It doesn’t work on Abbott, who eyes me suspiciously.
“I don’t think so, pal.” Her smile is flirty, too. “If you want to show me, you can slide on over here and whisper it in my ear.”
Whoa. That sounded…innocuous, but also sexy as fuck, and if she thought I was eye-fucking her before when I wasn’t, I sure as hell am doing it now.
My gaze scans the room.
Desdemona is curled up on her kitty bed, snoring in a way I’ve never heard a cat snore, not that I come in contact with many.
Strangest feline I’ve ever met.
Abbott pulls her leg down from the sofa, setting her foot on the floor—first one, then the other, spreading her knees, grin on her face. Arms go behind her head, hands intertwining.
She’s daring me to.
Don’t do it, Brooks.
Do. Not. Do. It.
Hands to yourself, bro. She tastes like hot dog, remember?
Keep the mouse in the house—she wants to relationship you.
I breathe in.
I breathe out.
I home in on those boobs, and while I’m not a vain man, or a greedy man, or a selfish man—
I laugh at that last one: not a selfish man? I am a selfish bastard or I wouldn’t be daydreaming about getting my ass off this couch, crawling on my hands and knees to Abbott’s side, and slowly removing those workout pants she’s wrapped up in.
What will she sound like with my mouth on her pussy?
What face will she make when she comes?
Only a selfish bastard would be asking himself that.
I clear my throat when Abbott crosses her legs again. Uncrosses them.
It’s a telltale sign she’s turned on, fire no doubt burning between her thighs.
Desdemona doesn’t move.
Abbott holds her breath.
Aw, fuck it—I’m going for it. It’ll be Christmas in a few months and this will be the gift I give myself since I haven’t fucked anyone in weeks, not since befriending my neighbor.
She’s ruined me.
That’s the last coherent thought I have when I ease myself off the couch and fall to my knees, just like I had in my mind moments ago. Take the few paces to her side, push her legs apart with my giant hands. They look huge on her slender thighs, tan against her light-colored leggings.
“Brooks…” What are you doing?
“Shh.” We’ll worry about it later; let me worship you now.
Her head hits the back of the sofa, dark hair fanning against the soft cushions. Tongue darting out when I hook my fingers in the waistband of her pants, resting them there while I lean forward, mouth and nose buried in her warmth. Buried against her tummy.
I feel her fingers bury themselves in my hair, raking across my skull—fucking bliss.
I moan.
My balls tighten.
Hands move, inching those pants down. Abbott blessedly lifts her ass off the couch so I can drag them further without struggling like an asshole.
Down they come, past her thighs, over her knees, down her calves. I pull them completely off and toss them to the carpet.
One less thing…
Her panties are the same color as her leggings; is that a coincidence or did she plan it that way in hopes we’d fuck?
Nah, that doesn’t seem like Abbott—she’s not a schemer.
You never know with women, though. They’re far too cunning to be completely harmless.
“Let me worship you.”
17
Abbott
“Worship me?” The words escape my lips in barely a whisper, for I can’t find my voice.
“Yes.”
He wants to go down on me.
Correction: he is down on me, and now he wants to put his tongue inside and give me an orgasm.
Let me worship you, let me worship you…
Sexy, seductive words making my stomach reel and insides sizzle.
“W-What are we doing?” My question has his head lifting, and he stops to look me in the eye. I can’t believe I’m actually stuttering.
I never stutter.
When Brooks raises his eyes, tearing his gaze from the lower half of my body, they aren’t glassy, or dilated, or hazy; Brooks is not drunk. Which means Brooks knows exactly what he’s doing and he wants to do it with me.
“Do you not want this?” His quiet question lingers, putting the proverbial ball in my court, and I bite down on my bottom lip, a habit I seemed to have developed only recently—since spending all my free time with him.
If he just wants to be friends and not dedicate his downtime to being with me, he has a piss-poor way of showing it.
Dinner. Movies. TV.
Everything but sleeping, and everything but sex, my leggings somehow no longer on my person.
In a heap on the carpet.
Legs being spread apart with two large, warm hands grazing my bare skin. Warm. So, so warm. Large thumbs plucking at the elastic of my underwear.
I’m not quivering, you’re quivering…
I will my thighs to stop shaking—stop it! Stop!—but it’s impossible since no man has had his hands on my body in months. I’d almost forgotten what it feels like, and it feels…it feels…heavenly, those slow, gentle strokes along my skin.
It might have been forever since I’ve had sex or fooled around, but the sensations all come back to me. The place where I want his hands? Comes right back to me. The tingles. The want. The need. The heavy breathing and heavy petting all come surging back as I watch him kneel before me, readying himself to go down on me.
If I wasn’t seeing him between my thighs, with my own eyes, I would never have believed it.
Brooks Bennett is about to down on you, Abbott. Enjoy it, girl.
Me: No freaking way will that ever happen. He’s going to realize what he’s doing and stop it.
Oh, it’s happening, just you wait and see.
Me: Wanna make a bet?
Also me: watches as Brooks Bennett’s shoulders shrug, nose pressing into the apex of my spread thighs, mouth breathing heavy into my pussy.
Pussy.
God, that word. I hate thinking it, let alone saying it out loud, and I can’t believe, of all things, that’s what crosses my mind. But what the hell am I supposed to call it? My kitty cat? My crotch? My vajajay?
What does a woman call her V when face-to-face with the P?
“Goddamn your pussy smells fantastic,” he groans.
See? I chose the right word for this occasion, resting on my elbows for a front-row seat to the action while doing my best to relax at the sight of it.
It turns me on.
It makes me wet.
It makes me squirm and moan and wiggle my ass with anticipation. He’s taking fucking forever to put his lips on my vagina (vagina sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?), and I’m not sure how much more teasing I can take.
But.
Brooks going down on me is a gift, one I’m not about to squander by complaining.
So I do the only thing I can do: I sit still, waiting, trying not to boss him around by telling him how to do his job. No man wants to be told what to do in the bedroom, unless they’re royally fucking it up.
Like my first boyfriend, Daniel, who couldn’t have navigated his way around my holes if I’d drawn him a topographical map of the territory. Daniel was all fumbling and poking and awkward searching—he made Billie Belmont seem like a sex god.