“Yes, baby, don’t stop.” He joins my effort and fucks into my fist. He doesn’t realize what he just called me, but hearing him use that word makes my balls tingle. I know it won’t be long now.
“Come on, Lashes.” I snap my hips and his muscles tense. I bring my lips to his ear and whisper. “Come for me, baby.”
His entire being starts to vibrate from the upcoming orgasm. I can feel it everywhere our bodies touch. The moment his channel tightens around my shaft, I speed up my hand, shuttling over his cock. Jordan’s breath is coming in hard pants mixed with loud moans and expletives as his pleasure barrels toward him.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!” His voice breaks on a scream that draws my balls up painfully tight, but fuck I want to see him come before I lose all control. I want all of my senses filled with him. My hips start to lose rhythm as I feel his cock pulsing in my hand. Jets of cum shoot over his sweat-soaked chest. The very sight of him like this has me following him over the edge into oblivion.
“Jordan! Fuck… so good.” My tongue feels heavy in my mouth and my words come out in a mumble as I nuzzle against his neck, squeezing him tighter against me. Still buried deep inside him, Jordan finds enough energy to rock his hips against me, milking every drop and prolonging this feeling of ecstasy. I run a finger through the mess on his chest before bringing it to my mouth and groaning at the taste.
We stay like this, moving against each other as we lazily kiss and touch. Interlocking our fingers, we breathe in this moment, slowly savouring it as it ebbs away.
“I told you not to call mebaby.” Jordan murmurs his half-hearted complaint, but he sounds relaxed and well-fucked, which takes the bite out of his words.
I kiss his nape, then lick his neck from his shoulder right to the spot behind his ear. He shivers again and I chuckle. “I liked it when you calledmebaby.”
He gasps in horror at the thought. “I didnot!”
The shock in his voice makes me smile.Oh, my sweet, sweet Lashes. Your subconscious mind is so much more delicate and tender than you would prefer it to be.
“Of course you did. And it was hot as fuck.” I put my lips on his skin again, because I can’t get enough. “You can call me ‘baby’ anytime you want.”
All I hear in answer is an irritated groan that changes in cadence pretty quickly when I nudge my cock against his prostate, all traces of argument dying on his lips.
CHAPTER 18
Jordan
A few months ago, I would have been standing in front of my bedroom mirror getting ready to go in search of a one-and-done guy. Today, I’m tossing every piece of clothing that I own onto my bed, searching for the perfect outfit for my date. A fucking date. A real life romantic date with Dimples. Well, as romantic as my brain will allow. Eric proposed some expensive restaurant, because of course he did. He’s all fancy and shit. I, however, am not. The idea of sitting face-to-face with Eric staring into his eyes over a candlelit dinner gives me indigestion. That is too much like adatedate and I’m not there yet. Drinks, though, I can do. A nice cocktail bar or maybe a jazz bar. Somewhere with a relaxing atmosphere and dim lighting.
We both decided that going to Jacks wouldn’t qualify as a date, because every time we’re there we end up fucking somewhere on the premises, and today is not supposed to be about that. I mean, I’m open to it, but apparently that's bad date etiquette. Who knew? Not me, because I have little to no experience as far as these things go.
Shit, I’m so nervous that my palms are sweating. We’ve been out plenty of times, but they have been with the sole purpose of having a risky hookup—not so much about talking and getting to know each other. What the fuck do we even talk about? Surely shop talk is a no-no on dates. What if it's awkward because we have nothing to say to each other? Ugh, is it too late to cancel?
Moving from my bathroom to the living room, I continue my internal panic in a larger space more conducive to pacing. “Oh, vodka!” I clap my hands together like an excited kid. That's exactly what I need. Good ol’ liquid courage never fails.
I’m not normally a vodka kind of guy, but I’m pretty sure there is some leftover bottle rolling around the back of my freezer. Alcohol doesn’t go out of date, right? Shoving my arm elbow deep, I push past bags of frozen veg and containers of God knows what. “Come on, where the fuck are you?” I mutter through gritted teeth, before I feel cold glass under my fingertips. “Fucking finally.”
Pouring a generous measure of the ice-cold clear liquid into a mug, I knock it straight back, then pour another to sip over while I finish getting ready. There is a chance that pre-gaming with straight vodka before a date is a colossal mistake, but it's either this or turn up to the bar looking like a sweaty mess with a nervous tic.
Calmer now, I head back to my bedroom to go through the mountain of clothes piled on my bed in a wrinkled mess. I’m so agitated by my intrusive thoughts that I feel like throwing them all away. I set down my mug of vodka on my dresser, then stand with my hands on my hips, sighing loudly at my clothes. Why do I even own so many? I hate myself right now.
“Right, there has to be something dateworthy in this pile somewhere.” I pick up the first thing I see. It’s a black tank top with a sparklingCUTIEwritten on the front. “Yeah, not tonight. Probably not ever.” Tossing it to the side, I figure I can donate it later and move on.
By the time the mountain on my bed is more of a molehill, I have a huge pile of donations and still nothing to wear for this date. I should have just gone shopping this afternoon. It's too late now. I flop face-first onto the bed, groaning with frustration. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot something that has me lifting my head in hope. It’s the beautiful ivory blouse that my mom got me for Christmas last year. Soft silk with randomly-scattered pearl embellishments. It’s fucking perfect. The deep neckline shows off my décolleté, leaving just the right amount exposed to show off my favorite pearl necklace.
With a renewed burst of energy, I scour through the remaining items until I have my dark brown faux leather pants in hand. Celebrating with a mouthful of vodka—which sparks a slight coughing fit—I can now finally finish getting ready.
Twenty minutes and several curse words later, I have my blouse and pearls on with my leather pants currently stuck at my thighs. I have tugged and pulled and threatened these damn pants, but they will not fucking come up any further. I’m sweating again, with exertion this time, and of course the sweat is making the leather clamp even harder to my skin. I need another fucking shower. In fact, I just need to start this day all over again. My hair is a mess. My makeup is sliding off my face. I probably have sweat patches on my beautiful shirt, and more than likely I now stink.
“That’s it! I’m not going!” I announce loudly. I shuffle as best I can without full use of my knees back to the living room in search of my phone. This date was a terrible idea to begin with, and if all of this drama is not a bad omen, then I don't know what is. Even my goddamn clothes are trying to stop me from going.
Grabbing my phone off the coffee table, I let out a long and weary sigh. It’s like, thirty minutes until I’m supposed to meet Eric. Fuck it, I’m going to give it one more try. Maybe if I lay down on the couch with my legs high, they will magically fall into place by the power of positive thinking alone.
Throwing back the last of my cup-o-vodka, I assume the position and start wriggling my back on the couch cushion. I can practically hear the vodka swooshing in my stomach as I move, making me laugh then groan when I strain so hard pulling on the leather that my fucking ear pops. Flopping back, I take a few deep breaths any midwife would be proud of, then try again. This time I tug one leg after the other, digging my heels into the couch cushions and lifting my hips high into the air, figuring maybe this new angle will help.
I’m about to start pumping my hips and fucking the bastard pants up my thighs when there’s a knock on my door. Quickly snapping my head side to side, I try to find my phone so I can check the time. Who the fuck is that? Maybe it's Pete. Oh, my god, he can help me. Yes, he can lube me up and slide these fuckers into place like a condom.
The knocking starts again, making my vodka-soaked brain startle. It throws off my balance, making me slide further off the couch than is safe right now. “Come in and help me, for fuck’s sake,” I yell in the direction of the door. A sharp and unexpected vibration on my back sends my body rolling to the floor just in time to hear a deep voice—that most certainly does not belong to my best friend—calling out to me.
