Page 96 of 6 Clues Your Nemesis Loves You

She crawls in after me, the two of us on our knees as she hands me the smaller of the two gifts. “You’re officially in your thirties now. Celebration is required.”

“The only gift I need is you.”

“I’m pretty sure you’ll like these.” But her chin dips, and she fidgets with her jacket cuff. Self-conscious moves I don’t associate with Maggie.

I lift the gift and shake it by my ear. Nothing rattles. “Is it a stink bomb to toss in E’s apartment?”

“Nope. He helped me set up his tent for the picnic and again today, so I owe him.”

“Maggie.” I huff out a dramatic grunt. “He’ll probably show up again with another of his obnoxious ambushes, and owing E leads to horrible favors like unclogging his toilet or doing his laundry for a month.”

“He promised he wouldn’t crash my plans, and the favor isn’t anything bad. I just agreed to call you a hipster at least three times this week.” Her full-teeth smile is adorable.

I try to scowl, but the effort is useless. Maggie can call me whatever she wants. “You know what, it’s fine. I don’t care anymore. I like craft beer, I like my beard, and I like wearing skinny jeans and fitted T-shirts to show off my svelte body.”

“I love you in whatever you wear,” she says, her voice turning intimate.

I inch forward on my knees and grab her by the waist. “I love you. Period. End of story.”

We kiss softly, the hum of the heater and rustle of the wind joining our heavier breaths. “I also love presents,” I say. “And less clothing.”

We toss our jackets aside, and I grab the smaller gift again. Maggie scrunches her nose, waiting on me as I draw out the moment and turn the package over in my hands. Interest piqued, I untie the red bow—my favorite color—then shred the paper, to reveal a purple box with the words “long-lasting” and “slippery” written on it.

Honestly, I have the best girlfriend in the world. “You bought me lube.”

Her cheeks are mottled, her tongue sneaking out to wet her lips. “I dare you to touch yourself,” she says, brazen. “Here, in front of me,” she adds.

She’s stealing my lines—the exact words I used our last night at the pond. An evening I’ve replayed a million times over: everything we said, her frayed jean shorts sliding down her legs, her yellow tank top pulling up over her fire-red hair.

Since her hesitant request to recreate that night, I haven’t broached the subject or set up a sexy scene with candles and rose petals. I thought I was waiting for the perfect night. Truth is, I was wary. Maggie often uses sex to create emotional distance. Aside from erotic, recreating that life-changing moment would be intensely emotional. If we’d gotten naked and relived that memory, and she refused to give me her eyes and trust, it would’ve hurt.

But she’s swapping our roles for our reenactment, showing me her vulnerability.

“That’s a bold dare,” I say, repeating our exchange verbatim, my heart beating faster.

“You can say no.” Her voice turns husky. “You can always say no.”

Like that’s a possibility. “Dare accepted, but I dare you to do the same.”

“Yeah.” Her open expression is everything. “I’ll accept your dare.”

“You can’t touch me though,” I add. If we’re reenacting our mutual masturbation, we’re doing this right. Plus, it’s not her hands I want this time. It’s her eyes. “You can only look.”

Without breaking eye contact, she slowly unbuttons her cream blouse, revealing sexy white lace. I groan and grab my T-shirt by the back of my neck and yank it off over my damp hair. Her bra goes next, but she doesn’t make this easy. She palms her breasts, squeezes all that lushness, circling her nipples and giving them a pinch. Her throaty moan fucking undoes me.

“You’re a goddess.” I drag my hand over my aching cock, rubbing the rigid length through my sweats. It’s not enough. Unceremoniously, I fall to my back and drag off my sweats and briefs and socks in an awkward tug and shimmy. By the time my clothes are tossed to the side and I face Maggie, she’s naked on her back, tracing circles on her pale belly.

My ravenous grunt is pure caveman. “Maybe we should allow touching. No touching is so yesterday.”

She smiles and moves her hand to those tight red curls. “Don’t break the rules, babe.”

Fuck, I love it when she calls me babe. I love seeing her like this, exploring herself, looking at me with so much want and trust I’m in danger of coming too soon. I grip my shaft, give it a squeeze. Nestle my knees between her spread thighs. So fucking hot.

I open my incredibly thoughtful gift and squeeze a few cool drops on my stiff length, then some on her glistening pussy. My first stroke down my shaft has her eyelids falling heavier. A pant of bated breath escapes her. Her hips shift and rock. I run my left hand down lower, cupping my balls as I pump myself in long, slow pulls. She spreads her legs wider, pushes her hips higher, chasing her pleasure with her fingers.

We don’t talk. Just look our fill. My pulse kicks up with each sexy move, and when she dips two digits inside herself, moving her wetness around, lightning shoots through me. She’s not rubbing herself hard yet. She’s drawing out her pleasure, circling, breaking her rhythm to slow herself down, returning to that swollen nub I love flicking with my tongue.

“Fuck, Mags. I can’t wait.” I stroke harder, faster, my thighs starting their telltale burn. The tingling at the base of my spine expands upward. “You’re so fucking hot.”