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There is no noise around us, leaving me to believe he was joking about Reid being there. But then again, my skin continues to tingle like he might not be.
“Dude’s a fucking pussy.” JD laughs, his voice all light and blissed out.
“Was he really—”
“Of course he was. Saw the shadows of his feet under the door. Can’t wait for him to cave.”
“He doesn’t want me,” I argue. I’ve no idea why the words spill from my lips, but they do. It wasn’t so long ago I had his dick in my hand while being beneath him on the couch. I’m fully aware of how much his body wants mine. I guess it’s a shame that his head isn’t on board.
Not that mine is either. He’s the asshole who’s done all this.
He should think himself lucky that I touched him, let alone expect anything else from me. I should have cut it off, not stroked it after everything he’s done to me.
18
JD
For the second time in only a few days, I wake up sweaty with a hot woman wrapped around me.
It’s fucking heaven.
Her legs are intertwined with mine. My dried cum sticking us together. Her arm is wrapped tightly around my waist while her head is resting on my chest. Each of her shallow breaths tickles over my skin, making goose bumps a permanent feature.
Lifting my hand from her waist, I begin tracing the bumps of her spine with my fingertips.
Her skin is so soft, so addictive. So sweet…
My mouth waters as I think about tasting her, spreading her thighs and licking—
“I can feel you getting hard beneath my thigh. What are you thinking about?” she whispers, letting me know that she’s awake.
“Licking your pussy,” I confess, my voice thick with sleep and desire.
“You like doing that, huh?”
A smile pulls at my lips.
“Sure do. Love having your taste on my lips.”
“You’re filthy, Julian Dempsey.”
“So are you, Alana Murray.”
The second I say her married name, her entire body tenses.
“Bit late to feel guilty now, Dove.”
“I know. I just… He’s here. He’s right beneath us. I just need—”
She twists and shoves her face into the crook of my neck, cutting off her words.
“We should shower,” I suggest, hating that she’s struggling and needing to do something to make it better. “Then eat. Are you hungry?”
“Depends if you’re going to try and cook or not,” she mutters.
“I want to try and make things better not worse, Dove,” I confess.
“Okay then. But only because I’m starving.”
