Page 80 of Kitty Season
Without explicitly saying so, I’ve made it clear via affectionate touch and glances, that I am with both the boys, and that I’m happier than I’ve ever been. Dad has grunted and grimaced like he’s eating glass rather than an admittedly gritty swordfish, but we’ve made it to dessert, and no one is missing a limb, no one has been kicked off the team, and I count that as a win.
Also a win. Dragging Brady into the bathroom.
Yes, it’s immature. Yes it’s risky. But fuck it.
I happened to wander by as he was washing his hands and pepping himself up in the mirror. It was so cute and sweet, and he blushed so hard when he saw me, I had to have him.
Also, corrupting my baby is so much fun.
“Your dad is going to kill me.”
“Shh. He won’t kill you cause he won’t hear you.”
Who am I kidding? I mean, obviously I don’t want my parents walking in on us, but I can’t deny the thrill of gettingcaught is kind of a turn on. “Okay so your dad won’t kill me, but Troye might.”
“Nah. He’ll just be turned on.” Smiling, I unbutton his lovely pressed slacks, as he called them, and free his cock, immediately licking his red, weeping tip. Looking down at me, his teeth biting into his lip, I see the second his hesitation dissolves, freeing him to grip my hair and tap his dick against my cheek. “Let me in, Quinny. Please, taste me.”
When he taps the edge of my lips again, I turn my head to take him deep, sliding my tongue along the juicy, thick vein running from tip to base, then constricting my throat. Once he’s melting, quivering, above me, I slide my hand up from his thigh and slip it between his cheeks to circle his hole.
“Quinn. Jesus. What? How?”
“Shh, baby.” I’m just getting into it, finding a rhythm that has him whining, and mumbling absolute nonsense, and me soaking wet with desire, when he pulls out from between my lips and hauls me to my feet.
“Let me fuck you, Quinny. I promise I’ll be quiet … or at least I’ll try to be quiet.”
“Good enough for me, Big D.”
The words have hardly left my mouth when he nudges apart my legs and fists my panties, tugging down over my hips. While I shimmy out of them, his hands roam my ass and thighs. The second he sees I’m free, he digs his fingers into my flesh and hoists me up, allowing me to wrap my legs around his waist. “Want you so bad, Quinn.” He spins us so my back is against the wall then pounds inside me in one fluid motion, forcing me to bite my lip to stifle my cry. “God, you’re so wet. So fucking tight.”
“Shh, baby. I know, I know it feels so good, but we have to be, oh … oh Brady.”
My protest dies on my lips ‘cause he’s biting down on my neck, teeth scraping along my pulse point as he slips hishand between us, fingers brushing over my clit. The onslaught of pleasure, of feeling him suck, and caress in rhythm to his thrusts, is too much. I run my hands down his back, grip his ass and pull him into me and hold on for dear life. “Brady, oh God, I’m coming.”
“Yes, Quinny, that’s my girl.”
My orgasm fuels the fire, and it’s filthy now, the way he’s losing control, grunting, begging for more, as his powerful quads drive his cock deeper and deeper inside me.
Weaving in with the sounds of our fucking is the thumping bass of the warm up music. It seeps beneath the door, reminding us where we are, of how risky our little game is.
“Do you think … do you think Troye can hear us,” he grunts, his blue eyes wild with lust and catching mine.
“He can, Brady, he can.”
“Fuck.” He’s so close. I know he wants to come so bad, and I know how to make it happen.
“Imagine he’s watching,” I pant into his ear. “Picture him touching himself as you fill me up. He wants your cum dripping from my pussy as we eat.”
“Yes, fuck. Quinn. Troye. Fuck.”
Relinquishing his bruising hold of my thighs, Brady gives one final thrust. His thick body slams me into the wall and traps me there as he snares my hands in his, and pins them above my head. His face is buried into the crook of my neck, his scent all over me, hips rolling, grinding as he calls my name and does as I wanted, filling me with stream after stream of warm, wet cum.
Idon’t know what in the hell possessed Quinn to do this. And bythisI don’t mean hold both Brady’s and my hands as we walk to her car.
It’s the whole thing. The bringing us here. The being openly affectionate. Clearly fucking Basse—the lucky bastard—in the bathroom. The works.
Clearly, Coach Harris thinks I don’t deserve her, but for some reason, she thinks I do. And since she’s the smartest person I know, it’s time to stop listening to the ghosts of my past, and start listening to her.
Why has this, the most awkward dinner of my life, helped me come to this conclusion? Well apart from picturing Brady biting down on his hand as he fucks into Quinn, and her being bad-ass enough to risk it in the first place, its because no one has ever done what she just did for me. And I can’t deny it anymore. As much as Clarke loved Lois, and Harley the Joker, I Troye Harold Becker, love Quinn Josephine Harris.
