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“Henry-muthafucka-Higgins. You gonna Eliza Doolittle me?”
“There you go again, trying to get me to do you. Let the dream die, man.”
’Londo puckers up, blowing me the finger, and then he sobers. “Besides, you got it turned around. They’re sucking our dicks.”
“Who’s sucking dick?” Gray comes between us and slaps a hand on both our shoulders.
“Harrison,” we say together.
“Sounds about right.” Gray gives us another pat. “We going? Or are you two going to sit in the rain and wax lyrical about dicks?”
There’s talk of heading out for a pizza. Others are going to watch NFL games at Dino’s Bar.
I don’t want to do either. “I’m going home to get dry and take a nap.”
“Wimp.”
“One that’s going to get some sleep.” I sling my bag over my shoulder and head for my car. I’m soaked through, and my body aches with a general tiredness that never truly goes. But it’s the emptiness centered just behind my ribs that bothers me the most. It’s getting worse these days. Growing.
I don’t really want to go home. There’s no one waiting for me, no one to talk to.
The guys are like brothers to me. I’ll have fun hanging with them. But lately I find myself wanting to just...be. No shit-talking, no expectations, just be me. Which makes dick-all of sense. But the need is there all the same.
Running a cold hand over my wet face, I fish out my keys and flop into my car as soon as the door is open. Inside, the sound of rain is louder, the interior dim and musty. A lump swells in my throat. I hate this feeling of isolation. Rubbing my aching chest, I move to turn the ignition when my phone buzzes.
A smile breaks hard over my face at the sight of the name on the screen. Anna.
It grows when I read the text.
This message is brought to you by the BCBS [Booty Call Broadcasting System]. If you are back in town, get your wet ass over here.
Only Anna can make me laugh and get me hard in one fell swoop. I turn on the car and peel out, my day suddenly brighter than the desert at high noon.
Anna
Rain taps with hard nails against the window as I hug the bed. Drew has just taken me from behind and, after taking care of the condom, is now a comforting weight against my back, his arms bracketing mine, our fingers linked. We breathe as one, lightly panting as we come down from the high sex took us to. My face is smashed in my pillow, but I don’t care. I’m a boneless mass of well-pleasured flesh. And so warm with him on me that I want to beg him not to move. Ever. We could just lie like this and listen to the rain. Never get up.
Only I’m the one who is supposed to be kicking him out. A knot gathers just below my breastbone as I try to gather the will to say the words. And then he does it: his lips press against my shoulder in a gentle, reverent kiss.
Instantly, I tense. And so does he. I can feel him growing tight along the length of my body. But he doesn’t move off. No, he tenses further and then deliberately kisses me again, as if daring me to protest. Another loving kiss upon my shoulder. Then another one.
My heart turns over in my chest.
“What are you doing?” I can barely get the question out, and it sounds too soft, too weak.
He pauses for only a moment, his lips just touching my shoulder. “Kissing your freckles.” The tip of his tongue flickers on my skin, the barest taste, and something deep within me melts.
“But why?” I ask as he keeps on doing it. Slow. Steady. Exploratory.
It’s the tenderness behind it all that makes my heart beat fast and my breath catch.
“Because I’ve been dying to do it.”
God, his voice. It’s so low and gentle, a caress of sound. It unravels me. Combined with his kisses, I’ll soon be a quivering mess. His big warm hands cup my upper arms, as if I might run. Which I might.
“You have so many here,” he continues in lazy fashion, his lips brushing along my skin. “Like golden sugar on cream.”
I huff. “They’re orange spots.”
