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I rode his face like a cowgirl, his fingers sinking deep into my ass cheeks as he guided my movements and feasted on me like I was his last meal. Soon, heat bloomed over my skin, my muscles tightening, my mind becoming deliriously empty and clouded. The climax slammed into me with force, shaking me to the core. The little hairs on my arms stood on end, and my breath hitched as wave after wave of pleasure hit me. Tears stung the sides of my eyes before I collapsed on top of him, boneless and spent.
He was still beneath me, breathing hard. He kissed the side of my thigh before gently raising it so he could roll out from under it. A moment later, his heavy body dropped next to mine. Our faces were aligned. And he was beautiful, always, but especially now, when he appeared drowsy and content, his lips swollen and wet with my juices.
“Kiss you?” He grinned, asking for permission. I nodded. He reached to give me a peck on the mouth.
“Row,” I rasped, rolling my finger over his full bottom lip, the earthy, musky taste of my own arousal invading my mouth. “That was the best orgasm I’ve ever had.”
“Yeah.” He caught the tip of my finger between his straight teeth, nibbling playfully. “Mine too.”
“Hmm, what?” My eyes flared. I tilted my chin down, trying to peek, but he pounced quickly, kissing the living hell out of me, blocking the view of his crotch.
“I said what I said.”
He’d had an orgasm from eating me out? I needed to put a ring on it.
“Whoa. That is so—”
“Embarrassing?” He rose up and patted the nightstand, finding his pack of cigarettes and lighting one up.
“Amazing,” I breathed out.
“Yeah. You certainly are.” He puffed on his cancer stick.
The words pierced through my skin, soaking into my soul.
“What now?” I eyed him eagerly. Were we going to have sex? Was I going to redeem myself after that night four years ago?
“Well.” He reached with the hand that held the lit cigarette, using his thumb to brush residual lip gloss from the corner of my mouth. “I’ve been dreaming about your glittery pink lipstick smeared all over my dick.”
CAL
“Truly Madly Deeply”—Savage Garden
I was fully prepared to give Row the best blow job to be recorded in the history of humanity.
There was only one problem.
Okay, two, if you consider the Guinness World Record people never actually timed blow jobs for their books.
Row fell asleep like a sack of bricks not even a minute after he made that sexy declaration. I went to the bathroom to pee, and when I came back, the cigarette was in the ashtray, still not put out all the way. He was snoring, his cheek smushed against a pillow, his long, curly lashes casting a shadow over his cheeks.
Hello, awkward, my old friend.
I put out the cigarette and emptied the ashtray, then slipped into the bed and turned my head to his nightstand. The clock said it was three in the morning. He’d had a long day. So had I. But since not getting sleep was my new norm, I hardly ever felt tired anymore.
It was time to do the walk of shame. If I still had any muscles in me, that was. That orgasm had sucked the energy right out of me. If this was an appetizer, Row was right: full-blown sex with him would leave me in a puddle of bodily fluids and a tattoo neck choker.
Dylan would have a field day delivering the obituary.
She died doing what she loved—fucking my older brother.
But she was wrong. Privately, I knew, Row had never been just my best friend’s older brother. He was the boy I’d confessed to that I had never learned how to slow dance before prom. It had been in his kitchen, while Dylan was upstairs making out with Darren from the lacrosse team. I had been supposed to distract Row by talking to him. Row had regarded me with a frown, arm still slung on the open fridge door. “You don’t need to know how to slow dance. Boys are assholes and you should stay away from them.”
I had given him a pointed look. He’d rolled his eyes in exasperation, slamming the fridge shut and rummaging in his front pocket for his phone. “It’s really not that hard.” He had scowled, choosing a song. “Truly Madly Deeply” by Savage Garden. My all-time favorite nineties song. I had thought it was a coincidence. Kismet. He’d tossed his phone on the table and opened his arms. “Come in.”
Entering his embrace had been like walking straight into home. He’d slung my arms around his shoulders—I’d had to stand on my toes to get there—and wrapped his hands around my waist. We’d swayed to the music, staring into each other’s eyes, and in that moment, he had broken my heart. Because I had known I would never experience anything remotely as perfect ever again.
Now, I gingerly scooted toward the edge of the bed. As soon as I moved an inch, Row’s heavy arm fell directly on my chest like a tree, pinning me in place. That thing was at least five hundred pounds before the fancy Rolex. I exhaled, toying with the idea of waking him up. But he looked so peaceful and tranquil. Almost childlike.
