Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
“Of course, Mr. Kittridge. Coach Smitty was just telling me how much he loves hanging holiday lights. I’m sure he’d be happy to help too.”
“You’re an annoying little fucker,” I whispered with a resigned sigh.
Jake snickered evilly, then hurried over to Dale to take over light-hanging duty. And I supposed I was helping.
Recap: I’d learned a lot in one afternoon. Lesson one, I wasn’t as good at figuring out kids as I’d thought. Lesson two, I’d hate me if I were in Jake’s shoes too, and lesson three…Dale Kittridge was a sneaky old man. We hung his lights up and raked his leaves while he told stories I personally had heard at least twice already.
Did I mind? Not at all.
I doubted the average twenty-one-year-old would instinctively know how to reach a struggling teen, defend his dad against perceived danger, and still be willing to put his afternoon on pause to help out an elderly neighbor. Jake was kind, compassionate, and fierce. Just like his dad.
I rested my chin on Dale’s rake as Bryson’s Mercedes pulled into his driveway later that night, aware of the butterflies fluttering in my chest. He shut the car door, shouting a cheery hello before crossing the street, the silver stands in his hair shimmering under the lamplight. And when he beamed that goddamn sunshine smile at me, I couldn’t breathe.
He was so fucking…everything. So handsome, so magnetic, so good. I wasn’t any of those things, but I wanted to be better, do better. For Bry. For me too, but mostly…for him.
17
BRYSON
Smitty pumped his hips, thrusting harder and deeper as he reached around, swatting my hand away so he could jack me himself. I flattened my hand on the kitchen wall, whimpering at the slide of his thick cock in and out of my hole. He kissed my shoulder and licked the shell of my ear.
“I want my cum inside you. I want you to feel me all day, all night. I want you to remember how fucking good this is. You’re my sweet little fu—”
“Ungh! I’m gonna come,” I roared, spilling my seed over his fist.
Smitty gripped my hips with both hands and held me still, bucking and grinding through his orgasm.
If I hadn’t been leaning on the wall, we would have toppled over for sure. And geez, we made a mess. We were both tested recently, and no-condom-sex was fabulous but, there was cum on the kitchen floor and on the khakis pooled at my ankles. Probably on my new Italian loafers too. I didn’t care. Not one bit.
I tilted my head back to rest on his shoulder and caught a glimpse of us in the sliding glass window. My tattooed bad boy with his joggers pushed to his knees, his hands on my hips, nuzzling my neck. Right next to the toaster and the microwave oven.
Kitchen sex was awesome. And not something that had happened in this kitchen in…well, ever.
No, I’d never had sex in this kitchen.
We’d fucked in every room of Smitty’s rental, which made me feel vaguely weird since I knew the owners, but it obviously hadn’t stopped me. I was a complete and utter slut for this man. A version of my former self—minus the rampant drug use and senseless partying.
The old me had been a daredevil with a reckless lust for life. I hadn’t seen much of that guy in decades, but he’d made a grand reappearance. Let a wicked genie out of a bottle and all hell breaks loose. This mess was my doing. I couldn’t help it. I had no control over my desire for the sexy high school hockey coach.
The second I saw Smitty out front shoveling the meager bit of snow that had fallen from Dale’s porch, I had to have him. He was every sporty fantasy I’d ever had come to life. The December evening was cold, but he didn’t have a coat on—just a blue plaid shirt that emphasized his biceps and broad shoulders, his perfect ass in those black joggers, and a blue beanie on his head.
I told myself to go for a run or jump on the treadmill in my home gym. I told myself to call Jake or start dinner. I told myself to stop wanting him so damn much, but I couldn’t do it.
Christ, Smitty was my new drug. I was addicted to his smile, his audacity, his easy confidence, his surprising shows of sensitivity, and yes, his body could have been chiseled by Michelangelo…with a bigger penis.
So, I’d invited him over, pulled him into my kitchen, and climbed him like a tree. And you know, I’d do it again…as soon as my ass allowed.
We’d been going at it like bunnies since Jake left for Syracuse. I loved my son to the moon and back, and I was always happy to see him, but he had a job that required intense training and he needed to be with his team. Not skulking around Elmwood. I didn’t think Jake had missed any practices, but he’d probably missed some bonding time with his buddies to babysit his dad.