I literally only allow myself to relax for a second, but that’s also literally all it takes before I’m joining her, coming so hard that I can feel my cock kicking inside of her. Coming so hard that it feels like there’s a clamp around my nuts and it physically hurts. Coming harder and harder, shaking, burying my fingers in her hair so that pins actually rains down on my forehead and cheeks. Still coming, still panting, still thrusting.
The one thought I have, the one that haunts me over and over again, even through the pleasure rendering me nearly senseless, is that I want to do this again. I hope we can do this again. The night is young yet, so the odds are good, but whatever we do, whether it’s talking or sleeping, getting that midnight snack I was thinking about earlier, or- or experiencing more of this crazy pleasure, more fitting just right, more coming together in different ways, more cries of extasy, more trembling, more kisses, more ragged breaths, just- more, I’m going to keep wanting more.
More as in, more than this one night.
But no matter what I want, no matter how well we fit, no matter how right this seems, one night is likely all I’m ever going to have.
CHAPTER 3
Daniel
I swear that my grandma has a sixth sense and she just knows when I’m coming and she times my visits to coincide with my brother’s visits. All that because she knows that Wesley is the most obnoxious as all obnoxiousness goes and that even though I love him because he’s my little brother, he still knows how to turn my crank, so to speak, ancient cliched style.
It’s not Grandma who answers the door when I knock, it’s Wesley, a big, dopey, assholio of a grin on his smug, charming, too handsome, too much like my own for comfort face.
“Danny. Grandma said you were coming over. That’s why she called me.”
I roll my eyes right in his face. “I know.”
My hands flex convulsively at my sides when I take in his lime green polo and khaki shorts. He is also wearing socks. With sandals slides. Yeah. That’s my brother. Pretty much the definition of cheese and he gives no fucks at all about it. He’s also wearing a ten thousand dollar watch on his left wrist and his black, thick framed glasses are obviously designer.
“Did you just come from tennis?” he asks me, just to be a jerk, because he knows that I hate tennis, and dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, it’s obvious that I didn’t.
“Uh- no. Did you?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. Grandma’s making mimosas, so you better come in. Oh, and pancakes.”
I barley repress a groan. My grandma makes her mimosas strong enough to take down an alligator and her pancakes, well, they might also sink one if it happened to eat it. They’re so heavy that poor gator would go straight to the bottom, never to surface again.
“Great.” I fake enthusiasm as I step through the grand front door.
It’s literally grand, a huge wooden structure with carved inserts and swirling glass with leafy patterns on either side. The entrance is made up entirely of shiny marble tile, a curving staircase that goes upstairs, complete with a wrought iron railing, and artwork that ranges in price from a few dollars found at a thrift store to thousands of dollars purchased from art shows around the world. My grandma is a crazy cucumber. She buys what she likes, whatever the cost, and yes, even though she’s an heiress, she still shops at thrift stores and garage sales.
Wesley walks at a good clip ahead of me to the kitchen where Grandma is indeed making pancakes. Not from a mix either, which is where I think she goes wrong. Oh, and also, I’m pretty sure you aren’t supposed to mix lead and rocks into the stuff. Kidding. But they taste about the same and sit about as well as if they were made of sterner stuff.
“Danny!” Grandma whirls around, her flipper flinging off bits of dough all over the kitchen. The gas stove sputters and hisses as droplets fling into the flames underneath the frying pan.
Ugh. Yes. Another thing about my grandma? She always calls me Danny. Sigh. It doesn’t matter one bit to her that I can’t stand it.
She thrusts the bowl of dough onto the counter, and the stuff actually splashes over the side, making a grand mess. I have no idea how it can be that liquid and still taste like it’s made of paving cement when it’s cooked into those godawful round disks.
Grandma’s arms spread wide, and I rush across the kitchen to scoop her up. Her cooking might be terrible, and yeah, she might call me Danny, but she’s still my grandma and I love her to death. She practically raised me and Wesley after our mom took off, leaving for someone richer than my dad- which was a feat in and of itself- and never looked back, and my dad left us for his work, which wasn’t a feat in and of itself, because he always was a workaholic.