Page 157 of The Home Grown
I’m not sure if I should wear the jacket yet, but I am anyway. The truth is, I’ve been dying to show it off ever since Jen shipped it to me, though I’m nervous about Mike’s reaction. And although I’d told myself I’d bring up the hashtag as soon as I saw him, that thought vanishes the second he comes into view. The lift doors spring open and I spot him, leaning against the door to his apartment. The size of his grin tells me it was a good idea.
In a cinematic moment, I hurry forward, dropping my bags and flinging myself at him.
This is exactly what I imagined coming home to feel like: perfect and inviting, but more importantly, a safe-hair zone.
“How was the journey?” he asks.
“Fine, yeah.”
We make our way inside with my bags, only making it as far as the hallway before they’re abandoned, and his lips find mine, the familiar warmth of Mike engulfing me.
“That fucking jacket—” he says.
That’s all it takes to ignite the fire. The searing hot kiss and the way his hands are everywhere. My hips, my waist, my back … slipping the jacket from my shoulders so it exposes a fair amount of skin.
“Are we alone?” I whisper, tilting my head to the side, letting him access that sensitive patch of skin that has my entire body tingling.
There’s a vibration of laughter, mixed with a groan of something … as he answers, “yes.”
That’s all the encouragement I need.
I tug at the waist of his sweatpants and slip my hand inside, rubbing him over his boxers, desperate to tease him.
“Can I fuck you here?” he asks, planting a kiss on my lips, firm and deep. “Can I push you up against this wall and show you how much I’ve missed you, Mrs Betts?”
Oh, my … I nod my head, our mouths meeting again.
I dip my hands in under his boxers, squeezing his length before building up a steady rhythm with my fist; the noises he makes driving me wild.
One of his hands cups my cheek, locking my mouth onto his, and the other, hikes my leg up—fully clothed, but the angle makes me cry out, gasping as my hand shifts to allow the bulge in his sweats to press into me.
He could do absolutely anything to me right now. Honestly, this guy…
“I need you, Kitch,” he whispers, pulling away from our kiss, pressing his forehead against mine.
And because I need him just as much, I’m wriggling free to lose my shoes, hitch my top up, and push down my leggings and underwear. I fumble with one leg, cursing the clingy fabric, but then he’s got a grip on my thigh and nothing else matters. In one firm motion, he’s inside me, that familiar ache of him, deep as I adjust, making me quiver.
The first time we’re feeling each other completely. No barrier. Nothing between me and him.
His hips rock as he thrusts. Slow and steady. I reach a hand between us, circling my clit with trembling fingers as he moves, the desperation to come while he drives into me pushing me over the edge as I moan a warning of my orgasm.
I’m coming.
It hits me hard and fast—blinding and hot as I cry out against his mouth as he continues to move inside me.
“I’m close,” he says.
And that’s when this all-consuming need to taste him takes over. It’s like I can’t think of anything else.
I nudge him away and the look on his face changes to painful desperation, right up until I drop to my knees, and I look up at him, my tongue darting out to flick the tip of his dick.
“Fuck.”
I slide my mouth around his shaft, pushing deep.
He unravels instantly. The wild groans of his pleasure as he grips my hair, not exactly hard but firm enough, so I wince as I swallow him down.
He’s wrapped up in his orgasm, but then his expression changes as he looks down at me, his eyes flicking to the top of my head.
