“Well if you had … shut up.” I hate being wrong, so I wack him again then slump onto the bed. Like Troye’s new living arrangements, it’s super uncomfortable. The Bear’s newest recruit who wears the hell out of that jersey, doesn’t seem to mind it though. Through hooded eyes, he takes in every inch of my body and scoots down the wall, shimmying closer till his hands can follow the same path. Eye to eye, his fingers disappear beneath my skirt and trail up, pausing at the apex of my thighs. It’s maddening, how much I want him.
“I dunno, Kitty Kat. I can think of several benefits to this situation. For one, it might make the birthday gift I’m dreaming up for you much easier to deliver.”
“You got me a gift?”
“The idea of one, yes.” With that, he cups my face with his left hand, while his middle and index fingers slip beneath my panties. “Would you like me to tell you about it? It’s a very dirty idea for a very dirty, very naughty girl. It involves you, me and …”
If a name is spoken, I miss it. So raw and filthy is the gasp I release as two thick fingers push inside me, curling just right to have my back arching off the bed. “One underneath. One on top. Is that how you’d like us, Kitty? Both inside your pussy like my fingers are now, or one sliding in and out of that other special, forbidden little spot?”
I know it’s just a fantasy. That he’s playing me again. But honestly, lay me down and spread me open, that image alone could have me dying a happy, satisfied woman.
I’m so lost to desire and those talented fingers all I can do is nod and moan, and grind and moan … perhaps a little loudly if the three bangs that rattle the wall behind us are any indication. “For the love of God, I can hear everything,” Brady’s whine has me freezing, but Troye? Troye is inspired.
“Let’s give him a show, hey Quinny.” That lean, muscular body slides down mine, and within one depraved gasp, my skirt is hitched around my hips, panties pushed to the side and Troye’s face is buried between my legs, tongue replacing fingers.
“Oh, fuck,” I cry, weaving my hands through apple-scented chocolate locks and tugging. That draws a groan from Troye, and another pound on the wall.
Laughing, Troye moves his head to the left, placing a series of kisses to my wet thigh. “He can hear everything we’re doing. Do you want me to stop?”
“No.”
“No? You like it?”
“Yes.” My pussy clenches around nothing, and I need that to change. Now. “Fuck me, please, I need you inside me.”
Dark and disturbed is the laugh Troye releases as his lips return to their ministrations, lavishing long wet strokes to my clit, then dipping lower to fuck me with his tongue and I know he’s not going to give me what I want.
Edging me till I beg for relief is his kink.
An audience is just spurring him on.
His nails dig into the flesh of my thighs as he holds me down. Spreads me open, and devours. Writhing beneath him, I still have one hand in his hair, the other twisted in the sheets that cling to my sweat drenched body that’s so close to the edge I can taste it.
Troye must too as he again kisses a path away from where I need him most to lick beads of moisture from my belly. That’s when we hear it. Barely audible over my pathetic panting is a breathy and soft, “Quinn. Quinn.”
I’ve heard Brady call my name a thousand times, but it’s always in my dreams.
Reality is so much sweeter.
There’s a sacred hockey saying inspired by weird-ass net minders envious of teammates’ hotel room sexcapades, ‘hell hath no fury like a goalie with an ear pressed against a roommate’s wall.’
Seems apt. Though fury’s probably not the right word in my case.
What’s a synonym for sad, and horny as fuck? Pathetic? Hell knows no patheticness like a goalie with an ear pressed against a bedroom wall. Yeah, that’s it.
When the noises started I was on the couch, elbow deep into a bag of kale chips, wishing they were real chips, and wallowing in pity. Dropping the bag was an accidental reaction to the first moan. As was sliding off the couch and tiptoeing to my room. Same with how I fell sideways on my bed, ear conveniently coming to rest against the plasterboard. And I definitely didn’t mean to stay, listening to whimpers turn to sighs, to moans of yes, to pleas for more.
On occasions, my older brothers and I had read the juicy bits of their girlfriend’s romance novels, but I legit had no clue that non-fictional guys, vocal guys like Troye with really, really, really dirty mouths existed. Nor did I know living breathing girls liked that type of thing. Quinn doesn’t seem to like it. She loves it.
Can’t say I blame her.
Willing the lure of it all to go away, I squeeze my eyes so tightly it’s painful, but all I see are flashbacks to the x-rated daydream I had on the couch at Noah’s place,“Kiss me Brady. Kiss us.”
Fuck. This … this … whatever it is has to stop. I have a hard-on I could use to dig my way home via the center of the earth, and I’m pretty sure both touching, and not touching it, might just kill me.
The only option is deflation. Can’t seem to move though.
Eyes still fused shut, I pound my fist into the wall, “For the love of God, I can hear everything.”
