“Show’s not over yet,” she whispered, sauntering toward me.
She shocked the hell out of me when she straddled my lap without hesitation, placing her back to my front. Her ass settled against my erection, warm and soft through the thin fabric of my sweats. She leaned back against my chest and started to gyrate. Slow, lazy rolls at first, letting me feel every curve.
“Mmm,” she purred. “I missed this.”
Her hands reached back, threading into my hair, dragging my mouth to her neck. I kissed and sucked at the sensitive skin there, groaning as she rocked harder.
“Good girl,” I muttered. My hands slid up her thighs, gripping her hips to guide her movements. “You feel so fucking good.”
She hummed, arching her breasts forward as she rolled her hips in a slow figure eight. The friction was maddening. Her heat against my length, the way she teased without giving me what I really wanted . . . I was about to lose it.
I slid one hand up under the jersey, finding the soft swell of her breast. My palm cupped her fully through the lace, thumb brushing over her nipple until it pebbled tightly under my touch. The other hand slid between her spread thighs, fingers gliding through her slick folds.
“You know,” I mumbled against her neck. “I’ve been pretty busy myself the last four weeks.”
“Uh-huh,” she breathed, chasing the fingers playing with her pussy.
“I hit three homeruns, visited the Grand Canyon. Want me to tell you about it?”
“Sure. After you make me come.”
“Hm, I feel like you’re not focusing on what I’m saying, Arabella,” I teased, echoing her earlier words from the pole. “Your mind’s someplace else.”
Her cheeks flushed. “Maybe a little.”
I stood, pulling her up with me. “Then maybe I should give you something else to focus on.”
Before she could respond, I scooped her into my arms, bridal style.
“Bennett!” She yelped.
“Hang on tight, baby. We’ve got a lot of time to make up for.”
Bella
Roasters 20–12
The morning of Clarke and Soren’s wedding started with chaos and caffeine.Lotsof caffeine.
“June, no. Clarke saidsmoky,” Nessa insisted, gesturing frantically at her own eyes. “Not full-on, hungover raccoon.”
June blinked at her reflection. “So, like . . . elegant raccoon?”
“No such thing,” Dani added from the bed. “Raccoons are trash goblins.”
“Wow,” June muttered. “So much for women supporting women.”
Nessa wrapped an arm around June’s shoulders. “Trust me, we’re supporting you by not letting you ruin the wedding photos.”
“I appreciate the honesty,” June said. “I think.”
Clarke and Soren’s bedroom looked like a bridal war zone. Curling irons snaked across every outlet, garment bags hung from doorframes, and makeup palettes had been scattered across the bathroom’s double vanity.
The air smelled like Jo’s morning buns, hairspray, and the kind of nervous energy that couldn’t be diffused, no matter how many vanilla candles we lit.
Clarke’s sister, Vivian, rounded out our usual Bitchcraft group. “You better sit still,” she scolded, angling a curling iron with professional focus. “The last thing you want on your wedding day is a curling iron burn.”
Viv was Clarke’s complete opposite. Where Clarke was all Southern-belle charm and honey-blonde curls, Viv had dark hair shaved close on both sides, ink climbing up her forearm, and a small silver nose ring that caught the light every time she moved.
