Page 54 of That Moment
“What?” My panic dials up when she suddenly bursts into laughter. “Are you joking? Are you teasing me right now because that’s not fucking funny!”
“You really think me, Adrienne Slade, the “bossy triplet” as you all like to say, the type A lawyer wouldn’t think of that?”
I lunge toward her, grabbing her wrists and pinning her hands overhead before she can even flinch. It only sends her even further into a fit of laughter.
“You’re a fucking brat, you know that?” I press my now hard cock against her again, causing her laughs to slowly turn into moans. “Just for that, I’m going to fill you so fucking full, my cum will be dripping out of you for a week.”
Chapter 9
Adrienne
My legs are still shaking when I push up on my elbows. The couch cushion bears a handprint where he pinned me, and my thighs wear the rest: his finger marks, a scrape from stubble, the kind of afterward feeling that tingles all the way to my knees. Round two wasn’t gentle. It was filthy and hard and exactly what I’d been begging for.
His T-shirt is draped over the arm of the couch. I snag it and tug it on, the hem brushing high on my thighs as I stand. I wince a little, my body enjoying the ache, then pad barefoot across his living room and into the kitchen.
The back door is propped open. Through the screen, I can see him at the grill. Sweatpants ride low on his hips, the waistband slung so indecently that heat flickers in my belly all over again. He’s barefoot, focused, one forearm braced on the lid while he checks the steaks. The outline in those sweats is impossible to ignore. He’s still half hard, still not fully recovered from what we did on this couch minutes ago.
I rest my fingers on the doorjamb and watch him. Quiet. Unseen. It feels like I’ve slipped behind the curtain to a part of him nobody gets to see. Scotty at home, working a grill, movingeasy like he didn’t just fuck me into another dimension. I’ve never had this with him. Access. The ordinary glow after the chaos.
My chest tightens, traitorous.Careful.I’ve already told myself the rules: this isn’t forever. He won’t promise things he can’t give, and I won’t ask for them. Take it a day at a time. Don’t overthink. Enjoy the moment.
A hinge creaks when he lifts the lid again, and his head turns, like he feels me looking. His gaze snags on me through the screen; a slow grin hits his mouth.
“There’s a bottle of red on the counter,” he calls.
“Thank you,” I say, mostly to myself, but I’m already moving.
The bottle sits near the sink beside two clean glasses. I twist, pour, and take a long drink. I take a second to steal a glance at my reflection in the dark window: hair a mess, mouth swollen, Scotty’s shirt swallowing me whole.
I’m going to get in trouble for how much I like this.
I carry the wine outside. The evening is cool against my bare legs; I get goosebumps and pretend it’s the breeze. He flips the steaks like a pro and tips his chin at the glasses.
“Trying to get me drunk?” he asks.
“Hydrating the talent.” I hand him a glass. The way his fingers brush mine is nothing like the way they were a few minutes ago. His touch is soft and gentle, lingering an extra second. Unlike the way gripped my thighs on the couch, leaving bruises.
His eyes drag down and then up again, taking in the shirt, the bare legs, the fact that I’m not wearing a single thing under this. The corner of his mouth kicks higher. “You look a helluva lot better in that than I ever did.”
“Yeah?” I give a small twirl, and he juts his hand out, grabbing my bare ass when I turn.
“Mmm,” he bites down on his bottom lip. “Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.”
“You say that like a man who’s seen me from every angle,” I tease, sipping.
He huffs a laugh. “Not yet, I haven’t.”
My breath catches. I want to ask him what that means, but I don’t. Instead, I just take a seat at the small table and enjoy my wine and the view of his back flexing with each movement.
The soft sounds of late summer settle between us. Crickets. A faint sizzle from the grill. Somewhere out in the pasture, a soft thud of hooves. It’s domestic in a way that makes me ache like we do this every Friday night after we ruin each other on his couch and then argue about how he over-salts the steaks.
“Don’t burn them,” I tease.
“Timer in my head,” he says, tapping his temple. “We men just know grill time.”
He takes a slow swallow of wine, eyes on me over the rim, and gives me a wink. The look isn’t hungry so much as satisfied, like a man appreciating the aftermath of a job done right. Heat blooms in my cheeks, and I attempt to hide in my own glass.
“You good?” he asks, quietly.
