Page 62 of Alonzo

So… whatever. I let go of his hair and reach for the edges of my demi-cup bra, ready to tug on it. Because I want to play with him. If this life has to be a game I want to play with Lonnie Derringer. “Now I’m pulling my bra down so you can—”

He slaps my hands away and takes over, yanking my bra down until my breasts pop out. His eyes linger on mine for a moment. And there’s a diabolical craftiness inside them that should scare me a little, but doesn’t. I see the tattoos but I know the man underneath them. And he lives on the same street as his parents, for fuck’s sake. This family is like apple pie and baseball.

His eyes wander down to my peaked nipples. He licks his lips with desire. “Now what are you doing?”

“Now I’m unbuttoning my pants so—”

His hand slides down my belly, deftly pops the button of my jeans, and pulls the zipper down. “Now what are you doing?”

“I slip my hand inside my jeans. Right down between my legs.”

He moves off to the side of me. Just a little. Just enough for his hand to obey my order.

I moan when he makes contact with my clit.

“Don’t stop now, Tara. We’re just getting started.”

“I’m playing with myself,” I say, already breathing heavy.

He begins to rub small circles and I have to close my eyes when a wave of pure pleasure shoots up my spine.

I never thought we’d really be here. And for a moment, when my eyes are closed, I think I’m dreaming. Or making it up. I’m not really here. He’s not really touching me. We’re on the phone, thousands of miles apart.

“Tara?”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t you want to know what I’m doing?”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN - ALONZO

Tara Tanner. Here. In my house. Half-naked with my hand inside her pants, playing with the wetness between her legs.

She is a dream come true.

But she’s silent in the wake of my question. “What?” I ask.

“Shhh,” she says. “I’m memorizing this moment.”

I lean down. Slowly. Never taking my eyes off hers. And I gently kiss her lips. She closes her eyes for a moment, but then opens them back up when my tongue begins to tangle with hers.

I pull back just enough to whisper, “I’m pulling my cock out of my pants, Tara.”

And she gets it. She gets me. Because her fingers are popping the button on my pants and just a moment later her palm—her flesh-and-blood hand—is wrapped around my hard shaft.

It feels so good, I have to roll onto my back and close my eyes for a moment.

My response makes her stifle a giggle.

“You think it’s funny?” I turn my head and crack one eye open so I can look at her.

“No. Not funny. But seeing your reaction makes me feel… I dunno. Like maybe this is real. Maybe you have been dreaming about me the way I’ve been dreaming about you these past two years.”

I want to make a speech right now. I want all my feelings to spill out as words. I want to ask her to marry me, and have my fucking babies, and show up for Saturday night dinners for the rest of her life.

And even though I know that’s a very bad idea—we will fuck, but any girl who sticks it out with me needs to know what she’s getting into—I want to say it anyway. I want to explain all the ways we could make it work and forget about all the things that will make it fail.

But then she says, “I want to taste myself,” and breaks the spell I’m under.