cuddle on her couch and she'd start with, “1998.”
“A story,” he'd say on a laugh. That sound told her he loved them despite the words. That light, easy sound told her so much more than any words he could ever speak. “Do you ever run out of any?”
Her heart would fill with warmth and she'd grin. “Of course not. Shh.”
His chest would rumble with more laughter and that too would warm her from the inside out. They weren't a couple. Or lovers. But she'd never had a groping session with her friends after dinner so he definitely wasn't that either. Neither of them tried to define it. Neither of them had tried to end it. They just were.
Until one day at the end of that month, she'd opened her and he stood on the other side of the threshold. Spring showers had welcomed in April. He hadn't worn a jacket so his shirt stuck to his skin, outlining every ab muscle, every inch of his broad shoulders. The water may have been cold, but the way his jeans plastered against his thighs, legs and his manhood made her swallow. His gaze unreadable.
“What's wrong?” she asked, her heart pounded.
His nostrils flared and his shoulders seemed to eat up the door way. “You know what's wrong.”
And she did. They couldn't keep tiptoeing around each other and acting like the need that was hot and pulsing between them didn't exist.
He stepped forward and kissed her. No greeting, no jokes just his lips bruising hers. He slammed the door behind him and then wrapped his hands around her waist, pulling her into him.
Yvonne fell into the tight embrace. The past month they'd always ended their groping sessions right before things became way to heated to turn back. The way he was kissing her that option was off the table.
And maybe her give meant she was trading on the hope he wasn't the kind of man to say ‘we will have sex or have nothing’. A man like that was horrible. She had chosen to believe he wasn't that man after their third date, and he'd told her how he and Drew became best friends, not just cousins.
Yet, why it mattered that he wasn't that kind of man...she wanted to blatantly ignore those reasons too.
But he was touching her now. Running his hands beneath her shirt and cupping her breasts. His caresses were rough, urgent. Every time his fingertips would brush along her skin, she'd shiver.
When he'd expertly taken off her bra, he used fingertips to trail over her nipples and the sensitive curves. She was drowning in sensation and they weren't even naked yet. He used his mouth and hands to blank her mind, beat back any reservations. It was just Greg feathering his tongue over hers, nipping at the corner of mouth with every breathy moan.
She tore at his wet shirt and almost lost it when her hands finally, finally roved over his dark brown skin—bare. Maybe one day she'd confess how turned on she was that his nipples were as responsive as hers to the cold, to touch. But not tonight, not when his sole intent seemed to be devouring her every moan.
Losing her patience, she unbuttoned her jeans and stepped out of them. Then there was the chuckle, deep in his chest, vibrating through the both of them because they stood so close. He pressed his hand to the small of her back. She stood in front of him in her panties so that simple gesture forced a tremble through her limbs.
She didn't know what happened to make him come into her home like this, to take her like this, but complaining wasn't a top priority. He'd pushed his hands into her underwear and cupped her ass. Always-the-gentleman Greg had left the building. He broke the kiss and dragged his lips down to her neck, licking and sucking the skin.
In response, she ripped at the button and zipper on his pants. It was only fair to return the favor of driving him crazy. Only logical to tumble to the floor with him on top, him spreading her legs with his as he brought his mouth back to hers. His kisses had turned dark and potent, longer with each stretch. So by the time he
“A story,” he'd say on a laugh. That sound told her he loved them despite the words. That light, easy sound told her so much more than any words he could ever speak. “Do you ever run out of any?”
Her heart would fill with warmth and she'd grin. “Of course not. Shh.”
His chest would rumble with more laughter and that too would warm her from the inside out. They weren't a couple. Or lovers. But she'd never had a groping session with her friends after dinner so he definitely wasn't that either. Neither of them tried to define it. Neither of them had tried to end it. They just were.
Until one day at the end of that month, she'd opened her and he stood on the other side of the threshold. Spring showers had welcomed in April. He hadn't worn a jacket so his shirt stuck to his skin, outlining every ab muscle, every inch of his broad shoulders. The water may have been cold, but the way his jeans plastered against his thighs, legs and his manhood made her swallow. His gaze unreadable.
“What's wrong?” she asked, her heart pounded.
His nostrils flared and his shoulders seemed to eat up the door way. “You know what's wrong.”
And she did. They couldn't keep tiptoeing around each other and acting like the need that was hot and pulsing between them didn't exist.
He stepped forward and kissed her. No greeting, no jokes just his lips bruising hers. He slammed the door behind him and then wrapped his hands around her waist, pulling her into him.
Yvonne fell into the tight embrace. The past month they'd always ended their groping sessions right before things became way to heated to turn back. The way he was kissing her that option was off the table.
And maybe her give meant she was trading on the hope he wasn't the kind of man to say ‘we will have sex or have nothing’. A man like that was horrible. She had chosen to believe he wasn't that man after their third date, and he'd told her how he and Drew became best friends, not just cousins.
Yet, why it mattered that he wasn't that kind of man...she wanted to blatantly ignore those reasons too.
But he was touching her now. Running his hands beneath her shirt and cupping her breasts. His caresses were rough, urgent. Every time his fingertips would brush along her skin, she'd shiver.
When he'd expertly taken off her bra, he used fingertips to trail over her nipples and the sensitive curves. She was drowning in sensation and they weren't even naked yet. He used his mouth and hands to blank her mind, beat back any reservations. It was just Greg feathering his tongue over hers, nipping at the corner of mouth with every breathy moan.
She tore at his wet shirt and almost lost it when her hands finally, finally roved over his dark brown skin—bare. Maybe one day she'd confess how turned on she was that his nipples were as responsive as hers to the cold, to touch. But not tonight, not when his sole intent seemed to be devouring her every moan.
Losing her patience, she unbuttoned her jeans and stepped out of them. Then there was the chuckle, deep in his chest, vibrating through the both of them because they stood so close. He pressed his hand to the small of her back. She stood in front of him in her panties so that simple gesture forced a tremble through her limbs.
She didn't know what happened to make him come into her home like this, to take her like this, but complaining wasn't a top priority. He'd pushed his hands into her underwear and cupped her ass. Always-the-gentleman Greg had left the building. He broke the kiss and dragged his lips down to her neck, licking and sucking the skin.
In response, she ripped at the button and zipper on his pants. It was only fair to return the favor of driving him crazy. Only logical to tumble to the floor with him on top, him spreading her legs with his as he brought his mouth back to hers. His kisses had turned dark and potent, longer with each stretch. So by the time he
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