I tense up.
Noah notices. “What’s wrong?”
I push his head back down like a strumpet. “Nothing. Keep going.”
He does. He does and he doesn’t stop until the pulses in my stomach are the pulses in my vagina, reverberating in my thighs, and my body is racked with exploding nerve endings.
Yes, yes, hell yes!
I want to die.
And laugh.
And cry.
Cry? Let me rephrase: weep tears of joy from the climax I just experienced, a true gift from the Almighty.
Dramatic much?
But seriously, I could kiss his mouth right now out of gratitude; this orgasm feels amazing. Incredible. I shall forever be indebted to the first orgasm of the year I didn’t give to myself.
Mostly naked, on the floor, it dawns on me for the first time that Noah is completely dressed…and probably stiff as a board, hard as a rock—whatever analogy you want to use for massively erect. Guilt washes over me as my gaze scans over the front of his dress pants when he repositions his body next to mine.
Yup.
He’s totally hard.
I reach between our bodies, flattened palm working its way down to his belt, none too expertly fumbling with the gold-plated clasp. Pull it through the loops as he sucks in a breath, our mouths fusing while I diligently free the smooth leather.
He tastes like me and I like it.
My fingers find the button on his slacks. More fumbling. The zipper comes down with a satisfying whir, the bulge of his hard on covered by the dark fabric of gray underwear, and it has my clit pulsing all over again, my mouth watering, excited.
Jesus. I’ve never been this desperate to see a dick before. Normally they’re not my thing—I mean, who thinks dicks are cute? Literally no one except the owner of any given penis and most men haven’t gotten the memo that no one wants to see that shit, especially unsolicited.
Noah’s dick, though? I want to see it.
It’s thick, and warm, and when I touch it, it moves.
My eyes dart to his face: eyes closed, mouth slightly open, arms braced behind his head. He peels said eyes open to look at me and our gazes meet at the same time I run the tip of my finger along the waistband of his boxer briefs.
Hard stomach.
Hard thighs.
Hard cock.
I stretch back the cotton just enough to play peekaboo with the tip. The head. The best part of the entire thing.
Noah hisses through his teeth, a powerful aphrodisiac that goes to my head; I am drunk with the idea of making his knees weak.
But I do not plan to suck it.
I do not plan to blow him.
What am I going to do?
I’m kicking this old school with a good old-fashioned hand job, the way we did it in high school before we were brave enough to put one in our mouths and suck it.
I tug at his pants, pulling them down his hips and leaving them down around his calves. Then, I run a finger along his shaft, wanting to see it jump again.
It does not disappoint, eager for my touch, wanting attention.
It’s not so big I’m afraid to pull his underwear down, and I sigh with relief; I’ve never seen a monster dick in person, but Claire and Emily have told me horror stories, and I’m suddenly grateful that Noah—for his tall size and stature—possesses a proportionately average, Noah-sized package.
I wouldn’t know how to handle a giant one, so I’m giving thanks for the one in my hand. The man on my living room floor gasps when skin-on-skin contact is made, his underwear having joined his trousers.
There is a bottle of lotion nearby—another thing we used back in the day when we were too chicken to buy lube at the pharmacy, the only store in town that sold condoms and contraception—and I reach for it.
Unscented. Left there from when I moisturized after shaving before our date.
Noah is unfazed when I squirt lotion into my palms then rub them both together, warming up the cool cream. He’s barely coherent, breathing heavy—waiting.
Is it too soon to blow him?
Gretchen once said if you blow a guy on the first date, he’ll never take you home to meet his mother, but Noah’s dick is right here, in my hand, and he’s so sexy lying on my floor…
Ugh. It’s been so long and I just want it.
IS THAT SO WRONG?
13
Noah
“Harding, Phil wants to see you in his office after practice.” One of the assistant coaches has been waiting for an opportunity to shout the message at me, the bat in my hand dangling after I hit a fly ball over second base, watching it soar into the air.
Shit. It’s never a good thing when the team’s publicist, Phil Scilara, wants to have a meeting after practice. Usually it’s tactical, to strategize about a public fuck up someone on the team was involved in, and usually those have nothing to do with me. Wallace, yes. Espinoza, yes.
Me, no.
Besides, unless there’s a situation—drunken photos emerging, or misconduct all over the news, or a woman claiming paternity—Phil is rarely in his office.
“Do you know what he wants?” I toss the bat in my hand to a different assistant and wipe my forehead with the towel in my back pocket.
“No clue.” He shrugs. “Sorry man.”
“I know what it’s about.” Wallace—the sneaky fuck—is behind me, and I turn, batting gloves coming off one at a time, as I watch him walking toward me.
Why is he always around when there’s drama?
“Are you going to tell me?” I can’t stand when someone beats around the bush. If he knows why I’m being called into the principal’s office, I want him to spit it out.
“You’re all over the news.” He spits on the ground. “You and your friend.”
Friend? “You mean Miranda?”
“Yeah.” For once in his life, Buzz Wallace comes at me looking bashful instead of cocky. Hesitant instead of aggressive.
That…cannot be good.
“And?”
His feet shuffle in the red dirt, the toe of his cleats soiled. “Fuck, man. I don’t know what to tell
