About Time (The Avenue Book 1)

by B. Cranford

  She stared at him, feeling her eyes grow wider with each second that passed in silence. Once again, her runaway mouth had exposed her inner thoughts and possibly embarrassed her, and him, and had likely killed this thing between them before it ever really began, officially.

  Somewhere inside, she knew she needed to wait to say something else, to give him a chance to process her breathless, panicked rant. “Oh, far out, I cannot believe I just, I did that, didn’t I? And now I’m doing it again”—she threw her hands in the air, not like she didn’t care, but like someone who cared too much and who didn’t know how to stop—“because I want this but I don’t know if it’s the right thing and I don’t know if the timing is wrong, wrong, wrong. Again. ’Cause it was wrong last time, too, right?”

  Duncan nodded, an inscrutable look on his face that told her nothing. Absolutely nothing. Was he agreeing that the timing was wrong last time, or this time, or . . . Shit.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but in a blind panic, she leaned in and planted her mouth on his.

  Yes. That was the only thought left in her formerly crowded mind. The feel of his lips under hers, pressing and licking and caressing felt like yes, and even if that wasn’t a proper description, she didn’t care. There was no other way to describe it.

  Yes.

  It was Duncan who broke the kiss, Ashton keeping her lips close to his and her eyes closed, disappointed that the moment had ended, worried about what the next moment would bring, but feeling really quite turned on.

  All in all, an odd combination.

  This time, though, when he went to speak, she let him. Not because she wanted to—no, she would be happy to erase the last few moments from his mind and her own—but because it was only fair.

  “You can call me whatever you want. I like being Duncan or Dunk to Aaron and my other friends. But Kennedy always called me Andrew, and that’s good too. I miss it, sometimes. Having someone call me by my first name, even though I’ve mostly been Duncan since I was a kid.”

  “Will you tell me about her? About Kennedy?” She didn’t know where the question had come from. They’d talked about her and around her a few times, but the need to know, to understand, took over. Perhaps they weren’t done with the conversation they were already having, but it felt important to understand—to learn about the person he’d essentially put his life on hold for for all those years—before they went any further.

  “I-ah, sure. What do you want to know?”

  “Whatever you want to tell me. When she got sick or . . . anything really.”

  He swallowed and for a moment, Ashton worried she’d asked too much of him. But then, he began to talk. “She had Goodpasture Syndrome. It’s an autoimmune disease, a rare one. They never did figure out what caused it in her; I guess she was just one of the unlucky ones.” He swallowed a second time, and when he continued talking, Ashton could hear the tremor in his voice that told her he was fighting tears. “Dad left when we were kids, and our mom died in a car accident when I was in my freshman year of college. Aaron would remember that—I went home for the funeral, and to check on Ken. She, ah—”

  He stopped talking, and the silence that followed was loaded. Ashton leaned in close, running her nose along his cheek, a wordless show of support. He turned minutely, and their lips brushed. When the moment passed, he looked and sounded steadier—something she reveled in, even as her heart ached for what he’d lost.

  “She was only a year younger than me, and was nearly finished with high school. Our neighbor took her in, since we didn’t really have anyone else. At least, not close by. After she graduated college—that’s when she got sick. I was already working in the city, so she came to live with me and she just, I don’t even know, really. She was tired, and losing weight. Then there were other things that said it wasn’t just a virus or whatever. She started coughing up blood, Ash, and I knew. Like, I knew.”

  “Knew?”

  “She wasn’t going to get better. There’s treatment for Goodpasture, but her kidneys failed and then . . .”

  This time, when he trailed off, she knew he wouldn’t continue. And that was okay. They had time now. They were together now.

  She’d eventually know all there was to know about him, and about Kennedy, and about anything else she wanted to. But until then, she’d steer them back to happier topics.

  “Andrew.” She loved the feel of his name—his real name—on her lips. Her decision was made: he would be Andrew to her from here on out. Unless he was in trouble, in which case she reserved the right to use all of his names, because that’s just how it worked.

  When you’re in trouble, you get full-named. She’d have to remember that when she was naming her daughter, because she suspected she’d be using it a lot as she grew.

  “I’m going to call you Andrew. ’Less you’re in trouble,” she added, giving voice to her thoughts, “then you’d better believe I’m using all three of your names.”

  His laugh relaxed her, his arms tightening around her as the heaviness that had been cast over their talk lifted.

  “Kitten,” he said in return, his nickname for her giving her a little thrill. “For the record, when I said, ‘now what,’ I meant today. As in, what do you want to do with the rest of the night?”

  “Oh–ohhh.” Her blush started at her chest and rose up to color her cheeks. “Ah, well—”

  He cut her off with a mild laugh, the movement jiggling her enough that her stomach began a recognizable riot. She might not have had morning sickness as much as of late, but that didn’t mean it was gone entirely.

  In fact, it appeared that it was back.

  She stood, quickly, and made her way to the bathroom, cursing the pregnancy gods for interrupting her moment with Andrew. She could feel him following her, but just like the first time, she really didn’t have a chance to give it much thought. She went straight for the bathroom and the toilet, bending over at the waist, expecting the deluge to begin immediately, but . . .

  Nothing.

  Her stomach calmed. The nauseous feeling dissipated. The certainty that she was going to be up-chucking ebbed. She stood, facing away from Andrew, unsure about what she’d see in him when she turned around.

  After all, their discussion had been intruded upon by one of the things—the thing—she was most worried about when it came to starting a relationship.

  “Close call?” he asked evenly, his question and his tone giving away nothing as to what he thought about her mad dash.

  “It happens sometimes. Less now, I guess.”

  “Turn around.” The command was given roughly, and there was absolutely nothing even about his voice anymore. Perhaps that was why she didn’t think twice about it—turning for him, looking him in the eye, and waiting for him to speak.

  He didn’t disappoint.

  “I know I don’t know you well, yet, but I do think I have enough of a handle on you to understand what you’re thinking. And you’re wrong.”

  “I–I am?” She stumbled over the words, wondering and hoping that he did know what she was thinking and that she was wrong.

  “Yeah, Kitten, you are.” He shrugged, though his still-rough voice told her he wasn’t as nonchalant as he’d have her believe. “I’m not saying that I’m ready to be a father, but I’m not saying I want nothing to do with you, or her, or the pregnancy in general. I want to get to know you, I want to take care of you and have you do the same for me, because I’ve told you before, I feel better with you than I have in a long damn time. I’m not scared by throwing up or growing bellies, and I think I proved today that I’m not scared of doctor’s visits, okay? So, let’s just do this, since we both want to, and go from there.” He nodded at the end of his thrilling speech—thrilling because Ashton could literally feel the pleasure, the joy of his words as they hit her ears, were processed by her overwrought brain and spread to her fingers and toes.

  “Okay,” she whispered, not sure what to say but wanting to make sure he knew she was with him.


  Because she was. With him.

  She didn’t think about it, she simply raised up on her tiptoes and brought her lips to his, a kiss, a promise, an invitation. Which, when she was able to find the words, she followed with a real invitation. “Meet me in the bedroom. Five minutes.”

  “You’re wearing a lot of clothes.”

  Duncan smiled at his girl, recovered from her non-bout of morning sickness, who was now lying on her back in the center of her bed in nothing but lingerie that had his mind reeling. She was waving her finger up and down at him, as if he was in twelve layers and a thick winter coat, as opposed to the jeans and T-shirt he was actually wearing. “You think?”

  “Compared to me, yeah.” She smiled at him, and moved her finger so that it was no longer waving at him but stroking along the cup of her purple lace bra. It was a coy move and hot-as-hell, watching as she hooked her index finger inside and lowered it just enough to reveal her hardened nipple to his eyes.

  “So, you’re definitely feeling better, then?” he asked, needing to make sure she was ready for what he had in store. Which, honestly, was mostly just a lot of kissing.

  And touching.

  And caressing.

  Okay, yeah, and fucking.

  After all, they’d just verbally confirmed their relationship. Now it was time to do it physically. And after that, they could become Facebook official.

  That was as good as married, these days.

  “Ugh,” she rolled her eyes, the exasperated noise making him laugh, “I’d be feeling a lot better if you’d get naked and get in this bed with me. Your girlfriend.”

  “You like calling yourself that, huh?”

  “Hmm?” She didn’t respond, instead moving her hand from her breasts down, circling her belly button, and continuing to the waist of her panties. “Maybe I won’t wait for you to get undressed.”

  Andrew swallowed, a thick lump forming in his throat at the same time as his dick thickened behind the denim of his jeans. “Touch yourself, Kitten.”

  That she understood his command was a near miracle, given that his voice was barely a croak. Shit, he needed to get control of himself, but the visual she was giving him—her blonde curls laid out over her pillow, breasts pushed up in her purple bra, one of which was spilling over from where she’d played with it.

  And that hand.

  It was pushing underneath the elastic of her panties, and the way his view of exactly what she was doing was hidden by the material somehow only made it hotter. More obscene.

  He groaned, placing a hand over his straining cock, stroking himself through the rough material and staring, intently, unwaveringly at the movement of her fingers. “Fuck, yes.”

  “Take of your pants, Andrew. Now.” Her words were demanding, but her voice was pure sex kitten.

  And he wasn’t going to keep her waiting. His Kitten wanted his pants off—they were gone in the blink of an eye. His shirt, the same.

  Soon, he was kneeling on the end of the bed, his eyes still locked on that spot between her legs, focused on that hand that was doing to her all the things he wanted to be doing. “My turn?” he asked, reaching forward to take over, only to be rewarded with a small slap to halt him.

  “Nuh-uh. You made me wait. Now, you watch.”

  Jesus Christ.

  “Can I”—he cleared his throat, trying to dislodge the need that had his vocal chords constricting—“can I?” He gestured at his erection, a bead of pre-cum formed on the tip proof of exactly how turned on he was.

  He’d never before asked permission in the bedroom. He’d always given the commands, had always taken what was freely given—control—but he found in this moment, he didn’t care who was in charge, as long as a hand was stroking him.

  Soon.

  She nodded through a moan, closing her eyes briefly in enjoyment before letting them spring open to watch him. He gave her a show, first gripping his tip, using the moisture that had formed there to glide his hand down to the base and back up again.

  It felt good. Nearly too good. The combination of her watching him while touching herself made the experience heady—though perhaps that had to do with the fact all his blood had rushed to his dick.

  “So hard,” Ashton murmured, echoing his thoughts. “I want.”

  He smiled at her about-face—she’d been torturing him when she’d started rubbing her fingers over her clit, and lower, but now she was the one looking tortured. Shaking his head while mouthing “No,” he released himself and gripped the sides of her panties, making short work of sliding them down her thighs so he had an unobstructed view of her pussy.

  It was wet, glistening with her arousal and his mouth watered at the thought of licking her there. Instead, he brought one hand back to his cock to stroke again, faster this time, while the other came to rest on her thigh, forcing her legs a little wider. He gave Ashton a small nod, a non-verbal command that she keep going.

  And she did. He jacked himself as she used two fingers to circle her clit, dipping them down to her entrance and pressing them inside, fucking herself while watching him tunnel his dick into his hand.

  Over and over and over, until conscious thought fled entirely and he was nothing but sensation and need. “Ash,” he mumbled, the words warring with his need to come. To release himself over her, mark her. “Are you close?”

  Her head bobbed frantically, her nod uncontrolled like the rest of her body, which twisted and twitched and turned as her climax threatened. Her fingers flew, experts at playing her own body. At giving her what she needed to come.

  On some level, he knew he should stop. Still her hand on her pussy, and the one that had moved to pinch and squeeze her nipple, and replace them with his hands, with his dick, but he was too far gone.

  He knew he’d never get enough. He knew he’d be able to have her again, tonight and every night, so he let himself get lost in the moment, chanting her name as his hand squeezed tighter around his dick until cum shot from the tip.

  It landed on the back of her hand, her wrist and higher up, at the curve of her belly and the sight of it moving with her as she peaked, biting her lip and arching her back in pleasure, caused another wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure to wash over him.

  Which was nothing compared to the feeling he got when she locked her eyes on his, raising the back of her hand to her mouth, watching him as she licked his cum away, looking like his every fantasy come to life.

  Probably, he thought, because she was.

  Ashton: How’s the hotel?

  Andrew: Well, it’s not as nice as your apartment, but it does have a lovely floral bedspread that I’d say has been here since the place opened.

  Andrew: In the 60s.

  Ashton: You could have stayed here, you know. I wouldn’t have minded.

  Andrew: NOW you tell me.

  Ashton: Huh? I *did* tell you.

  Ashton: Didn’t I?

  Ashton: Is this one of those baby-brain things they tell you about, like leaving your car keys in the fridge and wearing two different shoes?

  Andrew: No, Kitten. I was kidding. You told me.

  Ashton: You asshole. I was genuinely worried.

  Andrew: Can I come over?

  Ashton: After that? No. You can lie down on your old, probably drenched in bodily fluids bed and think about what you did.

  Andrew: You’re going to be a great mother.

  Andrew: I know I said it was probably a good idea for me to have this room just in case, but . . .

  Andrew: I think I was wrong.

  Ashton: Oh?

  Andrew: It’s been three days since I got me a girlfriend for the first time since high school and I’ve barely even seen her.

  Ashton: You’ve seen me every day.

  Ashton: Quit your pouting. I’ve been busy.

  Andrew: Still mad about the baby-brain thing?

  Ashton: No. Literally, busy.

  Ashton: Odie and Aussie had a fight and she quit.

  Ashton: So I’v
e been working extra while we find a replacement.

  Andrew: Odie quit? And is it safe for you to be working so much on your feet?

  Ashton: Yes, she quit. Aussie has been stomping around like someone took his favorite toy.

  Ashton: And as to the other thing, I’m knocked up, not knocked out. I think I can handle a few longer shifts behind the bar.

  Andrew: You know your body better than I do.

  Ashton: Damn straight.

  Andrew: But not for long *winking emoji*

  Ashton: What are you saying, Mr. Duncan?

  Ashton: Holy moly, that sounds weird. Mister Duncan. Like I’m a little kid whose mother taught them to always refer to an adult as mister or miss.

  Andrew: It’s not weird. It’s my name.

  Ashton: Your name that I used as your actual name the majority of the time I’ve known you.

  Ashton: VAST majority.

  Andrew: Just call me Mr. Llama then.

  Ashton: Oh, you’re right. That’s much less weird. Thanks.

  Andrew: Anyway, going back to what I was saying . . .

  Andrew: When can I see you, because you know your body better than I do and the only way to remedy that is for me to spend hours kissing and licking every bit of it.

  Ashton: Hold on, I’m having a hot flash.

  Ashton: Now I don’t know if I’m horny or if that’s just a pregnancy thing.

  Andrew: I think you’re horny.

  Andrew: How ’bout you sneak away and put your hand in your panties and see if you’re wet.