I whip off my shirt the rest of the way and grasp his stubbly face between my fingers. “Bravo, Melissa. Remind me to bring her an expensive bottle of wine the next time I visit.”
“Absolutely. As long as you swear never to say my sister’s name during sex ever again.”
“You started it.” He nibbles in between my cleavage and I give a yelp that he answers with a lick. That might leave a mark.
God, I hope it leaves a mark. Just a little one. I never wanted to be marked before. It always felt misogynistic or something, but the idea of being marked by Huck …
Whew. Can your entire body flush? Because my entire body is aflame.
I pull off his shirt and soon we’re shedding pants and diving onto his bed.
“Are you going to get mad at me if I go down on you again?” He waggles his brows and I smack his chest lightly.
“Get the fuck out. Are you gonna let me repay the favor this time?”
“I’m gonna insist.”
Hell.
“Thank god.” I push him back on the mattress with a bounce and bite down gently on his raised nipple before plac ing open-mouthed kisses across his chest and down down down to where I’ve wanted to be for ages.
Huck is a dream. He’s considerate, confident, sensitive, and a hell of a lyricist. He’s down-to-earth, patient, and soulful. He’s handsome in the maddeningly interesting way that he could not care less how he looks except to make an effort for you.
All of that is enough. It’s too much, honestly, and I haven’t come to terms with how I feel about it all, but for the moment, I’m just gonna thank all the gods for his thick cock and swear it was made for me. I take him between my lips, slowly inching toward the base and wrapping my fingers around him to make up the difference when I reach my limit. I twirl my tongue around the head, dragging it along the slit before plunging down again. I grip his hip with one hand to steady myself while tightening my hold and sucking hard, hollowing my cheeks and making him rasp out and buck his hips off the bed.
“Lorelai,” he warns with a practical yelp, and I grin around his cock, my eyes seeking out his and answering him with a low, questioning hmm? that has him panting. Eventually his hands find my hair, but they’re gentle. “I’m already so close. I’ve been close.”
In response, I dive down again, this time with even more enthusiasm. There is nothing I want more than to feel him come apart on my tongue. To have that power over him. To make him feel that good. I grip harder with my hands and hum my encouragement, making my mouth as tight as I can before he stops me.
“Oh god, Lorelai, you have to stop. I give in. Whatever you want. But please let me finish inside of you. I need to watch you come with me inside of you.”
How can I say no to that?
So I climb him like a fucking tree, and he hands me a condom. He props himself up with a pillow as I rip open the foil, rolling it along his length before straddling him and taking him inside me, stretching and filling me with the most exquisite friction all … the way … down. I moan and probably would be embarrassed at how loud it is, but oh god, I don’t care—this feels better than anything I’ve ever felt in my entire life. Well, until he moves his hands, cupping me, his thumbs plucking at my nipples and pinching just enough to make my eyes roll back and my head drop, my muscles completely useless.
He removes his hands and I want to protest, but then his hot mouth is there instead, sucking and biting as his talented fingers find my clit. I’m drenched and quivering, my blood is on fire, and everything is so, so much. So fucking much I can barely breathe, my breaths coming in pants and moans as he’s whispering encouragement and pulling me to the edge of the cliff until he says, “Now, Lorelai.”
I start rolling my hips, grinding against him and gripping him from the inside out, and he’s lifting off the bed, thrusting inside me until I feel myself seize up, curling in and pressing down, my walls fluttering and clamping, and I sob with relief as wave after wave of near-unbearable pleasure overwhelms me.
Huck’s grip on my hips tightens to an almost painful de gree as he groans against the base of my throat and comes hard inside of me. We stay like that, wrapped tightly together, so tight I can’t tell which limbs are mine and which are his, for a long time, inhaling each other’s breaths and matching heartbeats and I know I’m fucked. I mean. Clearly in the literal sense, but also in the figurative sense.
Because there was nothing friendly about what we just did.
* * *
In effort to restore factory settings on our friendship, I don’t stay the night and he doesn’t offer. To be clear, he doesn’t not offer. This isn’t like the last time where he packed up leftovers and shooed me out after the orgasm. For one, we both orgasmed this time. Actually, is there such a thing as a double orgasm or maybe just a really, really long one? Because if there is …
I need to call Shelby.
Anyway, factory settings. Dinner was never part of the deal. So what if we fell asleep together on the couch first?
FACTORY SETTINGS. I used his bathroom and cleaned up, and by the time I was done, he was back in his clothes. Like a hookup. A really fucking solid hookup. Just friends. Really good friends who are really good at sex. Because even if I wanted more, and I don’t, I can’t. We can’t. I can’t fall in love with him. If I thought Drake destroyed me, Craig—Huck—well, I just don’t think I could handle losing him, too. Because eventually he’s gonna have to let me go. I’m still a cussword in this town, after all. But he won’t be taking my heart with him when he does. So no. That’s not this. This is best friends who have really hot sex and keep their hearts protected because they are smart.
I walk back down the stairs to my apartment and text him good night before stripping off my clothes and crawling into bed, still smelling like him. Still feeling his hands on my skin. Still tasting him on my tongue. Still hearing him in my dreams.
Greatest friends’ hookup ever.
23
LORELAI
MY TEARS RICOCHET
I woke up this morning feeling like the Queen of My Own Orgasmic Fate, but that was quickly overshadowed by how, similarly to my （happy） vag, my career is royally fucked. It’s been three days since the disaster of an apology tour wrapped with me salting, then gratuitously razing any ground I’d gained, all before firing my agent.
It’s probably too early to call my comeback a colossal dumpster fire, if only because that feels disrespectful to Huck and Coolidge after working on the duet together. If nothing else, I know I can be proud of that particular song. Even if it only boosts Jefferson’s career, I’ll be thrilled. The kid deserves everything good, and I’d be proud to be a part of that.
And Huck and Arlo are too talented at what they do for a connection to me to mess with the outcome of their work.
I might be persona non grata around country music, but my thirty-three-year-old vocals are like the finest vintage. Aged to perfection. I’m at my peak, baby.
Anyway, hell, I need to get some air. I need to get out of Nashville and away from everything that reminds me of what a mess my life is. I pack a day pack, including ropes, harnesses, chalk, and carabiners, as well as a couple of protein bars and two bottles of water, one to throw in my pack and the other for the car ride home.