Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 95340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
“No squirrels tonight,” Lizzy says as she licks away at her chocolate ice cream.
“They’re in bed, dreaming of ways to torture us.”
She nibbles the edge of her cone. “For sure.”
I lick my ice cream, then notice Lizzy eyeing it. I hold it out, offering her a taste.
“Want some?”
“Yes, please.”
We stop on the sidewalk, beneath a low glowing streetlamp—a city-marked garbage can is chained to the pole—and Lizzy steps closer, tongue slowly licking around the rim of my Peanut Butter Cup ice cream, licking her lips after she’s done, and humming the same way she did when she was smelling my neck in her closet today.
My dick twitches.
Why is it so easy to get me turned on? Jesus.
“So good,” she says.
“What does yours taste like?”
We stand here, trading tastes, and she holds her cone as I lick the frozen but melting chocolate scoop on top.
“I don’t love it as much as I love mine,” I declare, still standing close, sliding my hand around her waist. “Let’s see how they taste together.”
Did that come out of my mouth?
Who am I?
Lizzy puts her cone in the trash can behind us before sliding her arms around my neck and tilting her face for a kiss. She tastes like chocolate and brownies, moist and wet and hot.
My cone falls from my hand to the ground, and I sidestep it to pull her closer, hands instantly gravitating toward her ass. I grip her cheeks, peeking out of the bottom of the hem and squeeze, causing her to giggle and moan into my mouth.
I have to lean to kiss her, crouching a little to accommodate her shorter stature, but somehow, we make it work. Somehow I’m able to feel her tits pressing against my chest.
I feel like a teenager.
Not that I made out with girls when I was a teenager. I had crooked, jacked-up teeth that were constantly getting whacked with fists and sticks, and I needed braces. My shyness didn’t help my social life, and before I knew it, I was focused more on hockey than girls—but I imagine this is how I would have felt when I was younger. When a pretty girl liked me enough to let me kiss her.
I pull back.
And bend to pick up my cone and properly dispose of it while Lizzy straightens her sweatshirt and fluffs her hair. I do the one thing I never thought I’d do once we start the walk back to my place: I take hold of her hand.
CHAPTER TWENTY
LIZZY
Would you wanna come back to my place?
He’d asked so tentatively—as if my answer was going to be no—and I’d laughed quietly, following him to the front porch.
My roommates were home but his were not, a deafening silence getting us when we’d stepped through the door.
“Where is everyone?”
“Movies.”
“On a Sunday night?” I look at my watch. “It’s seven forty-five.”
He shrugs. “They vacated to give me some privacy. They must have sensed I needed it.”
Ha.
My brain clicks the pieces of the puzzle in place; this is likely an unconfirmed case of Sully working his wingman energy behind the scenes. Doing the Lord's work…
Who knew?
I don’t want to sit in their common space—I’d rather be in the privacy of his bedroom on the off chance one of the guys comes home—and that’s where he leads me after grabbing us both a bottle of water from the fridge.
Such a gentleman.
So thoughtful.
He fusses when we enter his bedroom—locking it behind him—pushing in his desk chair and kicking a pile of shirts out of the way; closes the closet door and flips on a lamp. Turns off the overhead light.
It’s as if he’s never had a girl in his space before.
Sure, he doesn’t date. But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t had a casual hookup with the purpose of getting laid. Urban legend says athletes have like, tons of sperm built up that they have to get rid of or they get overly aggressive. Fact or fiction, it sounds logical to me.
While he’s busy fussing with the cleanliness of his room, I walk to the window and pull back the curtain, glancing outside. Obviously, I’m curious about his view since I live next door and am delighted to see the clear shot of our bathroom—and my bedroom.
“Did you know you can see my bedroom from here?” I ask, letting the curtain drop and taking a seat on the couch as a way to take less pressure off both of us. Plus, this is a friendly visit after grabbing a snack. No expectations, no pressure.
“I haven’t looked,” he says honestly.
“I had no idea you had such a good view into my window—I’ll have to be careful and make sure to wear more clothes from now on.” I smile pleasantly, knowing full well if I plan anything from now on, it’s to wear less clothes and stand closer to the window.