the person I’m with know I’m climaxing so he knows he can come, too.
“I’m gonna come too, baby.” He pumps in and pushes, circling his pelvis round and round, and I grip his ass tighter.
“Yes, come,” I tell him, giving him the permission he needs.
“Where do you want it?” he asks frantically. “Where do you want me to come?”
Uh. Well, ideally? Inside me.
But we didn’t put on a condom, just started having sex without the conversation—which I just now realized.
“On my stomach,” I reply, speaking as if I’m asking him to pass me the salt at the supper table.
Brooks’ groan is primal, his face contorted. In fact, I would never recognize him if he were making this face on the street—his sex face looks nothing like him at all, and I stifle a giggle, watching his orgasm build.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he grunts, hips pumping. Pumping and pumping, hands gripping the headboard as he thrusts once. Twice. Three more times.
When he pulls out to spill on my abs, I’m empty inside, literally and figuratively. Wet, sticky cum coats my skin.
He flops down beside me.
Lies with his arm over his brow, breathing hard and staring up at the ceiling while I do the same.
I just had sex with Brooks Bennett and I will never be the same.
22
Brooks
“I think we would make a great couple.” Abbott rolls over on the bed, yawning and
pressing her face into my pillow, laughing.
“You know I don’t date.” I feel like the biggest asshole pointing that fact out post-coitus, while we’re still naked in my bed.
She rolls over to face me, tucking a hand under her chin, watching me with those big, blue doe eyes. They’re now a bit sad. “I know. I was just saying—I wasn’t saying I wanted to date you. I said we’d make a great couple. It was a simple observation.”
“Well I couldn’t even if I wanted to.”
“That’s a weird way of putting it. You can’t, or you won’t?”
There is no way for me to explain without sounding like a complete fucker. “Can’t. Both.”
“Won’t? You liar—you’d love dating me. I’m awesome.” She yawns again, tired and sleepy but not allowed to spend the night, though I haven’t actually said that yet. “Why do you keep saying you can’t date? It makes no sense. Are you the beneficiary to some fortune and the will stipulates you must remain single until your thirtieth birthday?” Abbott jokes, doing her best to make light of an awkward situation.
Her, in my bed as I try talking her out of it.
“I just can’t date anyone right now.”
“Why? There has to be a reason.”
There is, but it’s an embarrassing one, one that would get me in serious trouble with her and change the way she looks at me forever. And while I can’t date her now, I don’t want to risk our friendship by destroying that, too.
So I shrug. Feed her the smallest crumb of information. “I have this thing with my friends. If I started seeing someone, I would lose out on a few…opportunities.”
“What opportunities? A job? A promotion?”
“Not like that.” She has it all wrong, but I can’t tell her about the Bastard Bachelor Society. The guys and I swore we wouldn’t discuss it with women.
Abbott studies me, eyes raking over my face. “Like how, then? Just tell me—it’s not a big deal. I won’t judge you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“It’s going to sound stupid.”
Abbott studies the hem of my cotton sheets, rubbing the fabric between her thumb and forefinger. “I’m sure it will. Half the shit you do is stupid.”
