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“I don’t remember you asking.”
She’s right; not if it makes you uncomfortable, is what I said when she asked if we’d have to kiss.Haveto. Like it would be a chore inflicted upon her. Forgive me for taking that as a sign she’d prefer not to. “Okay.” I lean forward, hands on my knees. “I’ll ask now. Would I—didI—make you uncomfortable?”
“No.” Her head falls forward, sheaths of light hair hiding red cheeks. “You barely kissed me.”
And she thinks it was because I didn’t want to.
God, this girl is gonna turn my hair gray.
When I pat my thighs, she comes so damn easily, so willing to straddle my lap despite her evasive gaze and stiff back. “When you and August showed up looking so damn sad and I would’ve done anything to make you happy,” I start, persisting despite her frown. “When I saw you again that first practice and I was so mad ‘cause I couldn’t stop thinking about how pretty you are. In Greenies. At the first ultrasound. On my birthday. After my birthday.” After we made this new agreement of ours, when I showed her just how enthusiastic I can be and she showed me in return. “You were so loud.” I trace her lips with my thumb, remembering how her fast pants and stifled moans felt beneath my palm. “Wanted to shut you up with my mouth on yours but you were already giving me so much. Being so good. Didn’t wanna scare you.”
Sunday tries so hard not to squirm, and fails so spectacularly. “What’re you talking about?”
“All the times I wanted to kiss you. The list is a mile long, Sunday. Could go on forever.”
Her breath comes in jagged stutters, pupils blown and lips parted. “Really?”
“Yes, baby.”
“In Greenies,” she repeats, but they’re not my words anymore; she makes them her own. “At the first ultrasound. On your birthday and—” She flushes even redder, gulping. “—after.”
She pauses for so long, I almost think that’s it. All she’s willing to admit. Until she reluctantly lifts her gaze, so soft and sweet, and continues, “When you kicked John off the field. When you told August he could write letters to you. When you brought me soup.”
“I thought you hated me then.”
“Ever heard of a love-hate relationship?”
“Love, huh?”
She flushes my favorite color. “That’s not what I meant.”
“A man can dream, right?”
That blush blooms and grows just like I hoped it would. My lips follow it to where it disappears beneath her jersey, and I make an impatient noise when I’m hindered by the neckline. “Can I take this off?”
When she shoots a nervous glance at the door, I tap a finger against her jaw, directing her gaze back to me. “No one here but me and you, sunshine.”
As she hesitates, I can’t get a good read on her. Even when she rises from my lap and starts towards the door, I can’t tell what she’s thinking.
When she locks it with fumbling fingers, I start to get an idea. When she turns back to me, shivering and shaking but resolute as she fingers the hem of her top, that idea gets a little clearer. It solidifies in picture-perfect high-definition when she whips the material over her head and tosses it aside.
It all happens very quickly after that. Somehow, I’m over there with her. Somehow, her shorts are gone too, taking my shirt with it. Somehow, Sunday is in my arms, her legs are wrapped around my waist, her back meets the door, and I’m as flush against her as I can get with the swell of her stomach between us. Somehow, my lips meet hers, a hard, greedy clash that makes me wonder why the fuck we took so long to do this.
Kissing, like dating, has always been a means to an end for me. A necessary step to get to the good part. But with Sunday… fuck, this is the good part. Tongues and teeth and tiny, strained moans that I eagerly suffocated by kissing her harder, drown out with noises of my own. I’m hard as a fucking rock, my cock aching as it strains against my jeans, urging my hips to rock against the woman clawing at my shoulders like my kiss is doing as much for her as hers is for me. “Fuck, baby, you’re gonna leave a mark.”
Sunday makes a hasty retreat but she doesn’t go far. Nails scrape down my biceps, my forearms, my abdomen until they reach my lower belly. I tense beneath her touch, moaning a curse as I feel the stinging caress like fire up my spine. Emboldened, she dips lower, nimble fingers unbuttoning and unzipping my jeans, and somehow shoving them down enough for one hand to slip aside.
“Sunday,” I hiss through gritted teeth when she grazes the hard, throbbing length of me, the pad of her thumb skimming over my pierced tip. “Careful.”
Her hand jerks away. “What? Did I hurt you?”
My laugh is more of a tortured groan. “Been hurting for a while, baby, but can’t do anything about it here.”
“Why not?”
Because I’m not sure a handjob would be enough for me, and as much as I like the idea of her gagging around my cock, I’m not going to be bruising those pretty knees, or the back of the throat, today. “Because I don’t wanna fuck you in here.”
“In here?” She challenges. “Or at all?”
