The Real Thing: Flirt Romance

by Cassie Mae

  “Which one?”

  “Oh the Places You’ll Go!” He takes the book and sets it on my nightstand, then asks if he can turn off the light. I watch his backside as he gets off the bed before we plunge into darkness. His hands are shaking when he settles back next to me.

  “You cold?”

  “No. I-I just . . . want to touch you. But I don’t have any medication left, so I’m going to have to take it easy.”

  “Eric, you don’t have to—”

  “I want to.” He sets a finger on my cheek and my whole body tightens. “Is that okay?”

  I nod because I’m not sure if I can open my mouth without drool coming out. He strokes down to my chin, then up to my forehead. My eyes drift closed, and an involuntary moan seeps through my lips.

  “I get nervous touching you,” he says, caressing back to my chin, “because I’m afraid you won’t like it.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that with me,” I manage to say in a husky whisper. He doesn’t say anything, just continues to drag his fingers gently down my neck, across my shoulder, under the small strap of my cami. Shivers threaten to take over, and I blow out a steady breath to try to keep things calm in my midregion. “Trust me, if you just do what you want, chances are I’ll like it.”

  He pauses, pulling his hand away, and I wonder if I said something wrong or if I was being too pushy again. Then I hear him take a deep breath and ask, “Will you roll over?”

  I open one eye a sliver to study his face. His smile twitches when our eyes connect, and without anymore hesitation I flip onto my stomach, resting my head on the heel of my hand.

  “Like this?” I ask, and he nods, his gaze drifting over my back. His chest bumps against my arm as he sucks in a breath and holds it. I want to reassure him that whatever he’s thinking is fine. Whatever he wants to do is fine. I’ll want it, I’ll enjoy it, I’ll probably be begging for more. But that hasn’t worked, and maybe . . . well, maybe he needs to do this on his own, trust himself, and I need to let him.

  He sets a warm hand on the small of my back and lets go of that breath. My head drops from my hand to the pillow and I shut my eyes. He starts stroking my back as he did my face. It’s such a small movement, going across from hip to hip, dipping into the creases of my body, but it stirs up a volcanic reaction under my skin. My heartbeat pounds in my chest, and I can feel it in my neck. His thumb slides under the hem of my shirt, inching its way higher.

  “You have a dimple here,” he says, pressing into a spot on my lower back with the tip of his pinky.

  “My back must be smiling at you.” I chuckle into the pillow, and I feel him shake with light laughter as he straddles me to use both hands in his patterns.

  “Does that mean you like it?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” I snuggle farther into the comforter tangling our legs.

  “Do you mind if I . . .?” He tugs at my cami, enough for me to feel it, but just barely.

  “Go ahead,” I say, but that’s all I say. I want to say a lot more. I want to do a lot more. I want to rip the material off myself, squeeze my body against his, and feel his hands everywhere. But these slow, thoughtful movements feel so good I don’t want them to stop. It’s sexual torture in its most beautiful form.

  He eases the material up my back, and I not only feel every movement, I envision it. Everything is so quiet, so slow, that I imagine the yellow fabric sliding between his fingers. I see his eyes taking in every inch of skin as it’s exposed. In my head, his lips are slightly parted to match his unsteady breathing. I’ve never experienced something like this. Every time I was intimate with someone, it was ripping and tearing and done in twenty. I enjoyed sex, and I felt wanted. But I never felt so . . . desired. Even though Eric never makes the first move, or when he does, he’s hesitant and cautious, I feel every single touch he gives me. I don’t only feel it, I taste it. I smell it. I crave it. Desire it.

  And the way he handles me, I know deep down he feels the same way.

  The entire room snaps like it’s filled with sparklers when his hands reach my sides to pull my shirt over my breasts. I lift myself up on my elbows to help him out. He’s careful to only touch my sides, but it causes a ricochet effect of goose bumps, covering my back and hardening my nipples. I take a deep breath, following his lead as his touch moves to midback, coaxing me flat on my stomach again. The fabric of the bed sheet tickles as I settle back down.

  “I love your freckles,” he says, tracing patterns, connecting dots across my skin. I smile into the pillow. I love that he loves my freckles. “You were born January twenty-seventh . . . that makes you a Capricorn?”

  I shake my head, but not a lot, because I’m finding it hard to move anything at the moment. “Aquarius, actually.”

  He chuckles, pausing his slow, beautiful torture on my back. “The water bearer.”

  “I know, I know . . . the Aquarius who won’t set foot in the ocean.”

  “You did set a foot.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” I mumble, because his fingers pick up where they left off, and I’m not sure what will fly from my mouth if he keeps turning off my brain.

  He makes a zigzag pattern, traveling from the top of my spine down to the bottom, pausing at my waistband, then inching over and zigzagging back up. “You’re right,” he says. “Definitely an Aquarius.”

  I grin again, turning to look at him over my shoulder. “Did you just draw my zodiac sign?”

  “With your freckles.” He grins back, then his eyes move to my uncovered skin, and I swear they dilate before he leans over me and lands a kiss on my shoulder blade. “Want to guess another one?”

  “Um, huh?” I pant out.

  “I’ll draw something. You tell me what it is.”

  “O-okay.”

  He straightens, his warm breath leaving the skin on my back, but he quickly replaces it with his fingers. I push away the tingles he’s directing to my hardened nipples and the increasing warmth between my legs, and try to concentrate on the pattern he’s creating on my flesh.

  Slant down, slant up, curve around . . . when he dips his finger for another curve, I smile and answer before he finishes.

  “It’s a snow cone.”

  “Well, yeah.” He taps the center of the picture he drew. “But what flavor?”

  “Yellow. Of course.”

  “You stubborn woman,” he playfully growls. “Yellow is not a flavor.”

  “Yes it is.”

  “All right, if you’re going to keep arguing with me on this, what does yellow taste like?”

  I lift my head up, resting it on my hand and tilting my chin over my shoulder. I’d like to say, “It tastes like you, silly,” but he’s gone so much further than he has before, I don’t want to scare him off. So I opt for something else, gazing at his face, his neck, his arms . . . just everything that is Eric.

  “Warm and smooth, like caramel. But sometimes it’s not as rich. Sometimes it’s a subtler, yet still sweet flavor. Almost like pineapple or mango. It changes.”

  “It’s a conditional flavor?” he says, teasing, and I drop my face to the pillow and laugh.

  “Yeah, I’m still trying to get a read on it. But it’s definitely a flavor.”

  He tickles my hip, and I jerk under him, enough to notice that I’m not the only one who’s affected by our skin-to-skin contact. He pauses, his erection now tight against the back of my thigh. It sucks the laughter right out of the room as we both hold our breath. I squeeze my eyes shut, internally chanting Please don’t run. Please don’t run.

  The sparklers in the room turn into flower fireworks, buzzing around us while I wait for him to adjust, or say something.

  “Are you ready for another one?” he grunts, keeping still where we’re connected. I nod, not daring to make a sound.

  He leans down, caressing my arm before dropping his hand on the bed beside it. “It’ll be words this time.” Holding his weight on that one arm, he drags his free hand over my back to start his message.

  I


  Then he swipes my back clean as if he’s moving on to the next word. I already know what it’ll be before he even starts the first letter. But I don’t say anything. I let him draw it on my back as if he’s putting it there permanently.

  L

  I don’t know why, or what happens to me, but I feel a tear leak from my eyelashes. I wipe it away before he sees or misinterprets my crying. In reality, I’m enjoying this so much, it’s too much. Because I can’t even begin to describe how much I don’t deserve the love he has for me—someone who won’t get her face out of her computer long enough to even appreciate everything around her.

  He finishes the E, then swipes my back again.

  Another tear sneaks out, crawling down the side of my nose, and I move to wipe it away again, but Eric settles down next to me, keeping our legs tangled. His hardness isn’t pressed against me anymore. He wraps his arm above our heads and wipes the tear away with his thumb, just as his other forms the U on my back.

  I open my eyes, and I’m worried I’ll see his worry. Or fear. Or anxiety. But I don’t. His black irises glass over, and I swivel in his arms, pulling our heads together.

  “I love you, too,” I say, tasting every word. “I’m so sorry about earlier—”

  “Shhh . . .” He presses a finger to my lips. His chest bumps against mine, and the realization that my shirt is still up over my breasts hits me. I move to cover myself up, but he gently grabs my wrist to stop me.

  “You like me touching your skin,” he says, and I’m not sure if it’s a question, but I nod anyway. “I have no idea what I’m doing, but you . . . you like it.”

  I squeeze against him and nuzzle my nose with his. “I love it, Eric.”

  He kisses the inside of my wrist before letting it go, then grazes the side of my breast again as his hand travels to my hip. His thumb presses on my pelvic bone briefly, and my breath catches in my throat. Snuggling into the crook of his neck, I let him take over. I won’t touch him, won’t push him, won’t make any moves . . . I’m going to let him do everything, and let him know exactly how much I love it.

  His fingers move to my lower back again, but this time, he dips them into the waistband of my pajama shorts, testing my reaction . . . and his, too, I think. After a few beats, he inches even lower, under the material, twisting the thin strip of fabric on my panties between his thumb and forefinger. A small moan from my mouth is muffled against his neck as he follows the band of my underwear to the front, pulling it out enough for him to see it.

  “What’s this?” he asks, toying with the metal charm near the front patch of fabric.

  “A dolphin, I think.”

  “It doesn’t bother you?”

  “Having a dangle on my panties? No.”

  His lips press together as he studies the small charm. “Do you have other ones?”

  “Yeah. Not a lot, but a few.”

  “Are they all dolphins?”

  “No. Some hearts. Stars. Girly stuff.”

  “Hmm.” He lets go of my underwear, but only to slide his hand around to my backside.

  “Hmm, what?” I prod, even though I’m pretty sure he’s making fun of me.

  “I’ll get to see those, too?”

  I laugh, and kiss the arm he has wrapped under my head. “If you want.”

  “I want.”

  Another laugh begins, but it stops when his hand dips beneath my pajama shorts again . . .and creeps under my panties. I freeze, wanting him to keep going, terrified he’ll pull back. He nudges my nose with his and his eyes find mine, asking the question as his hand inches lower and lower over my butt cheek. I’m afraid to move . . . but I tell him with my rapid breathing, the desire I’m sure he can see in my eyes, that I don’t want him to stop. Touch me, kiss me, take me.

  He cups my ass, gripping the skin, and I moan . . . long and hard, eyes closing, and I can’t help it anymore, I hitch my leg over his hip and grind against his thigh.

  “Em,” he says, but this time it doesn’t feel like a warning. It feels like a long overdue grunt of hunger. Like he wants more, but he’s not sure how to take it. But I’m not pushing it any faster than this. Not just for me . . . for him too.

  “Eric?” I open my eyes, tickle his chin, and coax him to look at me. When he does, I smile and kiss him lightly. “I know you need slow, so I’m not going to make any moves tonight. I’m only going to respond to yours. No more pressure, I promise.”

  He takes his hand from my shorts, runs it up the length of my back and into my hair. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have to deal with this—”

  “This is beyond anything I’ve ever felt before. I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but . . . slow is . . . hot.”

  His lips pull up, and he tucks me into the crook of his neck. “Then prepare to get burnt.”

  We laugh at how incredibly dorky that was, and he takes my mouth, starting his slow, hot, beautiful torture for the rest of the night.

  Chapter 24

  Eric Matua is offline

  ***

  She sleeps with her mouth open. I’ve spent nearly every night with her this summer, and I always fall asleep first and wake up last. I’ve never watched her sleep, and I think I’ve missed out on something pretty damn special.

  I push her bottom lip up, closing her mouth, but it pops right back open when I drop my hand. It’s cute, so I can’t help but chuckle and kiss her forehead. She doesn’t move a muscle.

  Her shirt is still bunched high on her back, exposing her front . . . well, if it wasn’t pressed tight against my chest. I touched her in places I never thought I’d be able to touch anyone again, and I wasn’t even on my pills.

  A smile hits my lips as I scoot over a little on the bed, enough so I can run my hand over her stomach. I love how soft she is, how her skin sort of puckers when I grip it tight, or how even in her sleep, goose bumps start in waves across her abdomen. I love how when I touch her, I sense how much she likes it. It makes me question every single thing I thought I knew about sex and intimacy, like I’m about to discover something that will be beautiful and satisfying, no matter how awkward it ends up being.

  My thumb reaches high enough to caress the curve of her left breast, and I stop, but not because I’m panicking. I’m actually fine. My blood’s pumping a little hard, but not in a bad way . . . in a way that makes me want to chase what’s causing the rise in pressure. But Em’s asleep, and even though I now feel like she’d be okay with whatever I’d like to do to her—with her—I’d like her to be awake when I touch her like that. So I pull her thin yellow shirt back over her perfect breasts and squeeze her against my chest again.

  “I love you,” I whisper over her head, then let myself relax enough to fall asleep.

  Chapter 25

  Emilia Johnson rated a book on Goodreads

  9 hours ago via Goodreads

  Horton Hears a Who!

  50 people like this

  ***

  I’m getting better at faux sleeping. Either that or Eric wasn’t all that interested in waking me up. I waited till I heard him start the shower before I leapt from the bed and started cleaning.

  Eric’s family should be here around nine tonight. I know his mom is bringing a cake, and Tolani is planning on bringing alcohol, but he’ll be hiding it until Momma Matua goes to bed. I’ll be long gone by then, which sucks, because I wanted to spend the whole day with Eric, but Eve’s shower is early tomorrow morning, and I don’t want to wake up at five to get there on time.

  I adjust my bra, then set my hands on my hips as I look around the room. My present was to clean up my crap . . . and wrap the actual present, which is sitting behind the couch. Eric still hasn’t told his mom about me living with him, so having my panties hanging off the laundry-room door isn’t exactly the best way to break the news.

  My phone bings and I tap it open to an email from Facebook telling me I have messages. I blow out a breath and check them real quick before Eric gets out of the shower.

 
Scott: Haven’t seen you in a while. You weren’t lying when you said you were busy.

  Scott: A guy came into the flower shop today and ordered a bouquet for his wife and one for his girlfriend. What a douche. I also wanted to give him a lecture on how cheating is the worst thing you could do to a woman, but he looked like he could knock me out with one hit. So, I may have “accidentally” mixed up the delivery addresses instead.

  Scott: Got another lead on Mia. But I’m not sure if I want to chase after it. After the douchebag flower order, maybe I deserve to be miserable for the rest of my life.

  Scott: I typed up my message to her, but I’m still nervous about sending it. Can you look it over for me since you’re a romance expert?

  Scott: Let me know when you get a second.

  I check down the hall, then yell at myself for being so scared. All I’m going to do is tell Scott I don’t have time today, I’ll look at it tomorrow. Then no matter what that email says, I’ll tell him it’s brilliant and he needs to pursue his Mia and stop talking to me. We’ll slowly fade out. It’s happened before with, well, nearly everyone I grew up with.

  The shower’s still running, and my hands tremble over my keyboard, which is just stupid because I’m not doing anything wrong.

  Mia: Email it to me. I’ll look at it tomorrow. Celebrating my best friend’s birthday today! 21 baby!

  I hit the blue Send arrow before I can edit Eric’s title to “boyfriend.” It’s just habit to refer to Eric as my best friend.

  Scott: Okay, have fun.

  He sounds pissed, but I won’t let it get to me. On the priority scale, Scott is at the bottom.

  I put my phone on silent. Then I tuck it in my nightstand. As soon as the drawer closes, a victorious smile spreads across my face. I’m so proud of myself that I start dancing. I didn’t check my Twitter feed. I didn’t get sucked into a Scott conversation. I didn’t scroll through my Facebook timeline or browse through Pinterest or Instagram or check all my emails. Today is about Eric and no one else. All that stuff will be there tomorrow. And I may not even look then.