Page 83 of Hard to Score

I take a sip of my beer, sink back into my couch, and put my feet up on the table. There’s a soft smile on my lips as I remember how bad we used to tease Bratty Brex about everything needing to be in threes. Skip over three cracks in the sidewalk. Three skips of a rock in the water were her only goal.

Brexton: Slow sucks.

Me: Depends on what we’re being slow at.

Does she have any idea how bad I want her right now? How desperate I am to have my hands and mouth on her? My dick in her?

It’s been two long weeks of grabbing coffee in that little café in Hoboken. Of phone calls where we talk so long the sun starts to lighten the sky. Of forcing myself to keep my hands off her to prove I want her for more than just sex.

But sex.

It’s been on my mind twenty-four/seven. A goddamn stiff breeze would make me hard at this point.

Because that’s what she does to me.

She turns me on with her words and her laughter and her intellect and opinions. She keeps me thinking and wanting. I can’t wait until these three damn weeks are over so I can give in to the need that grows each and every time we talk.

Brexton: Is this slow enough for you?

And when the attached image opens on my screen, it’s my groan that fills my entire house.

Garter belts. Stockings. A lacy bra. No panties. Heels.

All four are laid out on a bed with a card beside it that says: “Wish you were here.”

Me: That’s cruel.

So fucking cruel.

Brexton: Good thing there’s only one week left out of the three.

Me: Good thing.

Brexton: Sweet dreams, Drew.

I laugh.

It’s all I can do as my mind fills with images of Brexton and exactly what I want to do to her in the near future.

Too bad my immediate future entails a very cold shower.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

BREXTON

“OH MY GOD, CAN YOU please stop talking and just kiss me already?” I ask as he grabs my wrist to try and prevent me from grazing over the denim seam of his crotch again.

His laughter rumbles through the night air as he wrestles me onto my back on the blanket we’re on. The night is balmy and the car horns from stories below are loud, but this rooftop oasis in my apartment building is perfect.

“Stop touching my dick.” He laughs.

I keep struggling though until he sits atop me, his legs straddling my thighs, and pins my hands to my side.

“Kiss. Me. Now.” I pout.

“But I like getting to know you better,” he says and grins.

“Drew. Seriously. Two weeks and six days of talking is enough.”