“The fuck, though—I have nowhere to put my hands!” Do I actually sound like a whiney little bitch, or do I just sound like one in my head?
“Where’d you put your hands before we took off our clothes?”
“On my hip.” On my own body, keeping them to myself.
“Welll.”
She wants me to keep my hands to myself when she’s lying there in a pink thong?
What the actual fuck, Abbott…
“Did you have something to say? Jesus, you’re breathing so hard it sounds like you just ran eighty laps around the high school track in gym class,” she taunts as my dick strains to poke its way through the thin strip of fabric of her underwear and into her ass canal. “Relax.”
“I am relaxed!” comes out harsher than I intend, but how does she actually expect me to behave when she smells like roses and fucking sunshine and all that bullshit?
And to think: I was dumb enough to think I could handle a dumb game she invented in college. Leave it to a sorority girl to invent a dick-tease game.
There’s a man on Abbott’s TV talking some gibberish that makes Abbott laugh and me scowl, because her entire body does this shake—shoulders brushing my chest, butt rubbing my nether regions. Flesh and heat and holes wanting to be filled.
The guy says something else and Abbott snorts.
Okay, maybe snorting is not so cute.
She giggles.
Cute.
Snorts again.
Not so cute.
All the while she taunts me with her naked flesh and irresistible perfume, one Nan probably bought her at a random fancy-schmancy French boutique in the Congo where they use the sweat from rare butterflies and liquid diamonds. Or, you know—Bloomingdale’s.
Where do highfalutin socialite dames shop?
It’s intoxicating and driving my hormones bonkers, and now I’m fixated on it. Fixated on the tiny hairs at the back of her neck, shorter than the rest and wispy because she has it pulled off to one side, swept back to bare the long column of her neck.
I squirm.
Cough.
Clear my throat and glance around for water.
Is it hot in here? Or is it just Abbott, who seems unaware that there’s a hard-on perilously close to her butthole?
No one who invents a game like this is oblivious.
I can’t stop thinking about banging her now, or sucking and thrusting, or, at the very least, dry-humping her lady parts. At this point, I’d settle for her dry-fucking my thigh…
Shit, I totally misjudged my sweet neighbor. She looks so unassuming and innocent, even while almost naked. Like a virgin, touched for the very first time…
Shut the fuck up, idiot. Focus or your dick will get stiffer and you’ll humiliate yourself.
Except.
Now that Brooks Junior is dialed in to the live nudity, there’s no shutting him off. And yes—by “him” I mean my cock. He’s feisty today, hasn’t sunk himself into a pussy in days, weeks, months—crap, I don’t even know how long it’s been, but he’s antsy. Social. He wants to come out to meet and play with Abbott’s vagina. Or ass. Whichever hole, he wants in-sies.
Abbott chuckles; this time, it’s not at the TV. She’s silently laughing at me, my dick, and my plight, concealed from prying eyes by our blankets, her shoulders bare and exposed. My gaze drifts to the curve of her upper body, porcelain and perfect. Silky. Unblemished. The slope of her neck glides into a perfect arch, and I imagine my mouth there, kissing up and down the skin. Just below her ear. Down her neck. Across her shoulder.
I imagine she’d shiver if I did.
Fuck it.
Leaning down just the barest fraction, I’m able to give her light hair a decent whiff without making any sounds. Inhale.
Exhale.
Once more and my nostrils are definitely flaring, dick hardening. Body tense.
Abbott fakes another uninterested yawn. Ass squirms. “It feels to me as if you’re not going to win this one. You don’t have the willpower of a Billie Belmont—he was a shutout.”
“Christ,” I grind out, teeth clenching. “Don’t say that name to me right now. It’s idiotic.”
“Billie Belmont Billie Belmont Billie Belmont.” The name flies out of the brat’s mouth and she doesn’t trip over the tongue-twister once.
Why is she being such an asshole?
Abbott Margolis is the female version of myself, and I want to strangle her and stick my dick in her at the same time. Wait—that didn’t come out right, which only makes my mind wander further into the gutter: what kind of kink is Abbott into? Choking? Spanking? Biting? Licking? Bent over from behind?
Fuck fuck fuck it.
Fuck it, I’m over this.
I should put my goddamn clothes on and get the hell out of here.
My hand is over it, too, the impatient motherfucker with a mind of its own, sliding from my hip to the couch cushion, across the one-inch gap separating Abbott and me. She flinches slightly from the unplanned contact of my hand on her back but remains motionless, letting me slide it up, over her spine.
Over her rib cage.
Finally, she sucks in a breath. Lets it out. Lies still, waiting.
Don’t touch her tits, don’t touch her tits, don’t touch her—
I touch her tits.
Run my palm over her voluminous side-boob, over an areola I can only visualize since I’m bringing up the rear and can’t actually see. Speaking of rears…
I glide my hand down the flat planes of Abbott’s stomach, waiting for that sharp intake of breath I know is coming; all girls do it and she is no exception. Keep running that hand down, slowly creeping until I reach her ass. Her firm, perfectly round butt. Squeeze playfully, feel her smile.
“Whatcha doin’ back there?” she teases, giving her buns a wiggle and ignoring the fact that two seconds ago, my giant palm was cupping her bare tit. “You’re not into butt stuff, are you?”
“I’m into whatever you’re into.”
“Slow your roll, cowpoke—we’re supposed to be watching TV. We’re just friends.”
Friends—we’re back to that bullshit, eh?
Abbott squirms, sending a shockwave of nerves jolting from the front of my legs down to my toes.
My dick tingles. Twitches.
“Is your dick moving?” My neighbor does a half-laugh, half-moan, half-dressed but mostly not.
“Definitely. It wants to friend-zone you, too.”
“Why should I make an exception for your dick? You’ve been very adamant about keeping this whole thing platonic.”
“In fairness, I’ve never used the word platonic in my entire fucking life.” The truth is, I’ve had plenty of female friends who I’ve boned. The problem isn’t Abbott and wanting to remain friends with her—the problem is that I don’t think I can stay that way. “You’re just as adamant, so let’s not kid ourselves.”
Abbott is the kind of girl you marry, not the kind you have a one-night stand with, something casual to get your rocks off.
She’s a good girl.
Not to be confused with a goody two-shoes. Don’t ask me how I know she’s wholesome, but the second time I laid eyes on her (the first time I just thought she was a colossal asshole), I knew her intentions would always be pure and she would never intentionally hurt anyone.
Abbott Margolis has a kind heart.