High heels dug into my back, while her hands gripped the chair, salacious gaze pinned to mine. “Come. Please, Lucas. Make me come.”
Going for gold, I moved my finger down, then up, taking her clit into my mouth again, circling it, massaging it with my tongue as she moaned.
Harder.Softer. Faster.Slower.
I played that methodical game over and over, each time leading her closer to the edge, until her body began to quake, the chair creaking beneath her.
“Oh, my fuckingLucas!”
Watching her unravel against my mouth was the sexiest shit I’d ever witnessed in my life. All I wanted to do was scoop her up, carry her into my bedroom, and feed her hungry pussy my cock for days. But the only action Mr. Dick would receive that night was a cold shower and a promissory note to get acquainted with Macy’s sex pot the second after I was cleared to fuck.
Still kneeling, I helped my beautifully flustered Macy sit upright while she patted her hair into place, cheeks the color of bliss as she withdrew from her orgasmic high.
“Not bad for a first date, right?” I laid soft kisses along the slope of her neck.
“Dinner and an orgasm? Yeah, I can totally see that becoming the new dinner and a movie,” she quipped, her razor-sharp wit on point. She snaked her arms around my neck. “Thank you for tonight, for being the first guy to give me pleasure.”
I nudged her nose, one hand splayed along the small of her back, the other cupping her face. “The pleasure was all mine. You’re amazing, sweet, addicting, and I want more of you.” I grabbed her hand, guiding it to my throbbing cock that seemed to be looking for a way to escape the confines of my jeans. “See? I’m in need of a cold shower now.” I pressed my forehead to hers, breathing her in, relishing the moment. “Thank goodness six days from now, cold showers will be a thing of the past.”
“But, six more days feels like an eternity.”
“No, baby.” I sucked her bottom lip. “Not when you’ve waited as long as we have.”
20
Shooting stars.
They’re what I longed to see when I was younger, hoping to wish upon one that would make my biggest wish come true.
Back then, I had a crush on the boy next door, a dark-haired, blue-eyed, goofy-looking kid who, without reservation, invited me to play Bad Guy and Batman the day after my family moved into the house next to his. As we grew older, grew closer, he didn’t seem to care that I wore braces, needed glasses for reading, or was a tomboy who wore pink, Converse high-tops or whether I donned pants or sparkly dresses. During that young and innocent stage in my life, other boys grossed me out.
But not him.
He made me laugh. Feel special. He made my whole world spin.
Each night before bed, I peered out my window, hopeful gaze on the hunt for shooting stars, never lucky enough to catch a glimpse. Instead, I closed my eyes and wished that Lucas Stone, the boy next door, would someday kiss me. Fast forward several adult years later, and not only did he kiss me, helickedme. Between my thighs. Licks so motherfreaking good I saw thousands of shooting stars.
The next several days crawled by slower than a snail with asthma.
During his five-day post-concussion exam, Lucas was cleared for leisurely strolls around the block and everyday outings like trips to the market or visiting family and friends—so long as those visits didn’t lead to strenuous activity. His MRI showed no signs of bleeding or damage, and since he’d never had a headache beyond the first day after the incident, the doctor told Lucas he could begin a light exercise routine supervised by team doctors. UCLA took head injuries seriously. Too many pro football players were diagnosed with a degenerative brain injury called chronic traumatic encephalopathy, or CTE. It was typically caused by repeated blows to the head, and most colleges adopted measures in taking extra precautions when it came to concussions. CTE had been something that worried me, lingered in the back of my mind ever since Lucas told me he wanted to go pro. I’d read heartbreaking news articles about how the disease affected football players young and old. The possibility of that happening to Lucas frightened me, and I had no problem voicing those concerns, even two days after his visit to the doctor while we were in the kitchen, cleaning up dishes after dinner.
“Hey,” he said, commanding my chin up with his finger as always, “it’s only one concussion, baby, a mild one at that. I promise you, I’m fine. I’llalwaysbe fine.” His tranquil gaze bore reassurance into mine. “Besides, best news is doc said I’m cleared to fuck your sexy little ass in three more days.”
Back against the kitchen counter, my lip curved into a coquettish smirk. “Oh? Too bad I’m on my period.”
Bracketing my waist, he playfully rolled his eyes. “I know you’re two weeks away from your monthly visitor.”
Surprised, I said, “How do you know that?”
“Because I started tracking it four years ago when I noticed you get mad cravings for snacks one week a month. Without fail, you’d always ask me to run to the grocery store for dark chocolate, Cheetos, and Dr. Pepper. It’s also the week you live in baggy sweats and a T-shirt, so I eventually put two and two together, added it to my calendar.”
I blinked, a tad embarrassed.
“Anyway,” he went on. “Ever notice how you no longer need to ask me to make those impromptu trips to the store? How your preferred munchies are already here for your taking?”
He waited for my sheepish nod before he continued.
“Well, that’s because my calendar notifies me when to stock up on your snacks.” He whipped his phone out of his jeans pocket, finger tapping the calendar app. “And according to this, I don’t need to make a snack run for two more weeks.” He showed me the recurring calendar entry labeled,Buy Macy’s Monthly Snacks.
