Good morning to me.
ten
. . .
good morning to me.
Stretching my arms over my head, I wiggle my toes and let out a long morning groan. Rolling to my side, I reach for my phone with one eye open to check the time. I don’t even notice the large digital numbers eating up the screen because I have a text message waiting. From Miller.
I grab the phone and hold it over me, unlocking it with my face.
Miller
Still on for tonight?
I look at the timestamp. He sent that at 6:04 in the morning.
I can’t help but smile. And with that smile comes warmth.
Low in my belly, spreading through my pussy, down my thighs–warmth from the idea of being back in Miller’s apartment tonight, his sweet grin staring back at me, his cock locked because I said so .
I type back quickly.
Yep, see you then.
Dropping the phone next to me in the bed, I let my hand wander and find the wet heat building between my legs.
Stroking two fingers through my lips, my clit is swollen and aching.
Rubbing myself, I tip my head back into the fluffy pillows and envision Miller completely naked, sprawled across his bed, and that same smile on his face.
I’m crawling over him in my fantasy, kissing my way up his thick, muscular thighs as he moans and groans in response.
Our lips come together in my little fantasy, and the way he feeds me noises of pleasure gets me going. And before either of us get to really touch each other, I’m cumming around my fingers, muscles seizing, sweat forming on my chest.
Well.
Good morning to me.
My phone dings in the covers next to me, and I swoop it up with my free hand.
Miller
Park in my spot. Number 405. I don’t want you walking far like last time. Also, bring The Mechanics Bible. We can choose our next lesson.
I should be smiling at what a gentleman he is, leaving his parking spot for me. But instead, I focus on the last sentence. The lesson. And it reminds me that this thing between us is a deal .
Just a deal.
I take my hand out of my panties and get out of bed, heading straight for the shower. It may be thirty degrees outside, but right now, I need a cold shower as a reality check.
“You know I appreciate it, Laney,” mom says, pouring coffee into my tumbler. She twists the lid on and passes it to me, also handing me a bag of snacks she’s packed for Mara and me.
“I know, mom, and you don’t have to say that.
I like watching Mara’s comp practices. You know I do.
” It’s the truth–I love watching Mara do what she loves.
I must’ve come off a bit edgy when mom asked me a few days ago if I could take Mara to morning comp practice today, but it had nothing to do with my sister or her favorite sport.
Mara appears in the kitchen doorway; gi pressed to perfection. “I ironed it today because Pru told me last week that I looked like tissue paper.”
I cock a brow. “Pru’s a bitch.”
“Delane Marie! Don’t curse!” Mom scolds, swatting my arm as I wince away from her, laughing.
“What? Mara isn’t eight, mom. And I’m pretty sure she knows Pru’s a big old B.”
Mara nods with a grin. “Total B.”
“And anyway, she’s a rich B which is the worst kind. It means she’s a B because she’s spoiled, not because she has some trauma or struggle like the rest of us normal people.” I take a sip of my coffee, but it splashes against my upper lip as mom swats me again.
“Don’t say that! You don’t know that she isn't hurting. And what trauma do you have?” She puts her hands on her hips and faces Mara. “What trauma do either of you have?”
I hoist my bag onto my shoulder and grab Mara by the elbow, guiding her toward the door. “I never got a pony or a trampoline as a kid. It’s ruined me.”
Mom rolls her eyes as she pulls her Oakcreek PD polo over her long-sleeved shirt. “Oh, please.”
Laughing, I wave her off. “Have a good day. And I’ll try to, as long as I don’t get any trampoline flashbacks,” I say, gripping the door with one hand and then my forehead with the other.
“Oh no, one’s coming now…” I grit my teeth.
“I’m jumping and laughing, and then I wake up to an empty yard.
” I move my hand from my head to my chest and clutch at my heart. “Oh god!”
Mom reaches down, gripping the heel of her sneaker, both teasingly and threateningly. “Go now, or you’re taking a runner upside your head.”
I wiggle my fingers in a final, playful goodbye and close the door behind me.
“Eat this before you start; you need more than a bite of oatmeal in your stomach,” I tell my little sister as I pass her a bag of sliced apples.
She takes the bag with an eye roll. “But I’m nervous. You know I can’t eat when I’m nervous.”
I nod. “I know, but one or two will make me feel better.”
“Okay, mom,” she says sardonically as she stuffs two slices of Fuji apple between her teeth. “I’m going. Wish me luck.”
I tip my chin up at her as she descends the bleachers. “Luck! ”
From behind me, like a true fucking creep, Rock plunks down next to me, his eye still slightly discolored from my strike.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Rocky Balboa herself.” He narrows his beady eyes, his jaw rolling with anger as he glares. You can’t glare at someone if you’re sitting right next to them–it’s way too fucking intense and creepy. Which is, unsurprisingly, exactly how I’d describe Rock.
“Go away,” I mutter, not giving him more than a moment of my focus.
I watch Mara and silently hope that Rock goes away because I want to be excited for tonight, not worried about this motherfucker.
And hitting him didn’t make me feel better.
Granted, it lent me a moment of safety to escape, but when the dust settled, I felt yuckier for having done it.
I don’t want to be a physically violent person.
Rock bumps his leg into mine, and my body slides an inch away from him on its own, I swear. “Don’t,” I say, still facing forward.
“You’re no Balboa,” he says after a moment where I can feel his eyes on me. He leans in, and his swamp nut scent washes over me, making my stomach roll. “Rocky’s pecs are bigger than your little mosquito bites.”
With that, he rises and hops down the bleachers toward the mat furthest from Mara’s class. I click my tongue. I may not have huge tits, but they’re way more than mosquito bites.
Still watching Mara, my mind goes to Miller.
Does he think my boobs are too small? Does he like big boobs? I remember the woman from the lobby. The one with the dog who turned him down. She had… boobs. Not my boobs but real boobs. Boobs that could spill out over a lacy bra and seduce men and women alike. Boobs that could feed a child.
Rock’s words are in my head and they’re hard to shake.
Which is stupid because he’s an absolute piece of shit moron, but that’s how it goes.
If someone highlights my insecurity, their words have some phony validity.
I bite into my apple slice and force myself, literally force myself , to watch ten twelve-year-olds run through their competition drills without my boobs or Rock on my mind.
Five minutes later, I’m still thinking about Rock and what he said. As much as what he said, I’m thinking about how he approached me after I punched him for putting his hands on me. If that didn’t stop him from engaging with me, would anything? I’m worried it won’t.
Pulling out my phone, I say an internal apology to Mara that I will no longer be watching her practice. I have to take my mind off of Rock, and the only way I can is with Miller.
Just thinking of his name makes me smile.
With my phone out, I look around to make sure my screen isn’t visible. I’m not sitting with the nuclear families sitting around me, so fortunately, I’m safe. Quickly, I open my library app and pop in my EarPods, which I brought with me because I don’t go anywhere without them. Seriously.
I return to my audiobook, finding my nerves immediately settling from the story I’m so engrossed in.
Rubbing the crown of the rubber cock, I transfer lube from my palm down the shaft.
Another squirt and I’m smoothing my fingers up the divide of his ass, tucking the liquid in his tight hole.
“Relax,” I coax, then smack his cheek with my sticky hand.
He jerks forward, but then his body softens some and he reclines back.
Positioning myself directly behind him, I slide my hand down his spine as I align the dildo with his ass, pushing in just barely, just to give him the sensation of entry.
He groans, but not in pain like I thought. I rub his back again and feed him the first real inch. Another groan. I slide my hand around his waist and give him more cock as I reach for his. He’s hard–like a fucking stone in my hand–and from the tip of him, precum drips.
“Well, aren’t you a good boy?” I give another long, rewarding stroke for taking me so well. He wants redemption, safety, and strength–he’s open to this because he trusts the process, and that makes me want to really fuck him good that much more.
Another few inches get eaten up by his tight hole as I push my hips forward.
“It… it’s good. It feels… good,” he breathes, sounding like he’s already walking the edge of an orgasmic explosion.
“Getting fucked is for everyone, not just women,” I tell him, sawing my hips back to hollow him some, ready to start pounding him. He’s not warmed up enough yet, so I slowly sink back in, preparing him. Warming him up and stretching him open so I can take his ass the way I want: hard.
I pop my earphones out and put them in the case.
Miller isn’t broken in the way these men are, so using this book as a guide may not be the best plan.
I start to panic a little at that thought because if I can’t be the heroine of this book, how do I figure out–with little experience–how to give Miller everything he needs and make him the confident man he deserves to be?