Page 60 of Licks

I barked out a laugh. One minute ago, my lungs had ceased to function. I’d been a second from telling Gwen I had a letter from her mother, proof the woman had cared about her and wanted to see her happy, which would have led to her father’s name, and that I’d lied by omission, and had been letting her chase a ghost.

Now I was laughing. “As nice as I’m sure Uranus is, we’re on Earth. And on Earth women don’t get away with saying things like ‘I stole your underwear’ without—”

I stopped midsentence, a sudden flash of my lucky boxers, the black ones with the green four-leaf clovers, stripping my voice. The ones I’d worn to every soccer match. The ones that had mysteriously disappeared my senior year. “You stole my lucky underwear.”

“No I didn’t. You heard me wrong. I said I stole your honey bear.”

“My honey bear?”

“The one your mom kept in the kitchen. The jar thingy with the weird fake apron, where you put your keys and stuff.”

“My keys and stuff?”

“The honey bear!”

I flipped us, straddling her waist from above. The flashlight beamed across her panicked face. She was so not getting away with this. “You have five seconds before I tickle the shit out of you.”

“You want me to shit on you? I’m into experimenting, August, but defecation doesn’t do it for me.”

I full on snorted that time. It was still her funeral.

“Fivefourthreetwoone.” I dug in, tickling her ribs mercilessly while she screeched and flailed and tried to toss me off her. She didn’t deserve the full five-second countdown. Not if she’d stolen my treasured boxers. She was also unbelievably strong. Her toned arms and legs strained against me. My cock strained against my jeans.

Goddamn, did she have a killer body.

I was a second from losing my grip on her, when she cried, “Beetlejuice!”

Our safe word. Dammit.

Keeping her locked between my thighs, I released her ribs. We both panted. The panting made me horny(er). I circled her upper arms in a vise-like grip. “What did you do with them?”

She slackened, her limbs turning to noodles. “We hadn’t spoken in months, because I’d ghosted on you, and I kind of, maybe, one day snuck into your room and might have smelled your shirts and lay on your bed.”

That was one hell of a visual. Gwen Hamilton in my childhood bed, tangled in my sheets. “You’re worried about me being into kinky defecation sex, and you’re an admitted boxer sniffer? I might need to rethink things between us.”

“Your shirts, dummy. I said I smelled your shirts. The boxers were a spontaneous moment of criminal masterminding. I hid them in my underwear drawer.”

“So our undies could mingle?”

“Something like that.”

“Oh, baby,” I cooed, enjoying her torment. “That’s so sweet.”

She mumbled something under her breath and kicked her feet like a petulant child. “I am now sufficiently embarrassed. You can let me up.”

Except I had her right where I wanted her, under the night sky, tears no longer streaking her face. I hated seeing her cry, but being here for her, to hold her—it meant the world. Being with her while she uncovered her mother’s history was important.

When the time was right, I’d tell Gwen about her mother’s letter, after we’d followed more clues. Without a last name, she’d never actually find her father. There was no way for her to know I’d visited his house. Not now, at least. Down the road, when we had more time, once she’d discovered all she could about Mary Hamilton, I’d tell her the truth. Giving Gwen these hours with her mother’s memory meant more.

I also knew how to keep her happy.

A thin strip of light cut across the sleek plane of her stomach. Her bra did phenomenal things for her breasts, but they’d look so much better bare and in my mouth. “There’s punishment for being a pervy boxer stealer, Gwen.”

Gwen

August was on me in seconds, his lips working their magic. My embarrassment fled. My sanity fled. My clothes needed to flee.

I pressed my fingers into the knobs of his spine. His muscles shifted, strong and coiled with each purposeful movement. He nudged my knees as we kissed, anchoring himself between my thighs. Right there. He rolled his hips and I rocked into him, my whole body clenching. We were at it again, dry-fucking like kids, this time at a stereotypical lookout.