“You know I do,” he groans, giving into the pleasure and resting his forehead on my shoulder. His blunt fingertips dig into my hips, holding me in place while he seeks out friction, his bulge rubbing against mine through our sweats.
Bringing his lips back to mine, I slip the hand I had on his back lower, carefully dipping it below the waistband of his pants and boxers. My middle finger glides down his crease until I’m lightly teasing his hole. He gasps in my mouth, and like the feral, greedy bastard that I am, I swallow it with pride.
“Is this okay? Do you want me… here?” I check in with him, drawing a circle around his puckered rim.
“J-just your fingers?” he stammers nervously.
I nod. “Neither of us are ready for more.”
“Y-yet? I mean, we’ll get there eventually, r-right?”
I huff out a little laugh. “You were the one that said things would move at the pace we’re comfortable with.”
“Mhm, right.” He bites his lip, peering up at me. “I have no lube,” he admits.
My gaze flicks around the kitchen. God, doesn’t it make me wince to think about having to use olive oil for this, but… fuck, I’m so desperate to watch him get off again. To know that I hold the key to his pleasure, right at my fingertips. I spin us around, reaching as far back as I can until I snag the bottle.
“Is that… safe?” he asks, his brows knitting.
“You got any better ideas?”
“Don’t get all snippy with me,” he chuffs. “I’m just looking out for Georgia.”
I rear back, blinking at him. Shaking my head in disbelief, I already know what the answer will be when I ask, “You didn’t name your assGeorgia, did you?”
“I did. Georgia, because—”
“Peaches,” I grunt, finishing his thought. “Listen, it’s either the olive oil, or we just call this a lost cause. Which is it?”
He scowls, thrusting the bottle at my chest. I smirk. Pissing him off is way more sexy than it has any right to being. He quickly changed his aggrieved tune, however, when I slickened up my fingers and scissored them around in him enough to find his p-spot. He was singing anentirelydifferent song then—one where the lyrics went a little something like this: “shit,” “fuck,” “oh my god,” “sweet baby Jesus,” and finally, my personal favorite, “Gordy!”
Chapter Twenty-One
“I’m not saying Iwoulddo it, because that’d be cruel, but wouldn’t it be kinda funny if we got Twink’s ears pierced while we’re down there? I mean, how fuckin’ funny would it be to tell everyone I had my wiener pierced.” I ask Gordy as we make the drive down Route 1 towards Colt’s tattoo parlor in Portland.
He rolls his eyes, tapping his thumb on the steering wheel. “How many wiener jokes are you going to make on this trip anyway? So far, it’s been an hour of you bragging about youstroking your wiener.”
“Well, we’ve got roughly about two and a half more hours left, sooo…”
He grumbles. “Knew I should have booted your ass out as we went over the Penobscot Narrows Bridge.”
He says that, but he’s the one that invited me to tag along with him today. An offer which I gladly accepted. It’s probably the closest thing we’ll ever have to a date—whether that’s just because Gordydoesn’tdate, or because of time constraints, I’m not certain. Gordy’sofficially been back from rehab for about a month and a half now, and I feel like we meet like ships in the night, what with the girls’ split activities, work, and all. Add to that, he occasionally will still get too overwhelmed with, I don’t know what, maybe the flow we’ve created, and he seeks a night or two to just crash at his own place.
I’m just excited we have a whole day together, and aside from his mild grumbliness, which honestly is on par for him, he seems to be in good spirits.
“Now, now, Croot. Let’s keep those murderous thoughts to ourselves.” I snicker, scratching behind Twinkie’s disproportionately too-large-for-his-head ears. I reach over and turn down the heat a little. “Wiener was starting to get a little too hot. I think it was bothering him. Hah, get it? Hot and—”
“Yes… Gannett. I fuckin’ get it.”
God, don’t I like getting under his skin. I dunno about Twink, but I knowI’mgetting hot and bothered, for sure.
“Got any pre-tattoo jitters?”
He offers me a droll look. “The top half of my body is covered in ‘em, and you think I’ve got jitters?”
“Where are you getting the new one? Your buttcheek? And what are you gonna get?”
“I’m tossing around a couple of ideas of what to get, and I’m not letting your nephew tattoo my asscheek.”
