Her lip quivers again. “We love you.” She turns, taking the few steps to Laurel, wrapping her arms around her, too. “Bye sweetie. It was good meetin’ you.”
“Bye Mrs. Rabideaux.” Those blue eyes find mine over my mother’s shoulder, sparkling with mischief. “Drive safe.”
“Everyone in the car!” my dad bellows, having long passed his patience threshold, pounding the hood of the car with his fist. “Boys, buckle up.”
We watch as my parents get in the car. Dad starts the engine, puts the car in drive, and heads across the parking lot toward the massive stadium entrance.
Before I can think about what I’m going to say next, Laurel flings herself into my body, arms folding behind my head. My heavy bag falls to the pavement and I haul her against me, mouth melting onto hers. Tongues mingling with no preamble, adrenaline still coursing through my body.
“I love watching you wrestle. It’s such a turn-on.”
“Yeah?” I could get used to this, having her to greet me after coming down off a win—or loss. Telling me how amazing I am after every match, boosting my ego. Sticking her tongue down my throat and rubbing her tits against my chest.
Laurel pulls at my hips, and I guide her back until her ass hits the driver side door of my Jeep, not giving a damn that my parents are probably still on the street adjacent to the parking lot and can most likely see us making out.
“Aren’t you tired?” The palms of her hands sneak beneath my shirt, running across my abs. Belly button. Toy with the waistband of my pants.
“No.” Not only am I not tired, I’ve never been this horny in my whole goddamn life.
“Are you too tired to do something tonight?”
Too tired to hang out with her? Not likely. “Like what?”
“Your mom mentioned it was your birthday last week. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I’m a guy. We don’t usually give a shit about our birthdays.”
“I give a shit about your birthday because I give a shit about you.” She plants a kiss on the tip of my nose. “I might have a treat for you.”
This piques my interest. “Oh yeah? What kind of treat?”
“Don’t get too excited—it’s nothing big. Just something small because I didn’t get to celebrate with you on your actual day.”
“All right.” We part so I can open the passenger side door. She hops up. “Your place or mine?”
“Mine, if that’s okay? I cleared it out—Lana went home, and Donovan is spending the weekend with the new guy he’s dating.”
Her roommate is gay? Huh.
How did I not know this?
When we make it back to her place and I sidle up to the curb, she unbuckles, twisting her fantastic body, leaning across the center console for a kiss, breath minty from peppermint gum.
We make out for a good ten minutes, tongues rolling, hands roaming, until I’m painfully hard and ready to bang Laurel in the back seat of my Jeep.
I want her that fucking bad.
Instead, she pulls back, chest heaving. Eyes sparkling. “Give me twenty minutes and come back?”
Shit.
Adjusting the raging hard-on in my track pants with a groan, I nod, raking one of my large palms through my mop of hair. I went twenty-one years with (basically) no sex; I can wait another twenty minutes.
“Yup.”
“Eek!” Another hasty kiss pressed to my mouth and she’s gone, fleeing to the front porch of the house. Gives a little wave before she and her flaming red hair disappear into the house.
Would it be weird if I sat here and finished myself off? Jerked off in her driveway? I sit with my hand hovering about my cock, the stiff erection straining for release.
Cover it with my palm, one of the worst fucking ideas I’ve ever had, because it twitches, triggered.
Glancing at the house again, groaning when I give in and slide a trembling hand into my pants, fisting my shaft with one hand, the Jeep’s grip bar above my window with the other. Slide my hand up and down, building speed, head tipped back when my balls tighten. Stroke and stroke, Laurel’s red hair dominating my fantasy. Her creamy, pale breasts. The well-manicured landing strip between her spread thighs.
Shit, yes. Yes, oh fuck—fuck, I’m whacking off in front of a girl’s house like a complete goddamn pervert. My pace quickens out of desperation and fear of being discovered, but it feels so fucking good I can’t stop.
Laurel
The birthday cake sits dead center in the dining room, a round, red velvet confection covered in white cream cheese frosting. Twenty-one candles are sunk into the saccharine center, the lights in my small dining room dim. Normally, we use this waste of a space for piling our shit on the table, but tonight, the room is clean, paper and clutter stacked neatly on the sideboard our landlord kept with the house.
Fussing with my dress, I button and unbutton the top twice, examining myself this way and that, smooth legs, cleavage, hair. My dress is flirty, black, and hardly appropriate for the cold weather we’ve been having, but we’re inside where it’s warm, and it’s sexy, so there is no way I’m changing out of it now.
The doorbells rings; fluffing my hair in the mirror, I plump my cleavage. Swipe on more lip stain. Smooth down the pleats in my black, flouncy skirt.
My breath hitches when I slowly drag open the door.
Rhett stands on the porch holding a small bouquet of flowers. Black polo shirt and dark jeans, he fidgets a little under my scrutiny.
“Jolies fleurs pour une jolie fille.” He hands them to me once I stop gaping and shove open the door. “Pretty flowers for a pretty girl.”
I press my nose to the delicate pink buds. Inhale. “You’re not supposed to be bringing me gifts—this is your night.”
“You are…stunning.” He steps into the entryway, pressing me against the door. Pressing a heated kiss on my gasping mouth. “Étourdissant.”
“These are beautiful.” I exhale. “Thank you.”
Usher him inside, turn the lock on the door. Pad barefoot into the room, dragging him along by the hand. The house is dim, save the flickering candles in the center of the dining room table. Twenty-one glowing wishes, dancing in the shadows.
“Let me find a vase and some water for these.” I plant another kiss on his cheek. “Take off your shoes and get comfortable.”
Better yet, take off your shirt, pants, and anything else you’ve got on while you’re getting undressed. Save us the time later. Ha ha.
His shoes get set by the door as his sharp brown eyes scan the room. Take in our beige sectional and the framed grouping of roommate photographs on the wall above it.
It’s a good kind of strange having him in my house; he’s huge, much bigger than Donovan, and an imposing figure, broad shoulders, and narrow waist.
I watch him from the corner of my eye as I cut the ends of the flowers, run the stems under water, and place them in a large mason jar.
So pretty.
I join him in the dining room, where he stands staring down at the cake, a beacon in the darkened room.
“Babe, there are no chairs in here.”
Babe.
“I know, I know,” I fuss. “But I thought it would be romantic to sit on top. You know that scene in the movie Sixteen Candles, where Jake Ryan finally gets Samantha in his house? And then they finally…”
Well, actually, they do nothing, because the damn movie fades to black before they get to the good part before they start to make out or have hot, passionate, cake sex.
Er…
Or maybe not.
Rhett bends at the waist, giving the underside of the table a cursory onceover before pressing on the surface, both palms splayed on the top. “I think it will hold us.”
His slow hands skim my hips when he approaches from behind, trailing up the silky fabric of my skirt. Spanning across my waist, they haul me up and onto the table as if I were light as a feather.
He crosses the room in three strides. Removes his socks, tossing them to the carpet. Sits on the edge of the table, pivoting his legs to the center. Crosses his legs.
Flicks his hair.
The cake blazes before us, candles down to within an inch, outdated chandelier above us at a dim glow.