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“We’ve got about fifteen minutes before they start trying to maneuver the wheelchairs around the kitchen to fix dinner for themselves. Until then . . . wanna make out?”
It’s absolutely crazy how much those words turn me on. All the blood in my body rushes south to my groin, making my head go light and my balls heavy. I want her. Even in the rapture of our horniest, hormonal adolescent days, I don’t think I wanted her this much.
Callie’s green eyes rake down over me, like she’s imagining all the things we can do to each other in that timeframe—and we can do a lot. I’m efficient like that.
And I don’t think about the game last night, or my brother’s issues this morning—they’re not even a whisper in my mind. All there is, all I see, is me and Callie alone in this god-awful pink room, with ABBA playing on the radio and her beckoning me to the bed with those smiling lips and dancing eyes.
She gives a throaty laugh when I practically pounce on her, nestling my hips between her oh-so-welcoming thighs. I take that pretty mouth in a deep kiss, and thrust slow and firm against her, feeling how hot she is for me, for this, through our jeans. Sensation races up my spine and Callie gasps into my mouth.
Things go from playful to rock-hard serious real fucking quick. Callie pushes against my chest, and I grasp her waist, keeping us tight and flushed together as we roll over. We’re chest to chest, her long legs straddling my hips and her hot, sweet pussy sits on my straining dick.
Perfect . . . she feels so fucking perfect.
“Garrett,” she breathes out in an airy moan.
And I groan back, low in my throat, “Callie. Jesus, Callie.”
Her hips roll and rock, back and forth, slow at first . . . then in a faster . . . a more desperate slide that makes my eyes roll back in my fucking head. My fingers dig into the flesh of Callie’s ass and I thrust up quick and hard against her.
“Fuck me . . .”
Roughly, I yank the neck of her sweater down, baring one breast covered in a pale pink bra. I break my mouth from Callie’s and blaze a trail of licking kisses down her chest. Callie sucks at my shoulder, biting at the base of my neck, rotating her hips in glorious circles, rubbing her clit on my thick cock, jerking us both off with the pressure.
I dip my head and wrap my lips around her, taking in a mouthful of delicate lace and gorgeous tit. I suckle her hard . . . then harder . . . flicking my tongue relentlessly over her perfect pebbled nipple. Callie’s back bows, arching, giving me more of her breast. God damn delicious. She yanks at my hair, holding me tight, writhing in perfect, shameless abandon.
But times flies. And life’s not a bitch . . . it’s a cockblocker.
Because just as Callie starts to chant my name in that beautiful, high-pitched, keening voice—always a telltale sign she’s about to fall apart in my arms . . . Mrs. Carpenter’s raspy voice punches through the bedroom walls.
“Callie! Is Garrett staying for dinner?” There’s a crash of pots and pans, like a full set of cymbals got knocked to the ground. “I’m making sloppy joes!”
We freeze, mid-hump. And the fiery lust fusing us together gets doused with a big bucket of arctic seawater.
“Fuck,” Callie pants against my hair.
I release her breast with a pop of my lips. “That was the idea.”
She laughs, but it’s more of a painful, choking sound. “This is awful.”
I breathe slow against her, working to get my shit under control.
“No. No, it’s okay. It’s better this way.” And I try and make myself believe that, which is hard when your cock is achingly . . . well . . . hard.
I brush her cheek with my fingers. “I want to be able to take my time with you, Callie.” My voice goes harsh, low, as I give words to the fantasy unfurling in my mind. “I don’t want clothes between us or your parents on the other side of the wall. I want to feel it when you come all around me. And when I’m inside you, I’m going to want to stay for a hell of a lot longer than fifteen minutes.”
Callie’s eyes are glazed, lust-drunk, and I wonder if I can make her come like this with words and promises alone.
“I want to be above you, beneath you, behind you . . . I want you weak, drained from coming, hoarse from screaming my name. I’m going to need hours, baby . . . fucking days...”
Her hips lift, rubbing against me, starting us up all over again. “Yeah . . . God, Garrett, I want that too.”
