I don’t know how long I watch her for, but it can’t be more than ten minutes before her eyes pop open.
“Nash?”
I always fucking hate it when she calls me that, but right now it’s unbearable. The tone of her voice, the intent behind it, that raspy whisper...
I wantCarterto roll off her sweet lips like that. Rightnow, in this very moment when she stares at me, her blue irises almostcompletely swallowed by black pupils, cheeks and neck flushed a pale shade of pink...
My favorite.
“I’m here, pretty girl. Sleep.”
She flips onto her belly, rises on one elbow and, before I anticipate her next move, she pushes me onto my back, flinging one leg over my middle.
She’s on top.
She’s fuckingstraddlingme.
The comforter pools around her, her locks a veil flirting with her arms and shoulders. She stares down at me, feasting on my face, clear in what she wants as she slides a little lower, settling the most tempting part of her beautiful body on my cock.
This... this is my funeral. I swear, this girl will get me killed.
She adjusts herself again, her lips parting in surprise when my cock swells under her.
Not a teenie weenie, pretty girl, is it?
She shepherds the shock quickly and, with a breathless sigh, she fucking grinds into me.
Her lips part but she doesn’t throw her head back like every other woman I’ve fucked over the years. No, Hailey holds my gaze, a hint of confusion flashing in her eyes that gives way to determination when she briefly zeroes in on my mouth.
I’m so surprised I can’t find my tongue.
Where’s this coming from?
Is it alcohol?
A dirty dream?
Pent-up need?
MaybeI’mdreaming.
“I know there’s ugly here...” she whispers, touching the scars marking her neck, arms, thighs. Old first, then new. “But it’s not so bad, is it? Not pretty but... plausible?”
I hate that she’s so insecure.
She’s beauty personified. Every blemish, and imperfection. Every milky inch of her skin. Those small boobs, angry red scars, and those that almost melt with her complexion. That glint in her eyes, the bow of her full, kissable lips, those round, blushing cheeks...
She’s a romantic piece from the turn of the last century. Fiery personality clothed in innocence.
“What are you doing, Hailey?” I sidestep her question.
Telling her how sexy I think she is will encourage her and she’s not thinking clearly, her judgment clouded by alcohol.
The question falls on deaf ears as she moves again, angling her hips to press her clit against the hard bulge in my boxers.
“You’re drunk,” I grit out, every word requiring more effort. “You’ll regret this tomorrow, Hailey. Get off me and sleep.”
She pouts again, pursing those ruby lips a second before a pang of mortification crosses her face. There’s more there... regret? Sadness? Whatever it is, I hate it.
