by Shandi Boyes
Hearing the devastation in my tone, Elvis increases his odds. “What if I agree to keep my hands to myself? I won’t touch you in the slightest.” His brows furrow as confusion washes over his face. “Is spooning classified as touching?”
I try to play it cool, act like his question didn’t make my heart rate triple, but the high squeak of my words gives away my true composure. “You want to spoon with me?”
“Yes.” His smile does wicked things to my insides. “Very much so.”
“And that’s it? Just spooning?”
He nods while holding his hands up like he’s about to be arrested. “My hands will remain above board at all times.”
His smile enlarges when I grumble, “You don’t have to sound so happy about it.”
“What were Coach James’s stipulations when he altered your contract?”
Pretending the cab driver isn’t watching our exchange with an eagle eye, I reply, “Lip kissing and handholding are okay.” Recalling the mortified expression on Coach’s face when he read out his newly drafted rules has me laughing. “And by lips, he means the ones on my face.”
Elvis’s laughter joins mine. “I still can’t believe he included that.”
“I can. He knows every man on your team as if you are his sons.” I lift and lock my eyes with Elvis’s glistening gaze. “That’s why I don’t want to disappoint him.”
He yanks his cell out of his pocket. “I’ll ring him now. Get the go ahead. He’ll give it to me.”
When he dials a number he knows by heart, I launch out of the cab to snatch his phone from his hand. “You can’t call him now! It’s 2 AM.”
I realize the error of my ways when Elvis flings a bundle of notes through the lowered passenger side window, slams the door I just dove through shut, then bangs on the roof of the taxi, signaling for the driver to leave.
He waits until the taxi’s taillights blur on the horizon before facing me. “Oh, jeez, would you look at that? It’s 2 AM. I don’t like your chances of getting a taxi willing to come out here this late at night.”
I give him the cutie pie face I used to give my dad seconds before causing trouble. “I guess it’s lucky my boyfriend doesn’t drink, so he has no excuse not to drive me home.” I prop my hip against his pricy ride before my eyes stray to Elvis.
He screws up his face. I don’t know what has him more worked up: me referring to him as my boyfriend or the honesty of my reply. He doesn’t drink. I haven’t seen him touch a drop of alcohol the past five weeks.
Tired of fighting a desire bigger than Elvis’s biceps, I give in to temptation. “Hands to yourself at all times. We can kiss, but no tongue.” He looks like he wants to protest, but I continue talking, foiling his attempt. “I can’t do tongue, E, because then I’ll want more. It’s a given. Just like neck kisses. Neck kisses turn into chest kisses. Chest kisses turn into kitty kisses, then kitty kisses turn in—”
“I get it.” He adjusts his crotch like he’s in pain. He’s not the only one. Just thinking about how many naughty things we could do behind closed doors has me panting.
Elvis’s eyes widen as he steps back. If I could see inside his head, I imagine there’d be a light bulb switching on. “Hands to myself, right?”
Even though I’m shocked by the eagerness in his voice, I still nod.
“Alright. Deal.”
Clasping my hand in his, he guides us into his condo. The sexual tension that forever radiates between us is still in abundance, but there’s an edge of excitement surrounding us. I have the same nervous butterflies I got every time I was waiting for the song to start when standing on a dark stage, but it’s stronger, almost palpable.
The reason behind my jitters comes to light when Elvis guides us straight up the spiral staircase separating his loft-like bedroom from the rest of his home. But he doesn’t move toward the bed to start our spooning escapades. He heads straight for the bathroom, the one big enough to fit us both at the same time without needing to share a showerhead. It has two.
“I’m not strong enough for this, E. I’m seconds away from throwing years of study down the toilet already. I can’t endure more temptation.”
He doesn’t answer me. He just steps into his master bathroom, turns on both of the showerheads full pelt, then commences stripping. Fuck the world. I’m not giving this up for anything. My hands instinctively dart out to trace his rock-hard abs. I’ll start there before following the trail of dark hair that flows from his belly button to the bulge even a lack of lighting can’t conceal.
Before I get within an inch of his stomach, Elvis slaps my hands away. “No touching, remember?”
My fingers itch to tiptoe over his skin when his pants are the next article of clothing he removes. He drags them down his muscular spread thighs before kicking them to the side. With his eyes locked on mine and mine locked on his sculptured chest, he tugs down his boxer shorts.
Good lord! Someone send up the medic. I’m going into coronary failure.
We’re standing so close, there’s barely an inch of air between me and his erect cock. If it weren’t for a ridiculously large set of udders, I’d fill the gap. . . before filling any part of my body with his painfully erect cock.
I stop staring at the veins pulsating through his manhood when Elvis murmurs, “Your turn.”
“Huh?” I raise my eyes from his cock to his face. Wetness pools between my legs when I see the predatory gleam in his eyes.
“Your turn,” he repeats, fully knowing I heard him the first time.
I hesitate. I could never be accused of being shy, but this is different. I’m wearing a cow suit, for crying out loud!
“Cows don’t bathe inside. They wait for it to rain.”
An absurdly large grin stretches across his face before he says, “Okay. Suit yourself.”
The noise that tears from my throat when he steps under the water is one I’ve never heard before. It isn’t the image of watering pelting down his gorgeous face before rolling down his glistening pecs causing my near stuttering state. It’s him fisting his cock in his big, manly hand.
“Hands to myself, right?”
“Uh-huh.” I have no more words—not one.
After watching him glide his hand all the way to the tip and back to the base, I raise my eyes to his face. His parted lips and hooded eyes reveal he’s enjoying himself, but they’re missing the cocky gleam they held when we fooled around weeks ago.
I find out why when he murmurs, “This would be a lot more fun if you joined me.”
My hand skates across the furry material of my costume without a negative thought entering my mind. Coach James was very adamant with his rules, but not once did he stipulate I couldn’t participate in an activity like this.
Elvis’s strokes on his cock quicken when the cow suit slips off my body in one fell swoop. He seems to like that I’m wearing the same bra and panty combination I wore the last time we had a sleepover. As my hands unclasp my bra, I lick my lips. The visual in front of me is too glorious for words. You’d think the size of his thighs would detract from the magnificent girth of his cock. But it doesn’t—not in the slightest. And the length. . . I groan. I might need to change his nickname to tripod.
“Come on, Will, give me something to work with. . .”
His words trail off when my bra falls to my feet. When my panties quickly follow, his thumb skids across his knob to gather a glistening drop at the tip. Before he can use it to lubricate his pumps, I seize his hand and raise it to my mouth. His groan rumbles straight through my core, and his taste frees me from any modesty inhibiting me.
After stepping back to drench my unruly hair with steaming hot water, I cup my breasts in my hands. When I twist my nipples, jolts of electricity dart down to my sex. I roll and fondle them at the same pace Elvis strokes his cock. I pretend he’s tit-fucking me, my tongue instinctively darting out to lap up his goodness like I did in this very room five weeks ago.
When the slither of my hand halts halfway down my stomach, Elv
is gives me a final push of encouragement. “Go on. Show me how much you’re enjoying this.”
His dick throbs in his hand when I roll my fingertips over the hood of my clit. The sensation is overwhelming, the show nearly over before it even begins.
“Sit on the hob and rest your foot on the shower screen.”
I’m more than happy to oblige. . . until my new position adds rolls of fat to my midsection.
“No, no, no. Stay there. Just like that. It’s fucking perfect. You’re fucking perfect.” The fire in his eyes reveals the truth in his statement, but if it didn’t, the amount of precum pooling on the end of his cock would soon clear up any misconceptions. “That’s it. Nice and slow.”
He slows the speed of his pumps, matching them to the grind of my fingers. We fuck as one, as if there isn’t three feet of air between us.
“I can feel you squeezing my cock, sucking at it.” Elvis tightens his hand, strangling the vein feeding his manhood with every stroke. “Can you feel me, Willow? Can you feel me pumping into you, taking you in the shower like I’ve fantasized about every day since we met?”
I nearly jest that my fist couldn’t replicate his cock, much less two fingers, but I keep my mouth shut, finally recognizing that sexy time is not a place for jokes.
“Uh-huh. I can feel every inch of you. You’re getting thicker, harder, seconds from release.”
“And I’m going to release inside you, aren’t I, Will?”
I shouldn’t love the way he sounds desperate to fill me with his seed, but I do.
After locking my eyes with his, I nod. The hope in my eyes causes an avalanche of excitement. I grind my fingers into my pussy harder before lowering my second hand to toy with my clit. Elvis adjusts the spread of his feet before leaning close enough to me, his virile, manly scent activates every one of my hot buttons.
While one of his hands pumps his cock, his other braces against the tiles above my head. The heat in the room turns excruciating as we bring each other to climax without laying a finger on one another. This isn’t the first time I’ve pleasured myself, but it is the first time it’s been this exhilarating. My entire body is coiled tight, ready to shatter at any moment.
I do when Elvis raises my head to his with his spare hand before planting a kiss on my quenched mouth. Recalling my demand for no tongue, he keeps our kiss innocent, but it gives me the final push I need to freefall into orgasmic bliss.
He follows closely behind me.
“I CAN WALK, you know. I have legs.”
Elvis smirks as he continues strutting across his bedroom. His footing seems lighter than it was thirty minutes ago, his happiness at an all-time high.
“Pick a side, buttercup. I have no preferences.”
When I peer at him in shock, he nudges his head to his bed. “Left.”
“Right it is.”
He laughs when I punch him in the bicep. “Ouch.” After adjusting me so he’s carrying me with one hand, he rubs his arm, feigning injury.
“Serves you right.”
“What? I can’t help that I want anything you want.”
He drops his head to the side and flashes an adorable smile before dragging back the sheets on his bed. As requested, he places me on the left side.
When he slides in behind me, I roll over to face him. “Do you think we should get dressed first?”
The boyish grin on his face doubles as he replies, “Why? Afraid I’ll maul you in the middle of the night?”
I nod. “I’m concerned you only see that as a possibility instead of a given. I thought my fate was already decided, but I guess if you’ve had your fun, I may as well head home.”
He ends my scoot across the mattress by grabbing ahold of my arm. “We have nine days, three hours, and twenty-seven minutes remaining on your contract. Once that’s done, I’ll maul you as often as you want, but until then, get your fine ass back here to heat my cock while I sleep.”
“Are you sure you’re not Tarzan?” I roll over then shimmy back, purposely grinding my ass more than necessary. “You went all caveman on me, and although he’s more a Jungle Book type of guy, I’m certain I heard some Tarzanish twang in there.”
“I have many ethnicities in my bloodlines, but we missed out on the African jungle lineage, I’m afraid.”
I stick out my bottom lip. “That’s a shame. You sure do have the cock for it.”
His laugh vibrates through my chest. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should. You have a very splendid penis.” Which happens to be digging into my ass more with every word I speak.
After reminding myself that nine days isn’t really that long, I shift our conversation to less dangerous waters. “A little birdie told me your birthday is coming up.”
“Dalton?”
“Huh?”
Elvis cranks an elbow to peer down at me. “Was the little birdie Dalton?”
I nod. With an overworked gasp, his torso flops back onto the mattress.
“I know it’s before a big game month, but did you want to do something? We could grab a slice at Mickey’s before watching a movie. Or try out that new go-kart track that opened up recently?”
He groans as if nothing I’m serving sounds appetizing.
“We have to do something, E. You only turn sixty once—” I squeal like I’m twelve when his hands dive into my ribs. It isn’t a little tickle I can push off as an accident. It’s one of the torture methods sick, sadistic people use on poor, unsuspecting victims. “Alright! Alright! Alright! We don’t have to celebrate your thirty-ninth 21st birthday.”
While dragging my hair off my face, I scoot back half a foot. “But we’ve got to have cake. It’s cake. You love cake.” I actually don’t know if he does, but I sure do. “Can we do cake?”
I gain back some of my maturity when he murmurs, “We’ll do cake, but I can’t sign up for anything else. I’ve got plans in the works.”
“Oh.” Well, that sucks. “At least there’ll be cake.”
His confession puts a dampener on our exchange. Not from Elvis’s side; he’s more than happy to pull me back to his side of the bed, roll me, and spoon me like I’m his own personal body pillow. It’s only me left wondering who’s so vital in his life, he can’t spare an hour of his birthday to grab a slice with me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Presley
“N o. Don’t move. Not yet.” I scurry across warm sheets to secure Willow back into my arms. We’ve only been sleeping for five hours, but it’s been the most restful five hours I’ve ever had. “Just a few more hours.”
I stop chewing on air to replenish my mouth with spit when Willow whispers, “Someone’s in your house.”
“What?” I jackknife up so fast, we nearly bump heads.
“Listen.” She tries to calm the frantic beats of her heart as she cranks her ear to the noise. “They sound like they’re in the kitchen.” Her brows lower down her face as her lips twist. “Making pancakes?”
A blistering smile stretches across my face. After flinging off the sheets, I climb out of bed. Willow watches me like I’m insane. I guess that makes sense. Who interrupts an intruder brandishing nothing but a smile? Only one man would be stupid enough to do that. A sister’s baby brother.
“It’s my sister, Syndi. She and her son, Emerick travel down every year for my birthday.”
My love for my sister is clear in my voice. Don’t get me wrong, when we were younger, we shared the typical sibling hate, but once I got older and realized exactly how much Syndi did for me, that became a thing of the past.
Syndi was a professional dancer like Willow. She just didn’t dance for her pleasure. She did it for the men willing to fill her bikini bottoms with crinkly dollar bills, then she deposited that money into a bank account and paid for my schooling. If she hadn’t put her body on the line for me, I wouldn’t be the man I am today. Can you understand my appreciation now?
“Get dressed and join us downstairs. Syndi makes the best
pancakes.”
Willow looks excited until her eyes scan my room. “I don’t have any clothes.”
“Borrow some of mine.” I nudge my head to my walk-in closet.
Her eyes snap to mine. “I can’t wear your clothes to meet your sister. She’ll think I’m a hussy.”
“Syndi isn’t like that.” I lean down and brush my lips against hers. “She’ll love you.” Nearly as much as I do.
Panicked by my inner monologue, I yank back, pivot on my heels and race down the stairwell. It must be the massive morning wood I have draining my brain of blood, because I’ve never had a thought like that before. Not even once during the nine years I was with Lillian.
“You better hurry before all the good pancakes are gone.”
As I stomp down the stairwell, I reprimand myself. What the fuck was that? Even if it’s true, it doesn’t mean you can just blurt it out like that. You’re the guy, the man, the alpha-fucking-male; you don’t declare that you’re in love first, especially not to the girl you’re crushing on. You’re supposed to hold out, tap her nose like she’s cute the first time she says it before eventually saying it back a good few weeks later, but no, Sir Fuckface nearly blurts it out while assuring her his sister’s pancakes are worth wearing one of my shirts as if it’s a dress.
“Presley!” Syndi’s squeal draws me from my rant. “Happy birthday week! We’re making your favorite.” She wiggles her batter-smeared spatula at Emerick, who is adding chocolate chips into the banana mix.
Her hand falls to her side when I return her greeting. “Why do you smell like. . .” She takes in a deep whiff of air through her nose, not the least bit embarrassed that she’s smelling Willow’s skin on mine. “Honey?”
“Sweet, right?”
Before she can answer, a soft voice over my shoulder whispers, “It’s the oat and honey shampoo I use.”
“You dog.” Sydni’s words are only loud enough for me to hear, but her whack in my gut would be sufficient for ten men. “I’m Syndi Carlton. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
When I spin around to witness their introduction, a chuckle rumbles in my chest. Willow is wearing the cow outfit she had on last night, and Syndi is doing her best to pretend she’s not. Only someone with as much confidence as Willow would think wearing a costume instead of a man’s shirt is the lesser of two evils. That’s one of the things I love about her the most. . .