I might be able to financially take care of myself—and more—now, but I’m stillthat guy. The guy who’ll call in sick to work when there’s fresh powder for snowboarding. The guy who’ll randomly put potatoes with googly eyes glued onto them on every bench in the park in the middle of the night. The guy who’s never met a dare he wouldn’t take, whose presence somehow inspires bigger bets and bolder fun at the bars, who doesn’t really care what fork is for what course, or why meals have to have courses.
And while having her hand on my raging hard-on is wet dream territory for my inner teenager, she’s still the last person who’ll follow through when she wakes up and realizes what she’s been using as a handlebar in her sleep.
Fuck.
Not just my balls that are sweating now. My dick is too.
She’s gripping my sweating cock. She’s gonna wake up with my sweaty cock in her hands, think I jizzed all over both of us, and it’ll be game over for me.
I don’t get easily embarrassed.
Spent too much time the past decade coming to terms with who I am, what I want, where I’ve fucked up, and where I fit in the world now to worry about little stuff like what judgy people that I’ll never please think about me.
But waking up in this bed with her hands all over me? Getting a feel of everything that teenage me fantasized about for years while pretending I was completely unaffected by her presence, and knowing that she’d reject me all over again?
This is different.
And don’t get me started on what it’s doing to me that she’s sleeping with her face smushed against my shoulder after tossing and turning half the night.
Drooling a little on my skin, even.
Fucking adorable.
No.
No.
Not adorable.
Annoying. I need to wash Delaney drool off me now.
She’s cute, that backstabbing asshole in the back of my head whispers.
Time to move.
I shift a millimeter, and she bolts straight upright, her tank top riding up and showing off the smooth skin on her soft belly.
Higher, an instinctive part of me that I have no control over mentally orders her shirt.Go higher. Give me the thrill of my life and show me a Laney nipple.
“Oh my god, who am I?” she gasps.
“My dick wants to know the answer to that question too.”Jesus. I fuckinghatebeing the grumpy asshole.
Why does she bring this out in me?
Because she makes you feel fifteen again, and fifteen sucks, the rational part of my brain answers for me.
She yanks the sheet up to her chin and stares at me.
While she’s still gripping my cock.
With what’s apparently her third hand.
Wait.
Wait.
“Please leave your unmentionables out of all of our conversations,” she says almost as stiffly as my cock’s standing up under her hand.
