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He groans and grips my hips, making me grind against him. His solid length rubs against my aching sex in the most perfect way.
Our tongues dance and lips move. His fingers drag up and down my back and then cup my ass with bruising force.
He rolls me onto my back and pulls my top up so he can grasp my breast through my bra.
I love it when he does that, which isn’t often enough because we never have a spare second alone. My tits are so sensitive all the time.
He yanks my top up further and I laugh when it covers my face. He pushes up my sports bra next and it tightly squeezes the top of my chest.
“Fuck,” I gasp when he sucks my nipple into his mouth. I bite onto my top and moan, trembling as his experienced hands caress my body and his tongue, teeth, and lips work my swollen breasts.
“God, you’re so fucking hot,” he breathes, kissing his way down to my navel.
I lurch upwards, giggling because it’s ticklish, but he pushes me back down and covers my body with his.
“I’m so hard for you.” He thrusts against me, his joggers and my tight leggings in the way. “So hard.”
“You could probably chisel ice with your dick. That hard.”
He laughs and buries his face in my neck, but he doesn’t stop his thrusting.
“Don’t make me laugh when I’m dicking you.”
“Dicking?”
“Yeah, like licking your pussy but with my dick.”
“Shouldn’t it be dick layering then? Because we’re wearing clothes.” I moan and my eyes flutter shut when he hits me just right.
I could probably orgasm from just this if he keeps it up.
“Don’t know, don’t care. Shut up and let me dick you harder.”
Our mouths meet again as his hand cups the top of my head. His hips rock furiously, brutally against mine and his moans get louder.
“Don’t stop,” I beg, because if he changes position even slightly I might lose it and then I’ll cry.
“I have to,” he whispers, pulling my bra and shirt back down. “Someone’s coming.”
True as he says, I hear a car coming down his driveway… or maybe it’s leaving. It sounds like Stanley’s. It’s funny how you just know the sound of a person’s car, like footsteps, breathing, voices.
We move apart as the door opens. Just in time.
Presley walks in, an agitated stride in his step and his eyes scan the room, lingering on me and then Carter. “Didn’t know we were meeting.”
“I texted you,” Carter answers.
Presley looks at his phone and lifts a shoulder. “Didn’t get it. Weird.”
“Must be the hospital signal,” Carter explains.
They share a contrite look and I feel extremely awkward. They weren’t like this yesterday, or today in school. What’s going on with them?
“Carter has a new routine for us.” I stand and discreetly pull my panties out of my ass. All that grinding shoved them all the way up there.
“I bet he does,” Presley mutters and looks at his phone. “Huh… your message just came through, says meet at eight. It’s only seven.”
“Typo,” Carter rumbles and doesn’t look away from his own phone as he changes the music.
“What time did he text you?” Presley asks.
I raise my hands and let them drop. “Are we dancing or what?”
“Or what.” Presley stares Carter down but Carter doesn’t budge.
Oh shit.
“Guys, let’s dance.”
“I called dibs,” Presley snaps at his friend and I puff out my cheeks and take a step back. There’s no use in me saying anything at this point. I don’t have a clue what the fuck they’re talking about.
“You called dibs too late,” Carter replies and Presley takes a step towards him.
“You already have everything,” he snarls, getting angrier by the second. His hands clench into fists by his sides.
“This wasn’t personal.”
“Feels like it.”
“Back off, Pres.”
My head whips back and forth as they argue in such a cryptic way.
“You back off, Carter.” When Carter doesn’t reply, Presley pulls his cap off, pushes his hair back and puts it back on again. “May the best man win.”
“Thanks, I will,” Carter replies with an infuriatingly bitter smile.
“The fuck are you both talking about?” I ask, ripping off Presley’s cap and putting it on my head. I’m trying to lighten the situation but the thick tension remains. “Can we dance now?”
They agree and we fall back together but it’s intense and brutal.
Carter shows us the moves but Presley argues them every step of the way.
I remember when the dance was about keeping me as far from them as possible without pissing off Hammond. I remember when Presley would grab me and launch me from him like a grenade about to go off. I’d always go back because I had no choice.
But somehow and at some point the dance changed. It’s no longer about getting me away, it’s about who can keep me with them the longest, it’s about who can lift me the highest and move with me the best. It’s about pulling me from the other one because they both want me as their dance partner, but they both can’t have me at the same time. In the end, it’ll be me who has to choose.
