Page 170 of Can't Always Get What You Want

Motherfucking sexy…

Raw in the best way.

Every thrust I give her is a confession—every moan she gives me is a reward.

A five-star review of my hard dick.

And when she starts to tremble… when her fingers slip a little on the bench, I don’t let her fall. I hold her tighter. Move with her. Until there’s nothing but heat and pressure and the sweet, desperate rhythm of us.

We both come—first Nova, then myself, breathing heavily, holding steady for several seconds before I slowly slide myself out.

“Welp.” I hear her sigh, eyes still focused to the ground. “The good news is, I don’t have to wash up.”

I shiver, nerve cells on high. “Shower efficiency. We’re eco-conscious heroes.”

She snorts, then immediately cringes. “Oh. Don’t make me laugh—Mavis is too sensitive.”

Two minutes later, when I’m wrapping her in a towel and patting her down, she’s purring like a kitten, begging to snuggle.

We collapse in a mess of limbs and damp hair, both of usboneless and warm beneath the sheets. She slides one of my pillows under her arm and sighs like it’s the first real breath she’s taken all day.

“You smell like eucalyptus,” she murmurs, nosing into my chest, hand stroking my stomach.

We’re quiet for a beat—until both our phones buzz at the exact same time on the nightstand.

Then again.

And again.

Nova groans, fishing for hers with a blind hand. “Ugh. If this is Gio, I swear to God?—”

“It’s not Gio,” I say, scrolling through my notifications. “It’severyone.”

Sure enough—Instagram is blowing up.

TikTok is on fire.

The clip of Nova bursting into the penalty box has gone viral, the power move of storming the penalty box and demanding I let her in seems to be an anthem for women everywhere.

“Penalty Box Proposal.” I laugh, reading several of the hashtags out loud to her.

“It wasn’t a proposal!”

We both pause.

Then—

“WE’RE A MEME,” Nova screeches, holding up her phone. “Holy shit—look. I’ve always wanted to be a meme! Listen to this caption:‘When your girlfriend goes to hockey jail to tell you she loves you—peak romance.’”

“I mean—they’re not wrong.” I put my hand on her bare thigh and stroke it beneath the sheets. “Girlfriend. Fucking love that.”

“Mm,” she hums absentmindedly, still reading things out loud to me. “This one says ‘Babineaux and the Baddie: The Power Couple We Didn’t Know We Needed.’”

“Babineaux and the Baddie?” I toss my head back, laughing. “That can be the same of our podcast. We can give relationship advice.”

“Or not.” She rolls her eyes. Her smile softens a little. “You’re okay with this? It’s so crazy.”

I glance over at her—damp hair, phone vibrating in her palm. She’s wearing one of my old, gray T-shirts and I want to slide my hand underneath and palm one of her tits.

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