He cocks his head, and I point to his doggy bed by the electric fireplace. It glows under the flatscreen. In the kitchen, I quickly pour a bowl of my favorite snack, along with grabbing two cans of ginger ale.
The shower stops running, and I face a dilemma. Shirt or no shirt? Date or Dom? Kind or kinky?
Fuck it, I split the difference between my two sides. Tossing my sweatshirt on the floor, I leave my sweatpants on.
By the time Alena emerges from my bathroom, looking way too fucking sexy in my matching gray sweats with her gorgeous hair, slick and wet, I’m thankful I’m already lying propped up on my bed.
Otherwise, with the way she’s admiring my body, her eyes combing down to my stirring bulge, I’d tie her to the bed and spread her legs.
Instead, I pat the spot beside me, and she crawls to me. It’s natural, normal, and rushing blood to my dick so fast, I pull the faux fur blanket at the foot of my bed over us. Then I grab the remote. “One rule for this sleepover,” I proclaim. To her. To me.
She nestles against my body. “No frisky business.”
“Tworules for this sleepover,” I correct. “Don’t touch Boner or the remote.”
She huffs a giggle. “Boner?”
“Don’t act like you haven’t met him.”
“We’re not well acquainted”—she drapes her leg over mine—“yet,” making me bite my bottom lip. “And you can keep the remote if I can have an answer.”
“Shoot.” I’m a fucking idiot.
“How did you know I’m a good swimmer?”
Told you.
So I tell her another truth, not the one that’ll ruin us one day.
“My mom raised her sons to believe in women. You know what you can do, and I trust you to do it. Hell, if you ask me, y’all should run the world. Men have kinda fucked it up.”
“Men haven’t done that bad. I mean, you made these…” She taps the remote in my hand. “Part of your arsenal of phallic things you can point and shoot, and I’m not complaining.”
I laugh, gently guiding her head to my chest. “Yeah, and some guy made this romcom classic for us too.”
Clicking, I find the platform streaming my favorite movie. In two minutes, Alena pops up, turning to me. “The Wedding Singer? You like this movie?”
“I fucking love this movie. I watch it every Sunday night.” She blinks. She does that a lot. “What? You hate it?”
“No. It was my mom’s favorite movie. We watched it all the time. She always said I needed to find my Robbie Hart one day.”
I sigh, shaking my head. “Sorry, Julia Gulia, but I can’t sing or play the ukulele for shit.”
No, I can’t breathe.
I can’t stop feeling like the universe, like even the spirit ofAlena’s mom, wants me to have the one person I’m not supposed to love.
It leaves us silent as she settles back into me, and I caress her damp hair, spilling over my naked chest.
If she can feel my heart pounding for her, she doesn’t say. If she can see how I’m waging an inner war against my dick, who wants to rise in rebellion, she doesn’t notice.
She just munches on popcorn with me, and whenever she finds a candied nut, she offers it to my lips.
My woman.
Finally.
Mutt whimpers, wanting to join us, but I cut him a no cock-blocking glare. So, he whines, resting his chin on his paws.
