Page 65 of The Americana Playbook

Parker has rubbed off on me. Andgod, do I want to rub off on her.

I turn off the water and quickly unlatch my belt. I’m cursing myself as I go in more ways than one because I’m damning myself to total misery as I conjure up how it would feel to breath this scent straight off her skin instead of through the shirt I bring back to my nose.

But one more inhale, and I’m hard. I wrap my fingers around the base of my cock, stroking upward, a mixture of pleasure and straight up relief from trying to keep myself in check flows through the thick vein at the underside.

“Fuck.”

Folding my left arm against the wall, I lean my forehead on it. The shirt in my hand dangles in my face, giving me fuel, but the truth is, I don’t even need it. I’ve got the taste of Parker on my tongue, the near memory of the weight of her in my lap, and a lifetime of fantasies stockpiled in my mind. I start with something similar to where I am now.

I imagine it’s her forehead I’m leaning against, that it’s her soft hand stroking me as she teases my mouth with soft whispers and light kisses that have me leaning in for something deeper. Her tongue rolls out to invite mine in, but she pulls back, rubbing her nose against mine.

I squeeze my shaft, adding pressure as I stroke up before gliding back down to the base, dreaming of Parker’s smaller, smoother hand, the way she breathes into my mouth, the wicked grin she gives when I whimper as she circles her thumb around the tip. In my mind, I go in for another kiss, but she pulls back.

“If you want me, Fitz.”I hear her say. “You’re going to have to do better than that.”

So I do. I snatch her up quickly, drawing a surprised yelp from Parker’s mouth before I silence her with my own—but not entirely. There’s still room for those sweet sounds, the breathy moans and fuck, the way she whimpers my name. I don’t have to work to slide into her. That’s how easy we are together. We fit, two pieces of a puzzle. I slide into that pussy like it was made for me, likeshewas made for me.

I’m racing against myself. My strokes match the pace I take her in my mind, pinning her to the wall, the sounds of her moans accented by the sounds of our bodies slapping together right where it matters.

“Fuck,” I bite into the flesh of my forearm the way I dream of doing to the juncture of Parker’s collarbone and neck. I want her to give every piece of herself to me—her sounds, her body, her fucking soul I’m aching to touch. That’s what I do in my head. I fuck her deeper and deeper, fueled by the way she claws at my back, clutching me closer, wanting me, needingonlyme.

“Fitz,” she whimpers. And that’s it, just my name out of her mouth because that’s all Parker wants and needs—me.

I lean back, flinging my arm from the wall down and catching my load in the bunched up t-shirt. Looking up from where I cover and hold the warm, sticky mess, I find myself in the mirror.

You’re totally fucked.

“Okay,I know we don’t likeknoweach other so well, but I have to ask…”

“Ask what?” I press Lo as I stir my margarita. I usually stay away from tequila, but when she suggested Mexican for an early dinner, it made it hard to say no. When in Rome, they say. “Keep in mind, if you ask me something about my family and I tell you the truth, I might have to kill you.”

Lo’s eyes bulge.

“I’m kidding,” I inform her, bringing the short glass to my lips. “Ask away.”

Lo eyes me hesitantly for a minute. “Did Fitz give you a pounding last night?”

I choke on my tequila.

“You waddled. I don’t know if you noticed.” Lo laughs.

Returning my glass to the table, I reach for a napkin, blotting my mouth. “I’m just sore from riding.”

Across from me, Lo raises her eyebrows.

“Not Fitz. My horse. A horse,” I clarify. “He’s technically not mine. I was at the barn all afternoon and I’m just getting back into the swing of things.”

“You need to relax a bit,” Abby says. “He can feel you hesitate.”

I try to take a deep breath, letting go of some of the tenseness I hold in my thighs as I press them into Bernard’s side. “Can he feel me manifest him making it over that set of cross poles? Because I am.”

Fourteen-year-old Parker would be ashamed by thirty-year-old Parker. I used to canter over this style of jump at triple the height without thinking.

“We have a few more minutes. Want another run?” Abby asks.

I shake my head. “I think I stressed him out today,” I say, patting Bernard. “I’m sorry, big guy.”

Horses feed off energy. Bernard is stressed because I’m stressed. I’ve got my first campaign event tomorrow, and well, a lot on my mind.

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