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MICAH
I readthe last text I sent for the tenth time.
Micah: You haven’t seen bossy yet ??
She hasn’t opened the text, but she will once work wraps up.
My connection with Peyton over the last month has been this force. Gradual yet powerful. Strong yet gentle.
After the night we agreed to give friendship another try—let’s not forget the kiss, I sure as hell won’t—our relationship has bloomed. Neither of us has titled the relationship beyond friendship. Yet. But the chaste kisses from week one have morphed into longer kisses and frequent caresses. No suck-your-soul kisses or groping of parts, but my crystal ball indicates we are headed that direction.
I order pizza online and schedule it to be delivered around the time she typically arrives. Then I surf through movie options. Usually, we watch an episode or two of my show or hers. But after her snarky comments earlier, a change of plans seems in order.
After I choose the movie, I peel off my shirt on the way to the bathroom. Ditching the last of my clothes, I crank the shower and step under the hot spray. I wash up in record time, towel off, and sort through my wardrobe for the perfect attire.
I wander from the bedroom into the kitchen and dig out the candle lighter and jar candles. Next time I see Shelly, I must thank her for the obscene number of candles she gifted me over the years. Most of them have been decorative dust collectors for years strategically placed in the main space of the house.
Tonight, though, they will be put to good use.
After I light enough candles to heat the house, I stow the lighter, then grab a bottle of wine from the fridge. I pop the cork, set the bottle on the counter, and let it breathe.
Mood. Check.
Booze. Check.
And any minute… the doorbell chimes. “Food.”
I open the door and am greeted by a smiley young man that hands me two large boxes and a bag. The moment he exits the porch, Peyton parks in the driveway. She cuts the ignition, hops out, and practically skips to the front door.
Fuck, she’s adorable.
“Hey,” Peyton singsongs as she openly ogles me. “Look at—” She freezes as she takes in the main room of the house. “What’s this?” Spinning around, a crease forms between her brows.
“Mood, booze” —I set the pizza, salad and garlic bread on the counter— “and food.”
“And this?” Peyton lays her palms beneath my collarbones, then, inch by inch, drags her hands down my abdomen. Her thumbs brushing the column of buttons.
“Going for the nerdy look.” She lifts a brow. “Didn’t find the fake glasses before you arrived.”
Her arms sweep around my waist and rest on my lower back. “You don’t need them.”
Hands on her hips, I secure Peyton in my grip. If I leaned forward an inch, her lips would be under mine. But anticipation is everything. And I love the push and pull between us.
I lean in and she gasps. Instead of kissing her, I brush my cheek along hers and stop at her ear. “Time to eat,” I whisper, then nip her lobe. Her body shudders beneath me and the corner of my mouth twitches. My fingers drift along the inside of her forearm and lace with her fingers. “C’mon.”
I guide her to the couch, park her in the spot I dubbed hers and go back to grab the food, wine and glasses. Everything on the coffee table, I sort the boxes while she pours the wine. I turn on the television and hit play on the movie as we dig in.
“Really?” Peyton asks on a laugh-squeal as the intro of The Princess Bride pops on the screen.
“What? It’s a classic.”
“Never pegged you as someone to watch The Princess Bride. That’s all.”
“Well…” I cock a brow at her. “I’m full of surprises.”
The movie starts and we settle back on the couch, cross-legged, with salad and pizza in our laps. For a bit, we focus on the movie and dinner. Several years have passed since I last watched this movie and I forgot its greatness.
Around the time when Iñigo talks with Westley about the six-fingered man, Peyton leans forward to set her box on the table. Her knee brushes mine in the process. And when she sits back with her wine, her leg presses and remains butted to my thigh. The motion natural, leisure. As if it wouldn’t be any other way.
And I no longer want to hold back. No longer want to resist the one person I want. Her.
I set my box on the table, reach for her glass and put it down. “Hey,” she contests.
But before she gets another word in, I lean back, twist in place, frame her face in my hands and bring my lips to hers. She freezes for one, two… then her lips move with mine, soft and sweet at first as her hands snake behind my neck. It isn’t long before her lips part and she sucks on my lower lip. She tastes of tangy grapes and herbs and something distinctly Peyton.
My hands drop from her face to her hips as a growl rips from my throat. Her fingers trail into my hair and fist the strands.
Fuck. She will unman me on this couch.
As the thought takes residence, she shifts and slowly lays back, bringing me down with her. I hover inches above her, my arms framing her face and weight pinned between her thighs. Our lips and tongues dance in sync as we give in to the desires we stowed for too long. Her back bows off the cushion and her breasts press to my pecs as she rubs my dick with her pelvic bone.
God, she is fucking perfect.
My hand skims down her shoulder, along the curve of her breast, and she pushes into my touch. I continue my venture down her torso, graze her abdomen, and slip my fingers under the edge of her top. The heat from her skin ripples up my arm and undulates across my chest. Jolts my heart. Expands my lungs. Gives me life.
A hand trails down my back to my elbow. Her fingers drift down my forearm to my wrist and rest on my hand. I am ready for her to stop me, us, from taking this moment any further. Our mouths continue their assault, my hand still on her skin. What I don’t expect is what happens next. Peyton guides my hand up her body. Skin to skin, my fingers float over her abdomen, her stomach, her lacy bra cup.
A moan spills from her lips and I swallow every thrum. The resonance vibrates against my palm. Drives me wild. Urges me further.
I shove her top up, tug it over her head, and toss it to the floor. Dropping down, I kiss the spot beneath her ear while I unhook her bra from behind. Peeling the lacy fabric off, I take in her bare breasts for three jagged breaths. Not too big nor too small. Dark-pink areolae with pert nipples in the center. “Perfection.”
My mouth crashes down on her lips with another vicious kiss. My hand palms her breast while I twist the nipple between my thumb and forefinger. She rocks her pelvis and rubs my cock with flawless precision. I snake a hand around the back of her neck, comb my fingers through her hair, fist the strands and yank her head back.
