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I collapse onto the sofa, practically tearing my jeans open as I pull my cock out. Guiltily, I pull up Riley’s Instagram, finding that picture I love the most, her doing almost a Marilyn Monroe like pose on the edge of a fountain. Her right calf is turned in such a way that it looks exactly like the Riley I saw tonight, and I get even harder.
“Oh, yes, Noah,” she whimpers as her thighs fall open and she presents herself to me. I press the head of my cock against her wetness, and we moan in tandem as her warm, slick tightness envelops me.
There’s an instant as her hips touch mine that she gasps, stretched to her limits, but it’s a sexy sound that has her wrapping her legs around my waist.
“Fuck me, Noah,” she begs as I trap her underneath me, my arms caging her pretty face. “Make me yours.”
My hips rise and fall on their own, a thousand sensations pulsing through me with each stroke as she meets me. In her soft whispers, her fingernails on my shoulders, the way she clenches around me, she encourages me to go harder, faster, deeper.
Without saying it, she tells me that I can be totally open with her. That I can find not just rest but strength and acceptance.
That she’ll be the sunshine to my darkness.
“Riley!” I grunt, my eyes rolling up as my cock jerks in my fist, thick ropes of cum spurting up onto my abs.
“Damn,” I gasp. I don’t think I’ve come that hard in a long time, and based on the throbbing sensation in my cock, it’s a little surprised too.
Still panting, I notice that I’m not softening. It’s not a totally unfamiliar sensation, but I have to be horny as fuck for it to happen.
Riley has done that to me.
“Might as well do round two in the shower. Best way to avoid chapped dick . . . that’s no good for anyone.”
I don’t admit, even to the empty room, that I want to be sure I’m in tip-top shape in case Riley makes a decision sooner rather than later.
Are you assuming she’s going to say yes to dating you? my inner voice asks.
Absolutely, I tell myself. No other option is acceptable. I hope.
Chapter 9
Riley
“Ooh, someone’s got new toys!” Hazel calls out, nudging the woman next to her excitedly. There’s a whole table full of women in the dining room at the senior center, all waiting for me. Or at least the goodies I’ve brought. And it’s an armload.
It’s another benefit of my deal with Joroast—they send me more products than I could ever possibly use, and I get to share the wealth. I always pick out my favorites and do videos or photos with them, adding in the appropriate hashtags and highlighting all the fabulous features of the new packaging or gorgeous colors. But not every product works for every person, and those are the ones I’ve brought today.
I set down the bags, the bottles making a loud clunk on the table. Peering in the first bag to make sure nothing spilled, I grin excitedly, looking back and forth from the goodies to the ladies. “You ladies are in for a treat today! I’ve got cleansers, treatments, and makeup galore. I don’t know if you’re ready for all this,” I tease.
“We’d better be,” Hazel says. “If we’re not, we’ll probably die before it happens, so let’s get to it.”
My smile fades a bit. I don’t like to think about these people, who’ve all become my friends, dying and not being here for one of our ‘Get Fancy’ days. Hazel notices and pats my hand.
“Don’t you worry that pretty little head about a thing, dear. We’re all fine and well aware of the passage of time. Like now, for example. We need to get this show on the road or we won’t be done in time for dinner. I’ve got my eyes on a fella and want to look a little extra fancy, if you know what I mean?” She gives me a wink, one penciled-in eyebrow dipping saucily with the movement. “Do you have any more of that red lipstick from last month? The one Mildred said made us look like whores walking the street? I think I need some of that today.” She shimmies her shoulders, and I blink in surprise. And confusion. Hazel is a sweet, kind grandmother of ten who mostly misses baking cookies for her family. And apparently looking like a streetwalker with Kim Kardashian-like lips.
I look to Arielle, but she’s doing her best to hold back giggles. She offers me a shrug of ‘Whatcha gonna do’ before she goes back to straightening up the hair station’s curling irons, hair spray, and curl creams. I once brought a straightener for them to try out, but the ladies all like their hair curled and sprayed to within an inch of its life with mass quantities of Aqua Net that turn their hair into crunchy helmets. They’d be walking, talking tiki torches if someone got too close with a lit cigarette. But I guess that’s how they did it in their younger days, and that’s what makes them feel beautiful, which is what I’m here to do.
