Chapter 4 #3
My head nods to the side as I slur, “I’ve missed you, Poppy.”
She exhales. “I’ve missed you, too, Booker.”
“No, I mean, I’ve seriously missed you.” Groaning from her touch, I add, “I put one of my lamps in your room. I know how you hate the dark.”
Silence ensues, so my eyes lazily open and find she’s watching me.
“I don’t know why I said that just now,” I husk.
Her hand falls away from my head, but I catch it with mine because, well, I’m not ready for her to stop touching me yet. I want to be close to her like we always used to be.
I slide my fingers between hers, loving the softness of her hands against the hardness of mine, the smallness of hers against the largeness of mine. She feels so good against my skin. I never want to lose Poppy again. I’ve missed having her near me like this.
Aching for more, I pull her to me. Her legs unfold as she tucks into my chest, one hand over my heart, the other still entwined with mine. She nestles into me like she did when we were kids and she’d been crying about one of the many animals that died at her dad’s clinic.
Pressing her nose into my chest, her shoulders rise as she inhales deeply.
I can feel her warm breath through the fabric of my shirt and it feels good.
Really good. I want her mouth to open so her breath goes from warm to hot.
I want her lips to part, and I want to feel her tongue on my body. On me. Flesh against flesh.
I crook my finger beneath her chin and lift her face to mine.
She looks beautiful. Familiar and comfortable, like a memory that I once lost. I lower my head so we’re eye-to-eye and softly brush her lips with mine.
It’s a kiss of friendship. Of history. Of knowing someone so completely that you assume you know what their lips will taste like before you even touch them.
But I didn’t know.
I had no fucking idea.
A soft whimper travels from her throat to my lips still pressed against hers.
It ignites a lust inside of me that I’ve never felt before.
Desperate for more, I swipe my tongue across the seam of her mouth and she opens herself up to me like a blossoming flower.
She moans when I taste her tongue and hearing her voice reminds me that I’m kissing my best fucking friend.
But I can’t stop. I’ve kissed her head, her cheek, maybe even her hand when she made us play make believe shit.
But never her lips. Never her soft, lush mouth that feels like an oasis I could get lost inside of.
In my mind, I know I should stop. We’ve had too much to drink.
You’re taking advantage. This will terrify her.
She will leave you. But my body can’t get close enough to her.
I want to feel her. All of her. I want to claim her in a way that will make me feel secure about where she is right in this moment.
I know I might regret this, but fuck it. I want her.
Clumsily, I begin pushing Poppy backwards on the couch. Her legs wrap around my hips, making our connection more snug. Her hands press against my chest, clutching my shirt as our breaths mingle together with strenuous, confused pants.
“Poppy.” My voice wavers with equal parts bewilderment and lust as I stare into her eyes only a few inches from mine. She looks as shaken as I am.
Her gaze drops to my lips. “Kiss me, Booker.” Her deep, throaty request is needy. “Kiss me like you mean it.”
So I do. I do because there is nothing I want more right now.
I close the distance between us and mean every lick and nibble and swipe I place on her.
My lips part to devour her, and she’s warm and compliant against me, desire and yearning evident all over her body as I make a complete sweep of her mouth.
The heady tension generating between us is so electric, I’m not sure I have the strength to pull away and draw breath.
Somehow, I manage to break apart for a split second because her hands are yanking at something between us.
When I realise she’s trying to take my shirt off, I help her pull it up over my head.
It gets stuck on my ear, but as soon as I’m free, I do the same to hers.
And before I can get my trembling hands to grip the zipper on the front of her sports bra, she’s already got it undone and her breasts tumble out.
My eyes catch a glint of metal on the tip of her left nipple, and I stare for a second before it registers that she has a piercing on one of her breasts.
A frenzy erupts inside of me. My hand isn’t gentle as it grabs hold of her breast, squeezing hard with the urgent need I have to claim it as mine.
Every change about Poppy—every surprise, every subtle difference, every hair cut on her head—feels like a betrayal.
Poppy is my friend. She is mine. I should know everything about her.
The surprise of this piercing is hurtful.
In a haze of hunger and the need for some more intimate skin-on-skin contact, I pinch her pierced nipple so unapologetically, a hoarse cry rips from her throat.
The pitch of her voice is so hot, I want to taste it.
I slam my lips back to hers, clinking our teeth as I plunge my tongue deep inside her mouth, massaging hers with mine.
She tastes so good. Like raspberries and whiskey.
Combined with the scent of her perfume, it makes me want to lick every inch of her body.
Her hips thrust up into me as I dive down to pull her nipple into my mouth. She keens as the metal clinks on my teeth. Her hands rake through my hair as she pulls me away and then yanks me to her chest repeatedly, like she can’t decide if she can take any more.
I pause my assault on her breast to slip a hand inside her shorts. My head drops into the crook of her neck when I find her hot with arousal. “Oh my God, Poppy. You’re soaked.”
“Booker,” she whimpers, gyrating her hips up into my palm with desperate thrusts. I slide a finger deep inside her, but I know that’s not what she needs. I’ve never heard Poppy’s sex cry before, but I’ve known her long enough to know what she needs from me.
It’s instinct.
I sit back on my knees, nearly tipping backwards as she rises with me, frantically fumbling with the drawstring on my trousers.
When she frees me from my boxers, her hand wraps firmly around my cock.
All of the sudden, she pauses and looks up at me.
Her eyes have a hint of apprehension in them and everything freezes.
Her grip, our bodies, our breaths, our hearts, even our eyes lock on one another…
and it feels like a dare. Like she’s daring me to stop her.
Daring me to grant her permission. Daring the world to crash all around us.
“Poppy.” I utter her name like a secret password to grant us permission.
Without a reply, she bends down and sweeps her tongue over the moisture leaking from my tip.
My hips jerk at the shocking contact of her hot tongue touching my most erogenous spot.
When she pulls me into her mouth, a grunt rips from my throat.
She takes me so deep that my thighs begin to quake with each bob of her head.
I reach and grab a fistful of her hair for balance. The perfect fistful.
My mind leaves my body as I fuck her mouth, thrusting myself down her throat.
God she feels so fucking good. If it weren’t for the whiskey in my system, I’d be coming in her mouth by now.
But I need more. More than just her mouth.
When I pull my dick away, she looks up at me with annoyance but then quickly understands as I shift to pull off her shorts and knickers.
Everything is rushed and desperate and manic. Sloppy.
When she drops onto her back—staring up at me with lust-filled eyes, wild, messy hair, and one metal barbell twinkling in the dim light—everything slows.
Her chest rises and falls with her breaths, her eyes blink a slow blink of readiness.
Her familiar face displays our past, but her mysterious body taunts me with secrets.
She is Poppy. But she is not.
“Booker.” She whispers my name and I meet her gaze with mine.
It’s her granting permission this time. She reaches low and grabs hold of my length.
My eyes close when she squeezes me and swipes her thumb over my sensitive tip that’s aching for a place inside of her.
She positions me right where I want to be and croaks, “Make love to me.”
I instantly tense. Her words like a bucket of ice cold water in my face. What the fuck am I doing? This is Poppy. This is my best friend. I can’t be doing this.
Suddenly, I pull back. The couch is sticky and uncomfortable, the air heavy and damp.
Our slickened skin against each other feels odd as our laboured breaths work to slow down our heartrates.
She feels the shift in the air, too. It’s like waking up from a dream and trying to figure out where sleep ends and awakening begins.
Poppy is beneath me.
Reality has fully returned, and all that’s left is a whiskey buzz wearing off much too early. I almost fucked my best friend.