Page 39 of Reach Around

I meet his eyes. “Do it, Foster. Been waiting for you to wreck me since you learned how to drive.”

When he finally reaches for my bra, it’s with hands gentler than I’ve ever known. I reach behind me, unclasping it, letting the straps slide down so he can pull it off. He pulls down the cups, freeing me, and for a moment he just stares—totally undone.

He undresses me like he’s unwrapping something breakable—but once I’m bare, there’s a change in the air. Like we both feel it. This isn’t casual. It never was.

“You’re perfect,” he says, rough, like he doesn’t have the words for what he’s feeling. He bends his head, mouth finding my breast, tongue swirling soft and then hungry around my nipple. He doesn’t rush, like he’s determined to burn this into memory. “JoJo, you know I’ve been obsessed with your tits since high school, right? You think you’ve been hiding them, but you haven’t fooled me for a second.”

I arch for him, fingers in his hair, the world shrinking to the heat of his mouth, the scratch of his stubble, the sound of both of us breathing hard and close and hungry. He worships me with his hands, his lips, every part of him saying what words never could. He’s careful, but he’s greedy, too—kissing, sucking, biting just enough to make me gasp, make me remember that this is Brogan, my best friend, the only person who’s ever really seen me.

When he finally rises up to kiss me again, my body is bare and burning, and his eyes are so full of want and wonder I feel almost invincible.

“Jesus, JoJo. I… fuck, I don’t…” His fingers skim the outside of my thighs, up to my hips, hovering like he’s afraid I might vanish. “Never—never thought… you—God, you’re beautiful. All of you.”

I can’t help it—I reach for his jaw, guiding him closer, needing his mouth on me, needing to feel him see me.

He’s still talking, voice barely a whisper, almost frantic. “You’re shaking,” he says, like he can’t believe it’s not just him. “Are you… okay? Is this—”

I nod, breathless. “I want you. Please.”

That’s all it takes. His hands spread my thighs apart, eyes going glassy with hunger. “Fuck. Joely.” His breath is hot against my pussy, and for a second he just stares, like he’s imprinting this memory into the back of his mind. Then he grins, voice low and unsteady. “You have no idea what you do to me. I’ve thoughtabout this a million times—how wet you’d be for me. How good you’d taste. I could look at you like this forever.”

His hands are gentle, reverent as he strokes my hips, thumbs brushing just above where I need him most. Brogan groans, and then his mouth is on me, open-mouthed kisses pressed to the soft skin of my inner thigh, then higher, tongue flicking out to taste, slow and tentative at first, like he’s savoring every reaction.

“Jesus, JoJo, you taste so fucking good.” His voice is wrecked, almost broken with need. “Been thinking about this… but it’s better. You’re better.”

His tongue moves slow at first, then hungry, growing bolder with every gasp and moan he pulls from me, like he’s learning me by heart. He murmurs things against my skin—nonsense, fragments—“So good. So pretty. Can’t believe this is real. Can’t believe you’re mine.” His hands never stop moving, holding me open, worshipping every inch of me.

I can’t process the reality of Brogan—his broad shoulders wedged between my thighs, his hair in my fists, his tongue drawing slow, lazy circles over the most sensitive part of me like he’s got nowhere else to be. It’s patient at first, coaxing, teasing—every flick and swirl making my body arch off the mattress, my breath going sharp and needy.

The world narrows to his mouth and the wet heat of his tongue, the scruff of his jaw scraping my inner thigh, the pressure of his hands holding me open like he’s terrified I’ll vanish if he lets go. I’m hypersensitive, every nerve ending lit up and singing for him. I’m trembling, on the edge—more from the way he’s watching me than even what he’s doing with his tongue. Like I’m the most precious, obscene thing he’s ever seen. Every moan feels like a confession. Every gasp is a promise. It’s too much and not enough and exactly what I’ve wanted for years, all at once.

And when I feel the pleasure build—when my thighs are shaking and my hands are buried in his hair—he just looks up, pupils blown wide, mouth wet, and says, “That’s it, JoJo. Let go. Want to feel you come for me. Need it. Need you.”

And when it happens, when I finally let go, his name spills from my lips. Brogan continues to lick me, never letting up, like he’s determined to wring every last bit of pleasure out of this moment, out of me.

When he finally looks up, his grin is crooked and almost shy, lips slick with proof of what he’s done. “Jesus, JoJo… you just soaked my face,” he rasps, voice thick with awe and a cocky pride he can’t hide. “I don’t think I’m ever going to recover from that.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still watching me like he’s half-drunk on the taste of me.

When I finally catch my breath, I tug Brogan closer by the lapels of his tux jacket, his grin dizzy and boyish, still a little dazed. “Off. Now,” I whisper, already slipping my fingers under the smooth fabric. He shrugs out of the jacket, letting it drop to the floor, and I waste no time with his tie—sliding the knot loose, letting it fall away, then working my way down the row of buttons on his crisp white shirt.

Each one gives me another glimpse of him: the muscles I’ve dreamed about, the line of his collarbone, the dusting of hair on his chest. By the time his shirt joins the pile, I have to pause, hands splayed over his warm skin, taking him in—flushed, rough around the edges, absolutely beautiful. All man. All Brogan. All mine.

His breath hitches as I skim my hands down to his belt. “JoJo—what are you—” He can barely get the words out.

I see something flicker in his eyes—like he’s not sure he deserves this, deserves me—but I shut him up with a kiss, slow and sure, because tonight, he does.

“Let me,” I whisper. “Please. I want to see you.”

He swallows hard, letting me work his dress pants open, pushing them and his briefs down in one go. He’s already hard, and the look on his face somewhere between wild pride and utter disbelief almost undoes me. I wrap my hand around him, slow, savoring the weight and heat, loving the way he shudders at my touch.

“Fuck,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “You—don’t have to…”

I want to laugh. “Brogan, I’ve wanted this forever. Let me have you.”

Before he can argue, I press on his chest, gently urging him back onto the pillows. He goes easily, his eyes locked on mine, breath coming faster now. I kneel beside him, the mattress dipping under my weight, and lean over, my hair brushing his stomach. My hand wraps around his cock, stroking him slow, teasing, drinking in every hitch of his breath.

He props himself up on his elbows, his gaze hungry and reverent all at once. When I lower my mouth, licking a slow stripe up his length, his hips jerk and a broken sound escapes him—a raw, needy groan I’ve only ever dreamed of.

“Damn…” he manages, his voice thick and ragged, “You have no idea…”

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