Page 1 of Made Man

1

WYATT

I’mflat on my back, and Mira’s riding me. Somehow, she got my jeans down and my dick out, and she’s riding me on the playground suspension bridge we used to play on when we were kids.

“Mira,” I pant. “Baby, we have to stop.” We really do, and it’s going to kill me.

“No,” she whines, grinding the seam of her sweatpants against my cock.

It chafes like hell, but I don’t care about that. “Someone will see.”

“It’s three o’clock in the morning.” She braces her palms on my chest, closes her eyes, bites her lip, and tosses her long blonde hair. She looks like an angel. A slutty angel. “Move,” she orders, so bossy, so perfect.

I can’t. If I do, I’ll come. “I’m not giving Vinnie a show.”

She giggles and opens her big brown eyes. “His name isTony. And he would never look.”

“Of course he would.” Mira’s shirt is pushed up to her neck, and her front clasp bra is unhooked. Her glorious tits sway every time she rocks her hips and the bridge swings. If I hadn’t givenVinnie or Tony or whoever a fifty to give us some space and whistle if anyone comes by—and angled Mira away from where he’s leaning against an oak tree across the way—he’d totally be looking.

He can still hear us. Mira, at least. She has no concept of adjusting her volume for a given situation. The thought of being overheard doesn’t faze me—or my dick—in the slightest. Years ago, I got used to the fact that being with Mira means never being alone.

Her dad is a mafia boss. At least that’s the rumor around the neighborhood. My parents joke about it with their friends down at the country club. They don’t actuallybelieveit. They think he’s some kind of eccentric financial genius, paranoid about personal protection, who just so happens to be Italian American.

I’m not so sure. Mira has never said, and I’ve never asked, ’cause what am I going to do if he’s some big-time mobster? It’s already hard enough that I’m going to Wharton in the fall, and she’s staying home. It’s only a three-hour drive, but even thinking about it makes my chest tight. She’s been down the street my whole life. We didn’t talk for most of that time—I don’t talk much at all—but she was there. I could see her.

Even when she thought I was a gross, annoying, stupid boy, she’d wait for me to pass with my mutt Sheldon and come running with her Frenchie named Eustace, and we’d walk them together, mostly in silence. I’d take care of Eustace’s business for her, and Mira would smile at me prettily, sashay ahead, and pretend not to notice me staring at her perfect, sweetheart ass.

Mira hasn’t scooped a single poop in her life. Is she gonna ask Tony and Vinnie to do it when I’m gone?

“Hey,” she says softly, and I realize I’ve tensed, and she’s stopped rocking. The eyebrows that she spends so much time on pinch together. “Where’d you go?”

“Nowhere. I’m here.”

She fakes a frown and tickles my bare sides. She’s pushed my shirt up to my chin, too. I pretend to squirm. I’m not ticklish, but I’ll never discourage her from touching me any way she wants. Back when we were sophomores, and she was starting to see me the way I’ve always seen her, that’s how she showed me she wanted to be more than friends. Tickles and play punches and trying to give me flat tires, which usually ended with her failing and tripping herself instead.

“No, you’re not.” She frowns for real. “You’re thinking about college.”

“Maybe.”

“It’s only three hours away.” She’s reassuring herself. I hate that. It makes me think she’s worried, and that makesmeworried.

I stroke her soft back. When she’s unhappy, my stomach hurts.

“You’ll be back for Thanksgiving, and then it’s less than a month until winter break,” she says.

“That’s right. And then we’ll have a whole six weeks together before second semester.” I wrap my arms around her and draw her to my chest.

She rests her cheek on my pec. Her hair smells like lemon blossom and lychee. At least that’s what she said the smell was when I asked. I didn’t know lemons had blossoms, and I’ve never seen a lychee. I nuzzle my nose into her silky waves, and it’s the best smell in the world.

“Think about me,” she says, snaking her arm between us so she can wrap her soft fingers around my dick. “Don’t think about college.”

“Baby,” I groan, drawing her hand away and tucking it under my arm to pin it there. “Calm down.”

“I don’t wanna.” She spreads her knees, pressing her inner thighs against my hips so she can grind her pussy on my boner. She’s soaking through her sweats.

“Please, baby,” I beg as I buck my hips, my dick trying to punch a hole through the cotton of her pants. “We can’t.”

“Why not?” she grumbles. “Everyone’s asleep.”

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