Sweet girl.
He’d used that nickname for the second time, and somehow it felt fitting as he touched me there. I loved that he still saw me as sweet even as he explored all my entrances.
“Yes. Just a plug though,” I admitted.
“Good. This will feel so much better,” he said, slowly easing out his finger.
I craned my neck as he reached for the black vibrator, hit the on button, and pressed it against my ass.
I jerked, a wave of lust spilling over me as he slid the tip of the toy against my ass.
“God, yes. That’s so good.”
“It’s going to be so damn good when you beg to come again.”
That was all he said, because he silenced himself with me. His lips returned to my swollen center, his tongue flicking my clit as he pushed the toy deeper into my rear.
The twin sensations—penetration and filthy kisses—sent me into the stratosphere in seconds.
Lust rocketed through me, and I became a wild woman. Swallowed whole by pleasure, I gave in to the crush of sensations. To the waves of desire flooding my body. I felt tight and hot on the vibrator and wet and soft on his mouth.
And I felt bliss.
Tingling, delicious bliss racing across my skin.
I was close again, and I remembered the rules.
“Adam, let me come.”
He growled against me. He didn’t even have to say a word. I knew what he wanted me to do—what I wanted to do.
“Please,” I keened as I reached the edge, and he sent me over, driving me into ecstatic oblivion with toy and tongue.
I was in another world, another land, and I floated there on a sea of euphoria for minutes.
I was nothing but breaths and pants and contented moans.
And as I came back into my body, I was vaguely aware that it was my turn, that I wanted to do something for him.
But he rose, placing a finger to my lips as he shook his head. “I know what you want. You can suck me off when I come home from work.”
“Yes,” I said, because that was my answer to everything with him. A loud, reverberating yes.
Then he took me to the shower, stripping off his jeans, turning on the water, and scanning the shelf quickly. “Do you have a shower cap? So you don’t get your gorgeous hair wet?”
I laughed softly. “No, I don’t have one. I use hair ties. On the vanity.”
He stepped out of the stall, giving me a bird’s-eye view of his sculpted ass. My friend had a fantastic body. One I wanted to lick and kiss and bite. He reached for a tie on the vanity then returned to the shower, shutting the glass door.
He proffered a black band for my hair, and I smiled as I looped up my brown locks in a messy bun. He murmured appreciatively.
Then he washed me.
He was attentive, soaping my shoulders, my back, my belly, and making sure my messy bun didn’t get wet. That was no easy task, but he pulled it off. A little thing, but I was grateful, because no woman wants to do her hair twice in an hour.
He let me take my turn, soaping his strong arms, his chest, his carved abs.
We were quiet in the shower, wordlessly caring for each other. Showing a new type of touch—one I hadn’t foreseen when I penned my list. Care.
Questions swirled in my head. Where did we go from here? Did this mean something different? This surprisingly tender moment in the shower? When touch was no longer sexual, but still intimate in an entirely new way?
I had no answers, and I didn’t want to ask him, but I could feel those questions echoing in my head, a space that was already filled with so many unknowns.
After, when he was dressed and ready for work, my uncertainty descended again briefly. Should I kiss him goodbye? Walk him to the door? I wasn’t sure what we were supposed to do next or how we should behave. But I remembered our breakfast and how easy it was, and I returned to that. To us.
“Thanks for breakfast. Best I’ve ever had.”
“Funny, I was going to say the same about my dish,” he said with a wink.
My heart warmed. We could do this. We could be us.
But the moment was broken when his phone rang.
12
Adam
Brandon’s face appeared on my phone as The Rolling Stones’ “Start Me Up” blasted.
He’d picked that tune. It was his favorite, and it was our anthem during college. The Friday night song, we’d called it, before we hit the quad for parties, pool, and whatever else we could find when it came to festivities.
I slid my thumb across the screen, answering, “You can’t resist me. Admit it. This is the second time in less than twenty-four hours you’ve called.”
“Yes, that’s it, Adam. I can’t stay away from you,” he said, and his eyes drifted to Nina at the edge of the screen. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Nina. Ça va?”
She laughed, rolling her eyes. She didn’t know Brandon well, but she’d met him a year ago when he was in town. “Do you actually speak French now?”
I shot her a knowing look. “Remember last time Brandon was here? He tried to pick up some gals from Montreal using his French skills, and he failed abysmally.”
“Is that so?” she asked. I liked that she was chatting with him on this call, even briefly, because she was normally reserved with people she didn’t know well. Brandon fell into that category. But here she was, by my side. That was a sign that she wasn’t weirded out by what we’d just done. She was still herself with me, and that reassured me that we could work through her list exactly as we intended to.
Brandon cleared his throat. “Ahem. It wasn’t my French that failed me. Don’t you remember?”
I smacked my palm to my forehead, recalling how his pickup attempt went down—in flames. “That’s right. It was your radar that failed you. The Montreal gals weren’t in Vegas for the boys. They were in Vegas for the girls.”
“All the more reason why I was trying to insert myself into their lady sandwich,” he said, flashing a grin, keeping it light, as he always did. I knew better, but I also knew this was how he operated. How he had to operate.
“Dream big, my friend,” I said, then shifted gears. “To what do I owe the pleasure of an early morning phone call?”
Brandon furrowed his brow, casting his gaze from Nina to me and back. “Isn’t it eight-thirty where you are? I know you two are like Batman-and-Robin kind of close, but I didn’t realize you were hanging out in the bat cave that early.”
“For the record, I’m not Robin, and besides, this is my bat cave,” Nina said, arching a brow over her glasses. I reined in a grin, both from the comment—because who in their right mind ever wanted to be Robin?—and also because she looked badass in her red-as-sin glasses and with that sharp stare in her brown eyes. And tough, too, with her whole photographer look in full force this morning. Dark jeans, black boots, and a wine-red shirt. Biker chic, and did she ever wear it well.
She wore everything well, including her kinks. To think the woman who’d been my friend and neighbor had been hiding this fantastic secret these last few years, and I didn’t mean her virginity. I meant her appetite in bed—she was a little bit submissive, a lot kinky, and all kinds of dirty.
My kind of woman.
And I was the only one who knew about the other side of Nina.