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My hands have a mind of their own and already paw her again, wanting to consummate this confession.
“Hey, Lu?”
“Yes,” she hums, not paying attention, because her attention is on my harder parts.
“Did you actually do what you wrote you did with my pineapple boxers?”
She presses her forehead to my chest, and I hear a little chuckle escape her as she whispers, “Yes.”
Fuck, yes!
Her hands sneak dangerously low, making me hard with want again. And my hands start stroking her exactly where she was pressing those pineapples, while wearing my boxers and thinking about me.
How much can one want another person?
I’m pretty sure I can live being buried in Lu at all times.
What’s the expression in her novel? Yep, to the hilt.
62
JACE
I hopeto wake up like this every day for the rest of my life, with Lu still asleep, her body pressed against mine, her arm over my chest.
I can’t torture my girl anymore, despite me having morning wood that won’t go away because my mind has our shenanigans on constant replay. I can’t even count how many times we went at it last night.
It’s almost noon when we finally get out of bed, though I could spend a day with her between the sheets.
Lu puts on her bra and panties with little kitties.
That’s my Lu at home. Everyone knows Lucy Moor as the Brooklyn “it girl,” with ironed blond hair, furs, and high heels. Only I know her like this—with no makeup, messy hair, hello-kitty panties that get stuck between her butt cheeks when she walks to the kitchen, and she wiggles her butt, pulling them out.
She checks her phone. “Look what theArt Weeklyposted!”
The Hottest Exhibit With a Chippendales Bouncer.
Art Turns VIP.
Everything You Need to Know About the Hot Young Artist Lucy Moor Who Doesn’t Show Up For her Solo Exhibit.
“Noooooo!” Lu throws her head back and palms her face. “I can’t believe it,” she says as she goes back to reading the online article.
“They should’ve added, ‘an underwear thief and a pineapple deviant,’” I joke, nuzzling her neck as she sticks her tongue out at me.
I want her again. Maybe I’m a sex addict after all.
She puts aside her phone when I press myself into her from behind, sneaks her hand between us, and strokes me through my shorts.
“Lu,” I murmur into her hair.
“Yes, Jace?” she echoes, pushing into me.
“I like your smell.” She smells like me.
Her insistent hand pushes my sweatpants down, just enough to let my hardness out, and I slide my hands up her torso, under her shirt, and cup her breasts.
We moan in sync.
