Chapter 24 #2
Standing in front of her, I pretend she’s not swaying. I pretend my words don’t come with restrictions, and that she’s not leaving again.
I want them to hit her with the full force of their meaning.
“I love you, Story MacIntosh.”
This time, I walk out and don’t turn around. The second the latch clicks on the door, I sprint down the corridor, avoiding all the creaky floorboards, and rush down the stairs.
I haven’t thought through this plan at all. Story sleeping under the same roof as me. Maybe I should lock her door, maybe I should ask Lando to lock mine.
“Didn’t think I’d see you until the morning.” Lando grins as I walk into the kitchen, slightly out of breath.
I pause mid-stride. “You said you were organizing pizza.”
“Yes, but I figured you’d stay with Story.”
“No. Nooo. No.” No, I add to myself for the fourth time, hoping it’ll sink in.
I will not be staying with Story. I’ll see her in the morning, as per any regular overnight guest.
“Okay.” He slides a beer across the kitchen island to me. “What happened, then?”
Closing my eyes, I take a long draw from the bottle and finish half. “Eddie called, said it would be a good idea for me to collect Clementine and Story. They’ve been in there all afternoon.”
“They certainly looked like they had.” He chuckles. “Why was Clementine so upset?”
Finishing the beer in two gulps, I remove another one from the fridge, though honestly, I could do with something much stronger, like a triple scotch.
While I don’t know the ins and outs of why Clementine was so upset, I know enough.
Telling him about Clementine and Torres is something I’ve been debating all afternoon, because I need to talk to someone.
But it’s a situation so farfetched that I can’t even wrap my head around it to tell him. I also don’t want to unleash the shitstorm I know will happen. Although the thought briefly occurs to me that he already knows, because if Clementine had confided in Holiday, Holiday would have told Lando.
“Hen?”
“Oh, drunk girls, who knows?” I shrug it off, hoping it’s convincing enough. “But . . . hypothetically speaking, has Holiday ever mentioned anything to you about Clem dating?”
He shakes his head. “Why? Is she?”
“No fucking clue.”
And that is all we touch on the subject because Pierre brings up enough pizzas that we can have leftovers cold for breakfast. I’m so hungry that the pineapple on mine has me salivating before I’ve taken a bite.
Holiday joins us, having seen Clementine to sleep, and it’s not long after that before I decide to turn in myself.
A hot shower later and I’ve almost rinsed the day off me, until I realize I forgot to take water and painkillers to Story. Pulling on a pair of pajamas and a shirt, I run back downstairs to fetch them.
It takes one hundred and twenty-seven seconds for me to walk from the top of the stairs to Story’s room. That’s one hundred and twenty-seven opportunities for me to turn around and ask Holiday to deliver her water instead.
Avoiding all the floorboards again, including the one outside her room, I lean against the door. Only when I’m certain I don’t hear a peep do I slowly open it.
The light is still on, and her bed is empty.
I’m cursing to myself as I cross the room and leave the water and painkillers on the bedside table. There aren’t that many places she could be, and my first stop will be my sister’s room.
Turning to leave, the sound of the bathroom door opening catches my attention, and I look around just in time to get an eyeful of Story walking out, backlit by dim light.
My brain short-circuits, my mouth dries up, and all my blood rushes to my dick.
Every teenage fantasy, hell, every adult fantasy, I had about Story is way off base. The reality exceeds every expectation.
Reminiscent of the Matisse hanging in the library downstairs, her curves are a work of art.
Soft in all the right places. Satiny knickers hug her hips, riding high enough up her thigh that they make her legs look ten feet long.
The matching bra makes me want to put my face between her breasts until I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe now. She’s stolen all the oxygen.
Her lips pop, but she stands statue-still, save for the rise and fall of her chest. As she stares, her expression changes until I know I’m in trouble. All sense of propriety and “doing the right thing” vanishes. I need to leave, but I couldn’t if I tried.
“I didn’t want to sleep in the clothes I was wearing all day.” Her mouth tilts on one side, lopsided but challenging. “I don’t have anything else.”
“I can get you some.” My voice pitches, my eyes traveling slowly up her body, taking in every line, every dip and hollow, thinking what a shame it would be to cover her up.
“Thank you, but there’s no need.”
I’m still standing trapped by the edge of the bed when she slowly pads toward me.
She doesn’t look like the same Story I left here an hour ago.
Her face is fresh and clean, eyes focused and determined, darting between me, my face, and what’s going on below my hips.
I should be scared because that look is the one she gets when someone’s told her she can’t do something.
“Story,” I warn, but it’s futile. A pathetic, weak effort at putting up a fight.
“You know,” she begins, trailing a finger down my shirt, stepping so close my erection brushes against her belly. “I’ve been thinking . . .”
“Oh?”
“Thinking about us being friends. I know you want it, Hendricks, but I’ve decided that doesn’t work for me anymore. And I’m taking matters into my own hands.”
“Story,” I croak, only for her to push into me, my dick nestled between us, and my words vanish with a low groan.
“And this doesn’t feel very friendly.” She presses again. “Or the way you’re looking at me.”
She’s got me there. I know my eyes are on stalks. “No?”
“No,” she replies, pushing me until I tip back and I’m sitting on the end of the bed.
I don’t know what’s going on, but I do know I’m not strong enough to stop it.
When she straddles me, her tits are centimeters from my face, and I might get my wish after all.
I’m so thankful I jerked off in the shower because that tiny movement creates enough friction that I would have blown in my pants.
“Put your hands on me, Hendricks—”
“Stor—”
“Put. Your. Hands. On. Me.”
When I do, they’re not steady. I can’t even find it in myself to be embarrassed.
I’m shaking as I take hold of her hips, my fingers digging into the supple flesh of her arse, creeping under the thin satin elastic of her knickers, touching her how I always dreamed of touching her.
My heart is working overtime, pumping harder than it did the day I lost my virginity.
“I’m real, Hen.”
Even though I’m not entirely sure any of this is real, I reply, “I know you are.”
“But you don’t treat me as real. You’ve never seen me as real.”
“I have.” Fuck, of course I have.
“You never looked at me like I wanted you to.”
She slowly flexes her hips, gently rolling herself over my thighs until she’s positioned right there, on the tip of my throbbing dick. The only thing separating me from her pussy is the flimsiest strip of lilac fabric and a pair of cotton pajamas.
“Well, I’m fucking looking at you right now,” I grit, holding her still before I explode. “Story, what are we doing? What are you doing?”
“Showing you what you’re missing.”
“You’re drunk—”
“I’m not.”
“Story.” It’s a plea, all I can manage, because as much as I want this, I know there’s a cognitive imbalance between the two of us right now. “We’re not doing this until you’re sober.”
“Hendricks.” She draws out my name, and I can smell mint on her breath. “I don’t believe you. You’ll brush me aside again.” She grinds so hard in my lap, my pulse roars in my ears. “Haven’t you ever wanted to know how good we could be together? How it would feel being inside me?”
The sounds I let out as her lips reach my neck are part prayer of thanks, part frustrated garbled moan.
I’m so fucking hard.
Her fingertips dig so deeply into the muscle on my shoulders that I wince. “I know you have, Hen. I have too, and it gets me sooo wet.”
Who the fuck is this person on my lap, punctuating each sentence with the slow drive of her hips?
I’m on the brink of snapping, an elastic band pulled so tight it’s see-through, and it’s a whispered please show me that finally breaks me.
“Fuck it.”
My fist thrusts into her hair, and I pull her back. Puffy lips, pupils blown wide, and full, rounded breasts pushed into my face. She’s absolutely glorious. Everything I’ve ever dreamed of. I’m lightheaded looking at her.
Leaning forward, I trail my lips across her chest, tasting the faint traces of her perfume.
“Is this what you want?” My tongue follows the swell of her breast, across the delicate hem of her bra to the point of her nipple.
Air sucks through her teeth, sharply. “Is this?” I ask, grinding my pelvis into her, my dick slipping between her soaked thighs.
“Yes.” Her eyelids flutter closed, and her back arches as she takes another pass. “Oh yeah.”
Her voice is gruff and so fucking sexy it takes me closer to my breaking point. I want to do nothing more than sink inside her. The patience I’m exhibiting is nothing short of saintly, but I can’t do it. When she attempts to move my hand between her legs, I grip her hips tighter.
“I’m not touching you, Stor. Not doing anything you’ll regret when you sober up. If you want it, you take it.” Her lips are inches from mine. I’m sucking in her carbon dioxide, waiting for her to make a move.
She leans away from me, and I immediately miss the heat from her body. Her breath matches mine, shallow and sharp, but she raises an eyebrow to me nonetheless, accepting a challenge I didn’t realize I’d set.
Her hands trail up, nails scraping through my nape and into my hair. It’s a sensation I feel everywhere.
Her hips tilt, and she grinds harder, doing exactly as I instructed and taking what she needs—the alcohol making her brave. In the process, she gives me exactly what I need.
Satin knickers bunch in my fist. “Fuck.”
The friction, the pressure and precision of each movement. My lap is soaked in her. My dick is soaked in her.
“Jesus, Stor.”
“Tell me how good this feels.”
It’s a struggle to get words out. “So. Fucking. Good.”
Arching back, she shifts forward, searching for more friction. Her breathing turns ragged, and so does mine. Our eyes lock in a silent confirmation that we’re both so close.
She grinds so torturously slowly, it’s fucking mind-blowing. “Tell me more.”
I imagine her clit, swollen and wet, her tight pussy spread open and desperate for my cock. The feel of her clenching around me, squeezing me.
I grip her hips, positioning her so my dick hits exactly where she needs it. “I remember the first time I made myself come thinking of you.”
Her pupils flare, and her breath catches. Her nipples harden further, twisting to viciously sharp tips.
“We’d been swimming in the waterfall, my teenage hormones were out of control. I only had to think about you and I’d get hard”––I drag her slowly up my dick, and her jaw slackens—“but we were friends, and I wasn’t ready to admit to myself that I loved you more than that . . .”
Her pelvis jerks, and it sets off a series of sparks twisting my balls.
“. . . but holding my cock and thinking about you naked . . . kissing you . . .” I flick my tongue on her lower lip. “Fucking you . . .”
It happens out of the blue.
“Hendricks,” she cries, and then she explodes on my lap.
Watching her shuddering orgasm, and riding out her pleasure with a series of uncoordinated thrusts, is all it takes. I come harder than I ever have before, white lights blinding me. It’s a painful punch to the gut that would double me over if I were standing.
Story becomes a rag doll in my arms, head resting on my shoulder until her breath settles down. I’m not convinced she hasn’t fallen asleep.
“Stor?” It takes all my strength to push to standing so I can twist her around and put her back into bed, trying not to stare at the dark, damp patch between her legs.
Her eyes are wide open, looking at me when I stand. “Don’t go, Hen. Don’t ruin this by leaving.”
I look away, her face, her eyes, they’re what got me into this in the first place. “Stor, I can’t stay.”
But she pulls back the covers on the other side of the bed and pats the white cotton sheet. “Just for a little while.”
A deep sigh escapes me because I really don’t want to stay.
I can’t risk having Max wandering about in the night, looking for me and finding us. I need to clean up. I need to sleep in my own bed, with my own thoughts, and figure out what the hell I’m going to do now.
Because, like it or not, our lives just changed.
But because I’ve never been able to say no to Story MacIntosh, I slip inside, slide down next to her, and pull the covers over us.