by Ginger Scott
Moving back to the end of the bed, I hold the open packet in my teeth while I push down my jeans and boxers, stepping out of them before pulling out the condom and rolling it on. My heated gaze begins at her breasts and trails down to the space between her knees, which open when I look at them. I lower myself to my knees and run my palms up her bare thighs, collecting the fabric of her dress along the way. Once I reach the top along her waist, I curl my fingers and drag the black cloth down the length of her, her curves like the soothing waves of a crystal ocean, kissed by the sun. Her black lace panties barely hide a thing, her skin smooth and shaven, a small gold stud fitted in the skin below her belly button.
I touch the stud with my finger, then travel lower until my hand runs along the edge of the lace, dipping lower along the soaking wet cotton strip between her legs. I push it to the side and dip my finger inside her, reveling in the way her body curls from my touch. I push into her again, causing her to moan and her hips to rock.
Unable to stand not being inside her any longer, I slide both hands to her hips and curl my fingers into the lacy straps along her hips, rolling her panties down her hips and legs until she’s able to kick them away. Her pink skin is swollen, dusted with a small strip of hair that begs to be kissed. I bend down, holding myself above her hips, just so I can press a kiss against her soft center, dragging my tongue along her swollen pussy just once before pulling her legs down the length of the bed so she’s poised and ready for me to enter.
“Tell me you want this,” I say, needing to hear it for my own ego.
“I want you,” she moans, and that’s all it takes for me to push forward and drive through the center of her.
“Ahh,” she cries out, grabbing the pillow above her head and covering her face to muffle her cries from pleasure.
I slide out of her completely, wanting to feel the same sensation again, and her reaction is the same, a muffled cry as her body pushes against me, urging me deeper. I do it again, and again, until I’m no longer able to leave the warmth of her pussy, the sweet tightness and the way it hugs my cock. My hands grip at her legs, pulling her into me with every thrust and eventually, she pushes her own body up, sitting on the end of the bed while I push my dick in and out so hard that I’m afraid I won’t last more than a few seconds.
That, however, is not Abby’s plan. Now sitting before me, she pushes me back until I’m on the floor and she crawls on top of me, lowering herself on my throbbing cock and riding me cautiously, her hands pressed against my chest to pin me down while she controls every single sensation I’m allowed to feel.
My hands reach up to touch her, but she stops them as her hips rock, pinning them to my sides as she leans over me and rolls her hips in the most intoxicating motion, her body sliding down mine and taking all of me before almost letting me leave her completely.
Her hair has fallen all around us, hiding us from the outside world while our bodies take what they want from each other. My hands beg to touch her, and I fight against her willingly until she relents and lets me run my palms along her breasts and back, cupping her ass and pushing her into me hard until she pulses and squeezes around me.
I push myself up with one hand so we’re both sitting while she rocks her hips against me and I penetrate her again and again, filling her completely, until she leans back and bites her knuckles in a breathy cry of pleasure. I pull her body into me, close enough to bite at her neck and quiet my own sounds as I come hard, throbbing with every wave of pleasure.
She falls against my chest, her hair damp with sweat, my body beading with moisture, every bit of me sticking to every part of her, and she stays just like this, with me inside, for long minutes until soft laughter brings her eyes to mine.
“I cannot believe I finally let Tory D’Angelo have me,” she jokes, referring to every single time I’ve hit on her without expectation that this—that us—could ever be real.
“You’ve always had me. Only seems fair,” I say, my response not as funny as she expects.
Her amused smile shifts to something else entirely. I don’t think she was expecting such honesty from me, or such adoration, and frankly, I’m a little surprised to have said it. But it’s true. Every word of it. Also, there is no way I’m giving her up to spare my brother’s feelings. He can have the fucking basketball academy. I want the queen.
18
Abby
I knew what I was doing when I left my house and drove to the D’Angelo’s after Hayden dropped me off. I knew he wouldn’t be home. How could he go home? Too great a chance that Tory would be there.
And Tory would be there, eventually.
I sat in my car and vacillated between wanting to scream and tell him to leave me alone forever and wanting to wrap my everything around his heart and smother it until it was mine. I seem to have leaned into the latter.
I didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want me to go. Everything about the way he touched me was so different from any touch I had before—from Hayden’s. My heart was different. What we committed was a sin—an indulgence—but it was also what both of our hearts wanted.
It was selfish.
I left in the early morning hours, one final kiss from him as I wrapped myself in one of his T-shirts and an old pair of sweats, and with the shoes I threw at him during my tirade. Even now, as I lay wide awake after only a few hours of sleep, I feel him everywhere—still.
It’s my party at June’s today. I can smell the menudo on the stove downstairs. My grandma always made it for the holidays, so it’s become one of my birthday favorites. It’s really the only thing my mom mastered from my grandmother’s kitchen. Warm soup is one of the very few good things about December. I guess now I have two good things.
My neck is covered in love bites left behind from Tory. I noticed them when I got home, so I laid my turtleneck dress out for the day, knowing I’d need something that isn’t suspiciously modest. It’s a sixties style, a dark orange short swing dress that I pair with knee-high brown leather boots. I might have worn it even if I didn’t have guilty marks to hide all over my skin.
After a quick shower, I lock myself in my room to dry my hair paper straight and put mascara on my lashes to distract from the major sleepy puffs I sport on my face.
I make my way downstairs with a watering mouth, anxious to take a taste from the pot I know must be near ready. I’m stalled at the bottom of the steps, though, when I see my father’s back as he stirs over the stove.
“Get away from my soup,” I bite out.
In the courtroom, I’m a quiet girl. In person, though—I’m me. There’s no judge here to keep tally on the way I disrespect my father. He’s disrespected me my entire life by basically cutting himself out of everything that doesn’t make a profit.
I flash my gaze to my mom who stands behind the table, thankfully cleared of all of her homework to fight the man in our house. She’s dressed and ready to go to June’s house, which means he is an unexpected guest.
My father turns to face me, holding a fat spoon in front of his lips, blowing across the steam. I hate the way his lips pucker. I hope mine look nothing like his. He opens wide and floats the spoon over his tongue, his mouth closing over it like a child waiting for the airplane full of oatmeal.
“Mmm, Denise. This is just like your mother’s.” It’s disgraceful to hear him talk about my grandmother, knowing how he could have helped her or checked in on her in Florida but refused since she was no longer his family.
“Thanks. We have to leave, so—” My mom swings her open palm toward to door, ushering my father out.
He drops the spoon in the sink and runs his sleeve over his lips before reaching into his coat pocket to pull out a thick envelope. Neither of us are naïve enough to believe there’s money inside.
“I just wanted to drop by to give you this,” he says, tossing the envelope on the table. “You can read it if you want, but basically, I own fifty percent.” He winks at me, as if I’m supposed to be pleased that he owns half of my s
oul.
My mom rips the envelope open and unfurls the papers, scanning quickly as my father heads for the door.
“Judge said it was the easiest ruling he’s ever made,” he says.
My mom collapses into the nearby chair, not even bothering to respond to his smug remarks as he leaves.
“Is he right? Is that . . . it?” I ask.
She brushes her hand in my direction to hush me, her eyes pinched with worry as she reads. She flips through the papers at a maddening pace, then finally gives up, tossing them into the center of the table.
“I give up,” she says, shrugging. Her eyes lazily focus on the pages. I move close enough to read some of the language, but it’s so lawyer-ized that I can’t get through the first paragraph without getting lost.
The soup rolls to a boil, so I rush to the stove and turn it off, stirring to keep the rich ingredients from burning. It’ll be too hot to put in the car for a few minutes, so I move it to one of the empty burners and leave it there to cool while I return to my mom, stepping in behind her to squeeze the tension from her shoulders.
“Baby girl, no. It’s your birthday. I’m fine,” she says, patting my hands. I don’t budge, and eventually she lets me continue massaging.
“Your muscles say you aren’t fine,” I say.
She shakes with a quick laugh.
Normally, something like having my dad show up and drop a bomb like this would ruin my day—definitely my birthday weekend. But I’m different today. Optimistic, and maybe a bit . . . bold.
Selfish.
“You know what?” I stop rubbing her shoulders and gather up the papers, twisting them into a kindling stick that I march over to the stove. I turn the burner back on high and hold the paper against the coils until the end catches fire. My mom leaps from her chair and rushes to me, but I hold the papers up high, keeping her at bay long enough for the flame to take hold and eat away half of whatever the fuck this shit stack is that my dad left. I drop the smoking pages into the sink and run the water over what’s left, scooping the soupy mess out and tossing it in the trash like a rodent I just killed.
I wash my hands and glance over my shoulder, meeting my mom’s wide eyes.
“Oh, like he doesn’t have a million copies. And like his lawyer didn’t send one to ours. That . . . that felt good.” I shut the faucet off and dry my hands on a towel, tossing it to the counter with a bit of zest when I’m done.
The shocked awe on my mother’s face shifts into pride after a few breaths, a curve taking to her lips.
“You told me to be selfish,” I say, knowing she’ll appreciate the credit. Though she doesn’t realize just how greedy I’ve been.
June’s house is already full by the time we pull up. I park us in the street and my mom hefts the pot from the back seat of my car. She gets halfway up the driveway before Tory runs out and takes it from her. Our gazes meet for one intimate glance.
“Thank you, babe. Not too much cake for you today, okay?” she teases him, knowing which of the two she’s dealing with this time. My mom doesn’t miss clues, which means she’ll probably sense that something is up when Hayden shows up, if he even does. If he doesn’t, well, everyone is going to wonder what’s going on.
His car is the only vehicle missing. Lola and Naomi both parked in the garage. They spent the night with June baking and preparing for my day. I was supposed to stop in to help after my date, but well . . .
“There’s my girl!” June’s mom, Kristen, rushes over to me, her hands shielded by oven mitts. She gives me a half hug, not wanting to get flour and frosting on my sweater dress. Her arms are covered in ingredients.
“You look adorable,” she says, looking me up and down. I sashay in acknowledgement just as Tory comes back into my space. Our eyes meet again, and I catch the knowing grin on his lips. He’s very aware of the reason I’m wearing this dress.
I follow everyone through the kitchen into the main room that the Mabees have set up to be wide open for whatever silly games June has planned. There’s a long table pushed all the way against the wall opposite of the fireplace, and it is filled with every type of frosted cookie and cake I can imagine.
“The maple cupcakes are surprisingly good. The oatmeal cookies . . . eh.” June wiggles her palm in the air.
“Noted,” I say, moving right in for one of the cupcakes. I reach for the perfect-looking desert on one of the tiered plates, another hand reaching for it a blink afterward, resulting in a near tug-of-war.
“What, you think because it’s your birthday you can come in here and swoop the best cupcake?” Tory’s finger grazes mine where we touch, a hidden token to let me know he’s thinking of me—of last night.
Neither of us gives in right away, precariously holding the cake hostage over the Mabees’ wooden floor.
“I tell you what, I’ll split it with you,” he offers.
I shake my head and smirk.
“Uh uh.”
He puckers his lips into a tight smile, enjoying our playful spar. This is always where we were at our best—sharp tongues, poised for flirting.
“You want it all, huh?” His finger strokes along mine again.
“Always,” I reply. His eyes dare me for a few seconds until others arrive to scour the table for treats near us. He lets go one finger at a time, and I casually bring the treat to my lips, unwrapping the paper from the bottom before I take a bite.
“Worth it?” he asks, one brow raised.
“Totally,” I say, licking my lips.
Rather than look frustrated, he chuckles, hesitantly reaching an outstretched finger toward my face. I follow the tip of his finger, crossing my eyes as it lands on my nose and he wipes off a small dollop of frosting I left behind. He sucks the frosting from his finger, leaving it between his lips then showing me his teeth.
It’s hot. And I no longer want to be at this party, but instead in his messy-ass bed with his body against mine. Naked. So very fucking naked.
My mom and June’s have taken over running the kitchen, lining up sandwiches and my menudo, and with everyone else distracted, I take advantage of the perfect moment to slip away and pray Tory follows.
Tearing my cupcake in half, I hold out a bite as an offering for him. When he leans forward to take it in his mouth, I pull it back and pop it in mine, a suggestive smile on my closed lips as I chew. I wiggle the remaining piece in front of me, then draw him close with a finger as I walk backward to the small hallway that leads to the powder room. I lead him all the way inside, and he shuts the door behind him, locking it.
“You want my cupcake, Tory D’Angelo?” I hold it out for him, and he lets out a breathy growl as he rushes into me, taking my arms and pinning them out against the wall, the cupcake falling somewhere on the floor. His mouth covers mine possessively, his tongue tasting me, our teeth scraping against each other’s hungry lips. He runs his hands along my arms and down my waist, bending down so he can continue the trip to the back of my thighs, lifting up my skirt enough to cup my ass.
“You are so much fun to touch,” he whispers against my ear, biting the lobe and sucking it hard.
His hands are digging into my ass, palms to skin, and I want nothing more than to unzip him here and now and have him push me against the wall. That’s not going to happen, though. I might be a terrible, selfish heartbreaker, but I’m not about to defile my best friend’s powder room.
Ten bucks says she’d do it to mine in a heartbeat.
“I like this dress,” he says, licking up the side of my neck and then covering my mouth with his for one last raw and needy kiss. I push him away, needing air, and we pant while dirty thoughts run rampant through both our minds.
“I had to wear this dress,” I say, pushing the light switch down before we open the door. “You left your mark all over my body.”
He bites near my ear as he wraps both arms around my stomach, holding me to him from behind. I can feel what our kissing has done to him, and it makes it difficult to leave this tiny, dark
room.
I crack the door, though, knowing I have to be present for my own party, and when I’m sure the coast is clear, I slip out, spinning and meeting his confused eyes.
“You leave in about five minutes. Deal?”
He blinks a few times, then nods, shutting the door while I straighten my dress and the panties he basically hijacked up my ass.
We didn’t talk about it, but I assume we’re both on board with keeping this thing between us private . . . for now. I don’t think Tory’s family could handle a girl coming between him and his brother, though I did, and I am. With my dad finally in town, I’m not prepared to handle the backlash from our friends, either. No matter how you position us, we’re the bad guys.
I’m funneling through the various scenarios, mentally making plans for how and when Tory and I will come out when the reason why we shouldn’t stares me right in the face.
“Happy birthday weekend, Abs,” Hayden says.
My eyes jet about the room as I’m hit with the sensation that I’m riding the Tilt-a-Whirl and I’m not buckled in. Hayden’s palm finds my elbow, steadying me as he leans in and kisses my cheek.
“I’m not going to make you uncomfortable,” he whispers. “I didn’t want you to have to explain.”
I straighten my spine and mentally flog myself for being the asshole that I am. I can’t believe he’s doing this to make sure I’m not the one who has to explain things and save face.
“Hey, June? It sounds like maybe there’s a leak in—” Tory stops after taking only two steps into the room. All eyes zoom to him, Hayden’s carrying the most intent.
“Hey, bro,” he says. The hostility in his tone is apparent, but it’s to be expected. Their recent struggles to get along aren’t secret. I’m the secret part, on so many levels.
“You came,” Tory says, a tight grin stitched on his lips. He nods and avoids looking me in the eyes. Hayden’s hands are on my shoulders, and though he said he came here as a kind gesture to me, his friendly touch isn’t meant to be kind at all.