“What about your dad? What does he expect?”
I lean my head against the stack of decorative pillows on her bed. They smell like her. Sweet and feminine, a soothing fragrance that relaxes some of the tension wedged in my chest.
“He expects us to help him run his business because he can’t do it himself. That’s what family does. You pitch in when you’re needed. You take care of each other.”
She frowns. “At the expense of your dreams?”
“If it comes down to that, yes.” This entire conversation is too dismal, so I tug her toward me. “Come on, let’s put on the movie. I need some explosions and gunfights to distract me from my misery.”
Grace grabs her laptop and gets the movie ready, but when she tries to place the computer between us, I shift it to my lap so there’s no barrier to keep her from snuggling beside me. I love holding her. And playing with her hair. And leaning in to kiss her neck whenever the urge strikes.
I haven’t been in a relationship since high school, but being with Grace is different than it was with my old girlfriends. It feels…more mature, I guess. Back then we just talked about trivial bullshit, and filled in the silences by fooling around. But Grace and I actually talk. We talk about our days and our classes, our childhoods, our futures.
Talking isn’t all we do, though. I’ve seen her almost every day since our first date, and we’ve messed around every single time. Christ, that bathroom hook-up at Beau’s party? Out of this fucking world—and she hadn’t even touched me. I’d jerked off when I was down on my knees eating her pussy, and sweet Jesus, I can’t remember ever coming that hard from my own hand.
But we haven’t had sex yet, and I don’t even care. It used to be all about the quick gratification for me—flirt, fuck, get out. Like a game of ball hockey back in middle school, hurriedly played between the time school let out and when my mother would call me in for supper.
With Grace, it’s like three periods of real hockey. The anticipation and excitement of the first period, the escalating buildup of the second, and then the sheer intensity of the third that results in that euphoric knowledge of having achieved something. A win, a loss, a tie. Doesn’t matter. It’s still the most powerful feeling in the world.
If I had to identify it, I’d say we’re in the second period now. The buildup. Hot hook-up sessions that leave me aching, but none of the third-period pressure to seal the deal.
Twenty minutes into the film, she turns to me suddenly. “Hey. Question.”
I click the track pad to press pause. “Hit me.”
“Am I your girlfriend?”
I give her my creepiest leer. “I don’t know, baby, do you want to be?”
Amusement dances in her brown eyes. “Well, now I don’t.”
Grinning, I lean over the edge of the bed to set the laptop on the floor, then shift around and pounce on her. She squeals as I get her on her back, my body pressed to her side as I prop up on one elbow and peer down at her.
“Liar,” I accuse. “Of course you want to be my girlfriend. And FYI? You are.”
Her expression grows pensive for a moment, and then she nods. “I can live with that.”
“Aw, how generous of you, baby. We should silkscreen it on matching T-shirts—‘I can live with that.’”
Her laughter floats up and tickles my chin. I love her laugh. It’s so fucking genuine. Everything about her is genuine. I’ve hooked up with too many chicks who play games, who say one thing and mean another, who lie or manipulate to get what they want. But not Grace. She’s open and sincere, and when she’s pissed off or annoyed, she tells me. I appreciate that.
I dip my head to kiss her, and when our tongues meet, a jolt of pleasure zips down to my cock, which thickens against her leg. I nudge my hips forward, and just that tiny amount of friction makes me groan. God. I want to come. She’s gotten me there twice this week. Once jacking me off, the other time using her mouth. On the nights that orgasms weren’t on the table, I jerked it in the shower, imagining I was fucking her instead of my fist, but self-gratification is nothing compared to what she’s doing right now, when she unzips my pants and wraps her fingers around me.
My eyes roll to the top of my head at that first gentle stroke. “When is Daisy coming home?” I mumble.
“At least not for another hour.” She rubs a slow circle around the head of my dick. Precome coats her fingers, making it easy to glide her fist up and down my shaft.