I buck into her sweet pussy, and she moves in cadence with me. I fuck her hard until she’s tilting her head back and screaming toward the ceiling, until her walls clench around my cock and squeeze every last drop of cum from me.
It’s an incredible release, an incredible feeling to have Brooklyn’s body so completely wrapped around me, but what’s even better is falling asleep in each other’s arms after, clinging to each other like we don’t ever want to let go.
In the morning, I wake up to the sun streaming through my window and the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met nestled against my side.
When I kiss Brooklyn’s forehead, her eyes flutter open. “Good morning,” she says, her voice husky with sleep.
“Morning,” I smile. “Did you sleep okay?”
“Best sleep of my life,” she answers. “What time is it?”
I lean over the edge of the bed and fish my phone out of the pocket of my pants. “Seven-thirty. You don’t have to leave right away, do you?”
If I had my way, she’d call my house her home and never leave again… but even I’m struggling to come to terms with how fast I’ve fallen for this woman, so I at least have the sense not to say that out loud.
“Nope,” she says, reaching her arms out and stretching. “I’m off work today. What about you?”
“Wish I could say the same,” I tell her. “I’ve got to go into the outreach center for out after-school programming, but that’s not for quite a while. Do you want to go get breakfast?”
Brooklyn rolls over, draping one arm across my chest and resting her chin on top of her hand to look at me. “I have a better idea.”
I grin. “Oh yeah?”
“Do you have bread, milk and eggs?” she asks. “I want to make you breakfast. My famous French toast.”
“Mmm, sounds good. I’m sure I’ve got all that.”
“That way,” she says, craning her neck to kiss me, “we won’t be too far from the bed.”
She smiles coyly and I tell her that I like the way she thinks. I get her a clean robe from my closet, and pull on a pair of pajama bottoms myself, then point her in the direction of the kitchen.
I’m enjoying the view from behind as I follow her, wondering if the sway of her hips is natural or if she’s doing it just to test my resolve to make it all the way through breakfast before dragging her back to bed. Then she asks, “What are you doing after work? Maybe we could go back to the festival, do a few more things we missed last night?”
“Wish I could,” I tell her, “but I have dinner with my parents every Friday night.”
“Oh.” She pouts a little, and it’s honestly freaking adorable.
“You should come with me,” I tell her as we get to the kitchen.
She turns around. “To meet your parents? The day after we met?”
“Hey, we’ve been emailing for two months,” I remind her, and she laughs.
“Still…” she hesitates. “That’s a big deal, meeting the parents.”
I put my hands on her hips, back her up against the counter until she can feel the hardness in my pajama pants—which I’m starting to worry will be a permanent condition whenever she’s around. But I put that aside for the moment to tell her, “You are a big deal, Brooklyn. I told you last night that I like you, and I want to make sure you know I mean it.”
She smiles, but it looks like she could use some more convincing.
I bring my hands up to her neck, thread my fingers through her messy morning hair, bring my lips down to meet hers. And when I pull back to look at her again, I tell her, “I know it’s fast, but I also know what I feel for you is real. And unless I’m judging a book by its cover all wrong, I think you feel the same. Right?”
Brooklyn smiles, and this time it’s a little brighter. “Right. I like you too. A lot.”
“Good,” I say, beaming. “So come meet my parents tonight. At the very least, you’ll get a hell of a good meal out of it.”
She laughs. “Okay. This is crazy, but okay.”
I kiss her again, give her a little swat on the ass, and say, “Now let’s make some French toast.”
7
Brooklyn
Prescott goes to work around noon and I go home to putter around with my day-off chores—laundry, groceries, boring stuff that can’t possibly coYachts
mpare to the last twelve hours.
It all feels a little unreal, like I’m imminently in danger of waking up from the best dream I’ve ever had, but I’m willing to push my luck a little further. Even if I am feeling nervous about tonight.
How crazy is it to meet a guy’s parents twenty-four hours after you meet him?
Pretty crazy, I’m sure, but as I’m pulling my laundry out of the dryer, I think it would be nice to get confirmation—or maybe a little moral support.
I can’t call Cassidy because she’s all lovestruck and heart-eyed at having met the man of her dreams recently. She’d just tell me to go for it with gusto. And I can’t call Nora because she’s working today.
So I call the Bakers’ house, wondering if anybody will be around to pick up in the middle of the day.
“Hello?” Martha answers, and I instantly smile at the sound of her voice.
It’s been a while since I had time to visit, but she still feels like a second mother to me. “Hey, it’s Brooks. Am I interrupting writing time?”
“Not at all. Tabitha has just broken off the engagement and Jacob is off wallowing in self-pity,” she says, which I assume refers to her latest story, “I’m letting them stew for a little while so I figured now was a good time to make some writing fuel. If you’re free, I could use an extra hand with these blueberry scones.”
“Mmm.”
