Page 56 of Burn the Script

“I know a beauty expert who could spruce up your confidence if you’d like a free consultation, not that you need it. But you never know when the man of your dreams could ask you on a date.”

If my instincts are correct, Preston could be spending Valentine’s Day with a lotus flower. Tapping on the screen, I navigate to my contacts and create a new one.

“Or we could hang out and ask each other personal questions. I hear that’s something new friends like to do.”

“Is that something you like to do?” he asks.

I lift a shoulder while typing P-Man as the contact name. “Guess we’ll find out.”

Saturday, February 11th

“They were basically making love with their eyeballs, and neither of them noticed. I had to act.” I pour coffee into a mug and add one teaspoon of cream, no sugar. “You would’ve been proud of me, Graham. I played the innocent but meddlesome bystander so well, and now Preston has a date with a lotus flower.”

Graham’s shoulders bounce when he laughs from his spot on my sofa. At least he’s not pouty like when he knocked on the door at sunrise. He tried to surprise me with a visit last night, but his flight kept getting delayed. And we only have a few hours until he leaves for the airport again.

“I hope everything works out for your friend,” he says.

I arrange two store-bought blueberry muffins on a plate and join him in the living room, handing him the mug. He eyes me over the rim while blowing on the hot coffee, and the hypnotizing amber in his gaze lures me in. I set the plate on the coffee table and straddle his lap, sliding my palms along his soft cotton tee while he fiddles with the middle button on my silk pajama shirt.

“I’m shocked the scalp tattoo passed your litmus test,” he says.

“None of that mattered. I could feel the energy between them.” I run my fingers through his hair, tipping his head back. “It’s all about finding that undeniable connection.”

The mug thumps on the side table, then his ravenous mouth is on mine. His large hands are everywhere, each possessive grip and light caress a reminder of the pleasure only he can give me. I roll my hips and grind our dicks together. We’re rock hard in an instant.

As we part for air, his whispered plea brushes my lips. “Touch me. I’m begging you.”

With the flick of a button and tug of a zipper, I take his dick in hand. A strong shudder racks his body, and he whimpers. I seal our lips together, swallowing the sound. My tongue lashes out, licking every moan from his mouth as I stroke his cock. I want him so bad, my need is a physical ache and a wet patch on my briefs.

“I won’t last long,” he says, as if reading my thoughts.

Saliva pools in my cheeks at the prospect of making him come quickly. I pause long enough to peel off his T-shirt and spit on his shaft. With the added slickness, I increase the speed and intensity, causing his breaths to become louder and more ragged. While I prefer Graham’s gentle touch, he gets off from my heavier handling.

“You want it rougher than this,” I taunt.

“Yes.”

“Only from me?” Tightening my grip, I tug harder.

He groans, eyes rolling back. “Only…fuck…yes…only you.”

“Still a good boy.”

Graham whimpers again at the same time my phone rings. My hand stops. Our eyes meet. None of our friends are early risers like us.

“Ignore it,” he says, grabbing the back of my neck to pull me into another kiss.

I work him over with more enthusiasm as he pants into my mouth. The ringing ends, but a series of rapid pings takes its place.

With our foreheads connected, he rasps, “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop. I’m so close.”

My fist flies up and down his swollen shaft. “Come for me, baby. Make a mess of yourself.”

He stiffens all over, growling through clenched teeth as his cock throbs in my grip. I don’t let up until his stomach is splattered with cum, the last of it dripping onto my hand. His head falls back, too heavy to bear while he recovers from the intense release, chest heaving. Before I can move and find something to wipe us off, he pins my thighs to him.

“Stay. Use my shirt. I have an extra in my bag.”

I’m cleaning the mess when my phone pings again. I twist and bend like a contortionist to snag it from the coffee table, and we read the messages together.