Baby Daddy: I always rate my chances.
Bea: Then you should probably start working on your expectations.
Baby Daddy: Where’s the fun there? I prefer a challenge.
Bea: I’m not a game.
Baby Daddy: Did I say you were?
Baby Daddy: Something tells me the reward when I win will be sweet, though.
“Ugh,” I complain. This man is exasperating.
Hot. But exasperating.
Baby Daddy: I know you still think about that night. I see it in your eyes when you look at me.
Bea: I do not.
Baby Daddy: Liar.
Before I get a chance to reply, the dots start bouncing again.
Baby Daddy: I know I still do.
“Oh God.”
Baby Daddy: I lie in bed at night remembering the way you squeezed me so goddamn tight when you came. I came so fucking hard, it’s no wonder I got you preggers, really.
His words are the final straw. The ache between my thighs is too insistent.
I slide my hand down my stomach, my fingers tucking under the waistband of my leggings and then my panties.
I gasp as my fingertips brush against my needy clit, but it soon turns into a sigh when I circle it just the way I like.
My cell buzzes on my chest, but I ignore it. In my head, I’m back in that hallway with Everett. He’s inside me, filling me almost to the point of pain as he pushes me closer and closer to the release I’m so desperate for.
I get myself close to orgasm in record time. I’ve always been able to get myself off fairly quickly, but recently it’s been even more impressive. The problem is, it’s fast and unfulfilling. What I really need is hours of teasing, and that leads to a life-altering release. Not a quick and dirty, self-delivered one.
But knowing that doesn’t stop me from chasing that high I crave.
I’m close. So freaking close.
And then the banging starts.
I startle, tugging my hand from my pants and sitting up in a rush.
When it stops, I convince myself that it’s my neighbor. But then it starts up again, and all I can think is that it’s Everett outside.
My heart lurches as my body continues to protest about losing that release.
I was so fucking close.
The banging continues, and despite knowing better, I find myself on my feet and walking toward my front door.
If it’s Everett, I’ll…just send him away.
He should have gotten the message that I don’t want him here when I gave him my old address. Surely he wouldn’t just show up on the off chance that his image got me all hot and bothered, and hope I’d be willing to take him for a second ride?
