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Rainey shifts her body and pats one of the cushions. “Get your ass over here right now!”
“What?” I laugh.
“Sit. We’re rectifying this immediately.”
“Are you sure you’re not sleepwalking?” I ask. “You’re not making any sense, princess.”
She stands up with a huff and places her hands on her hips.
Ho-ly. Fuck.
Have I mentioned how fantastic Rainey’s tits are lately? Well, said tits are currently going commando under a tiny white tank top. Fuck fantastic; they’re glorious. They’re s
o full and round and perky. I want to motor boat those babies until I suffocate...suck on them until I leave marks all over her creamy flesh...slide my dick between them until she’s wearing the prettiest pearl necklace you’ve ever seen.
That last one was a little too far, wasn’t it?
But I digress.
Seriously though, I’d compose an entire symphony on their behalf. You know, if I had things like musical talent and stuff.
“Brody! Eyes up here!”
I shake out of my stupor and smirk. “Sorry, not sorry.”
“Can you be an actual grown-up for one minute?” she growls.
“In my defense, they’re staring right at me.”
She rolls her eyes. “Sit down, you ass.”
I plop my butt on the couch and smile. Bossy Rainey is hot.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She grabs the remote and pauses the film. “Hold on a sec. I’m going to grab some snacks and then I’ll rewind it to the beginning.”
I adjust my semi as she flits around the attached kitchen, grabbing random items. “You need any help with that?”
“Nope, I’m good,” she replies, arms full of bagged popcorn, candy, and bottled water.
I ignore that and help transfer everything to the coffee table. “Wow, you came prepared, huh?”
“With the twins home for the summer, the pantry is stocked with theater goodies,” she explains. “80’s movie night was our family thing growing up. If you looked through their collection, you’d see how obsessed my parents are. Especially this one—I honestly couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve seen it. As a teenager though, I tended to lean toward anything starring members of the Brat Pack.”
“What’s a Brat Pack?”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” she says with a side of stink-eye.
“Hey, you can’t blame me. We weren’t even alive in the 80’s.”
“You weren’t,” she retorts. “I was.”
I smirk. “Ah, that’s right. Please forgive my forgetfulness, Mrs. Robinson.”
She punches me in the arm. “I’m only six years older than you, dick.”
“True, but you’ve crossed over into an entirely different decade,” I tease. “Six years may as well be twenty-six years at this point.”
