Page 41 of Grouch-ish

“What are you doing to me?” He hums at my lips before moving his mouth to my jaw, then lowering for my neck.

“Me?” I choke as he nips near my collarbone.

His thigh presses harder. My legs spread wider.

“I only want to kiss you, and yet I want to touch you everywhere.”

Please. Yes. Only, it feels important that we stick to kissing. Important to Brock.

So, I slide my hands over his biceps and into his hair, and I try to concentrate on his mouth and not the pulse in my pants. I try to hold still from rubbing my very needy core against his very firm thigh.

Brock must sense my resolve, and his hand goes no further than my side, but his thumb rubs at the underside of my breast. Teasing me. Tempting me.

We continue like this until Brock jumps off me once more. I remain on my back, panting and desperate, and clutching at my chest where my heart races within.

“Time,” Brock strains, as if calling for a time-out, while he paces near the edge of the kitchen table. The room is dark except for the crackling flames and glow of the television. Although it’s only midday, it might as well be midnight with the snowstorm swirling outside. Inside the fire is delightful, but the company is almost frightful. The sexual tension is more than I can bear.

Almost.

And still, we don’t stop this game, going another round when London strikes midnight. Then, Cabo Verde Islands, a random collection of land in the Atlantic.

We hit a long pause, waiting for New York, which shares Eastern time with Michigan. Brock’s promised roast beast is put on hold once more and we eat leftovers, clearing out the fridge, as if calling for a fresh start with the new year. We sit on the floor, propped up against the couch picnicking on our menagerie of foods.

However, as we near the call for midnight from New York, we’re on the couch, making out like teenagers once more. Clothing remains on but askew. Brock has lost his shirt, and my sweater is pushed up just beneath my bra, allowing us skin to skin contact on our stomachs, and giving me the furnace that is Brock’s flesh.

Hands roam but remain in the safety zones. Butts are grabbed. Bellies caressed. Backs clung to.

Brock’s leg slips between my thighs once more as he lays on his back and I blanket him.

I’ve reached a breaking point and I’m ready to call time when the excitement on the television reaches my ears.

“Brock,” I groan, wound too tight and almost ashamed by my lack of control. I need relief.

Sensing my frustration, Brock awkwardly rolls us on the couch, half his body over mine, his leg still between my thighs.

“Take it,” Brock mutters to my mouth.

I groan, achy and weak. “You said only kissing.”

“But you want to come.” He nips at my lower lip. “You need it. And I want to see it. Hear it.”

“What about you?” We’ve been kissing on and off for hours. I commend his stamina and appreciate his commitment to only connecting with our mouths, but I’m on the edge.

“Ten.” The announcer on the television softly calls out as we lowered the volume at the start of this make out round.

“Take. It,” Brock grits, grounding his leg harder against my throbbing center.

“Brock,” I groan, frustrated and ready to retreat but his hand tightens on the back of my neck, the other hand cupping one butt cheek, holding me in place against him.

“Eight.” I have no idea how I missed nine but when Brock tilts his hips and his stiff shaft jolts off center from my belly, I lose focus again.

“Gift it to me, then,” Brock demands. As if taking an orgasm was too much to ask but gifting it to him will make it all the easier.

I moan at the increased pressure against my center, rocking my hips to create further friction.

“Six.”

“I don’t want to be selfish.” We’re no longer kissing but Brock still has his mouth on the side of my throat, nibbling at my skin and digging his fingertips into my backside.