On Planet Ace, there’s no such thing as drunken kisses, confessions, or Los Angeles girls. It’s just us.
His hand falls from my braids to my cheeks. He cups and squeezes them while I rock against his stomach. His touch and the friction from my rocking are better than any shuffling I can do with my legs to get rid of his hives.
“Now, tell me something good. Make me forget about her,” he says against my lips. “Tell me why you shouldn’t get in trouble for last night.”
It’s too hard to do that because his tongue pushes its way inside my mouth when I’m supposed to be doing what he says, but he doesn’t care.
“Because I’m home, acting right for you,” I murmur against it, smiling.
It’s the one thing that made it from behind that block in my brain from last night.
When I rock back again, my hand brushes againstit. That’s the only way I know how to describe the first dick I ever felt in real life.It. When my hand slides against the tented fabric of his shorts, he pushes it.
“Nuh uh.” He wraps his tongue around mine, sucking my hellish Splashtown hangover off it. “You can’t have my dick if you don’t even know how to kiss me.”
A comeback gurgles up my throat and bursts out in a moan that makes his other hand crawl up his t-shirt I’m wearing. He grips my ass so hard that his nails dig into the skin and scrape across the bruise he left there.
The way he talks to me in these types of moments is something else I like that I shouldn’t—just like his fingers in my mouth.
He pulls his tongue off mine and looks at me. “You hear me?”
I nod, chasing his mouth, but he doesn’t let me get far before he smooshes my cheeks between his hand again. “And you can’t have me unless you want a flawed, fucked up person. That’s what you want?”
That last sentence doesn’t come out in a smooth shit-talking tone. He gasps it out in a rasp and I never been so desperate to have a flawed fucked up person, so I nod.
“No.” He pecks my lips between two slow shakes of his head. “You not supposed to agree to that.”
Tasting him with sober tastebuds is what he must’ve been talking about when he said I tasted like summertime on the PCH because he tastes like the first real day of fall in Texas—when the weather is crisp and that nasty suffocating stickiness isn’t floating in the air.
“Yeah I am,” I breathe out.
His fingers creep along my ass and then fall to my thighs in a place where no other fingers have been except my own. There’s something about existing together on our own planet that makes me fearless, so my legs open wider to make room for him.
“Who taught you to open your legs like that?” he mumbles, dragging his lips to my throat.
“You.”
He laughs, opening his mouth against my skin. “I taught you how to open your mouth—not your legs. Why you can’t ever act right for me?”
He nudges my legs open wider between each word, like he’s doing ordinary shit. The block on my brain from last night turns into a fog of lust, and I don’t worry about his rough knuckles scraping my skin while he rolls my panties down.
He smiles again.
“Is baby still wearing childish ass flowery Victoria’s Secret PINK panties?” He chuckles, making my cheeks warm. “Lay back so I can see you.”
When the cold gust from the vent above my bed touches my bare vagina, that lusty fog lifts from my brain in an “oh shit” type of way.
Before my hands decide to stop tripping and reach out to cover what nobody’s looked at but me, Mama, and God, I’m already free-falling against my shaggy comforter.
“Nuh uh.” He shakes his head, biting into his bottom lip. “You know better.”
This must be one of those things with an “ever” that he told me about back at his condo, so my hands fall at my sides. My heart beats in a slow, panicking rhythm because I don’t know where Marcus is or if Mama’s having a good day and can push herself out of bed.
He studies my fuzz covered middle with my PINK panties balled in his hands.
“So... what’s the deal, kid?” he breathes out.
“W—what?”
