“I’m not smiling. I’m preparing.”
“To die a death more painful than a thousand if you hurt me?” I question through quirked brows.
Excited quivers shimmy down my spine when he arches over my back to whisper in my ear, “I’m not going to hurt you, Willow.” His voice is so fucking sexy. “I’m just gonna Hulk-smash your ass.”
Not anymore, it ain’t.
I crawl across the sheets on my hands and knees, my endeavor to get away only halting when Elvis chuckles, “I’m joking. I’ve heard this angle makes Hulk Junior a little easier to take.”
It’s not just his words bringing me back. It’s the image of him rolling a condom down his cock. My god, there is nothing sexier than a thick, hot, virile hunk of a man prepping to get down and dirty. I can hear Christina Aguilera’s “Dirty” song in my ear right now. It brings out my naughty side, my filthy side, myI’m so goddamn horny, I’ll take his dick like I was born to ride itside.
I’ve been wanting to get frisky with Elvis since his Tarzan-ass walked into my life, so why the hell am I cowering away like a baby who can’t handle a big chunk of man meat? I eat my steak practically raw; you can’t get more prepared for battle than that.
Although I’m ready, willing, and able—finally—I can’t help but ask, “What do you do during a drought?” When Elvis looks at me, confused, I give him a flirty wink. “There’s no need to stock raincoats in a drought, so do you buy condoms in bulk during the wet season, or do you just rinse them out once you’re done and hang them outside to dry?”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Presley
If you ever told me you had more gut cramps from laughing during sex than sexual exertion, I would have told you you weren’t doing it right. Now I’m being forced to eat my words.
Willow.
Willow.
Willow.
What can I say about Willow? Divine body, gorgeous face, and a pussy that drizzles like honey on hot toast when she comes. Fuck me, she’s damn near perfect. . . once I get her mouth occupied with something other than rambling.
I was right about her lips, soft as a cloud but as greedy as a woman about to be locked in a nunnery. She took my dick like a real pro, her eyes only bulging when I got a little eager with my pumps. I couldn’t help it. Her eyes darken when she’s horny, and her sweet scent intensifies. Add those two factors to the image of her naked body plastered on the mattress as I fed my cock in and out of her mouth. . . sweet lord, that’s what dreams are made from.
I will never take anything unwillingly given—the last thing I need is a sexual harassment claim—so I had no choice but to tease Willow to the point of begging before consummating our union in one of the many ways I’ve dreamed about the past six weeks.
I’m hard now just thinking about the way her lips parted when I notched in the first four inches of my cock. Her pussy sucked at me ravenously, her desire to be claimed overtaking the worry her eyes held when they first landed on my cock. Even with only an hour of sleep, I’m not eager for more—sleep that is. Who needs sleep when you’ve got a woman like Willow warming your sheets?
Well, she was warming my sheets. Now my hands are coming up empty.
While scrubbing the sleep from my eyes, I rise to a half-seated position. Unlike the morning she tried to sneak out, her clothes are still spread across the floor, and her shoes are tucked nicely under my drawers. The purse we dumped halfway across the room remains where it fell. Even with all the evidence stacking up in my favor, I didn’t need it to know she is here. I can sense her closeness in my gut. It’s that same tight tension I feel in the seconds leading to me running onto the field, the one a mere nanosecond from my breaking out of the walkway and the crowd spotting me. It’s excitement and anticipation with a dash of fear.
That’s what I feel every time I think about Willow.
After tugging on a pair of sleeping pants, I make my way down the stairwell. My muscles are feeling the aftermath of a night of exhausting activities, but my steps are silent. It’s a trick my physical therapist taught me. By lightening the load on my ankles, I lighten the load on my spine.
With the faint hum of a tune coming out of the living room, I head that direction first instead of toward the kitchen, which has a light on. I recognize the music Willow’s iPhone is playing. Not because I’m a fan, but because Danny forced me to watch all three movies in a movie marathon only last week. This song was featured in the last movie we watched. It was actually my favorite out of all three—not that I’ll ever tell Danny that.
I spot Willow when I enter my dining room. She standing next to an antique table covered with photos of my family and friends. Her hair is a mess from how tightly I gripped it while fucking, and the stage makeup she had on has all but vanished. She’s wearing the shirt I discarded earlier, and from the lack of panty line, I can assume it is the only article of clothing she is wearing.
The more Julie Michael’s “Heaven” flows out of the speaker of her phone, the more her hips sway. I watch her from afar, mesmerized by how she can make such a simple movement look so sultry. She’s barely moving, yet she has me feeling like I’m watching a performance worthy of the biggest audience.
When the song reaches the chorus about bad boys bringing heaven to you, she glides across the wooden floor of my living room. Her toes peak and her shoulders roll when she gets lost in the music. The generous gap between my couches and dining table gives her the perfect stage to perform on, and I’m more than eager to have a front row seat.
When her sexy one-legged twirl leads to her spotting my stalker watch, I assume she’ll stop dancing. She does no such thing. My sleeping pants can’t hide my enjoyment of her show, much less the smile on my face. She floats toward me, her dance moves a cross between ballet and the modern dance Danny is fascinated with.
Just before she reaches me, she pulls out a chair from beneath the dining table. She even does that sexily, but it’s nothing compared to how she uses it to enhance her performance. She prances around it, her arms and legs weightless and free as she tumbles over it, under it, and around it. I’m reasonably sure this isn’t the type of dance she teaches the kids in her class, or last night’s performance would have had a lot of angry parents. This dance is especially for me, a one-of-a-kind show that doubles my fascination of her—like it could get any bigger.
I groan and adjust myself when she lifts her leg well above her head. I learned firsthand how flexible she is only an hour ago, but my fucking God, seeing it outside the bedroom is as fascinating as using it for better angles beneath the sheets. Recognizing the song is seconds from finishing, she clasps my sweaty hand in hers, then guides me to sit in the chair in the middle of her makeshift stage.
Her sweet scent streams through my nose when her hair slaps my face. She dances around me at a slow, seductive pace. It’s like a private lap dance minus the seedy,I’ve paid to have a woman grind against mefactor. It’s fucking hot and has me conflicted. I want the song to hurry up and finish so I can check if she’s as turned on as me right now, but I also don’t want this to ever end.
