Page 141 of The Home Grown
She leans in to kiss me again, and I groan into her mouth.
God, this girl.
“What do you need, Mike?” she says—no, whispers. It’s a whisper that pulls me in. Like there’s only me and her in the entire world.
“You.” I swallow. A cliché answer, sure, but it’s true. And it makes every single time I’ve been close with someone feel like a practice—all leading up to the main event. Because the meaning of life and my universe isn’t‘42’, it’s Eleanor Kitchener.
“Can I—” I say, pulling away to give my words a chance.
“Can you…?”
“I want to see you,” I say.
“I’m right here.”
I roll onto my back, pulling her with me, manoeuvring her to straddle my thighs, dick laying on my stomach between us, begging for attention.
But all my attention is on Ellie.
“That’s not what I mean,” I say. “Can I see you? All of you?”
She meets my eyes for a moment before looking away, cheeks flushing pink.
My hands automatically move to her thighs, rubbing along the outside, stopping shy of the hem of her nightshirt. I do this a few times, edging the fabric away little by little. Not too much, but enough so she knows I’m waiting for her permission.
“Okay,” she says, reaching down and tugging at the shirt.
It’s over her head in a flash, cast aside on the bedroom floor.
An empty-net to score on. A hot shower after a long game. The playoff cup with my name etched onto the plaque—all things that used to compete for the top spot of my adoration.
Until now.
Now, they’re officially relegated toI don’t give a crapstatus. Ellie is the top of the list, forever and always—playoff cup being a close second.
I let out a groan, not able to stop my hands from roaming. The curve of her hips, the softness of her stomach, and her breasts: full and heavy in my hands, nipples a dark-pink that I tug lustfully.
“Fuck, you’re perfect.”
“I’m—”
I cut her off, needing my mouth on hers again—not able to waste another second.
I pull her down to take her mouth; our kisses becoming deep—frantic.
“Tell me about your dream,” I say, breaking the kiss.
“It’s—nothing,” she says.
“I want to hear about it. Was I naked?”
“I—a few times.”
“Oh, fuck,” I say, threading my hand through her hair, gripping her head as I look into her eyes.
“The other times, you had the suit on.”
“Oh, yeah? Because I have lots of suits—one for each day of the week.”
