Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 58947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 196(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 196(@300wpm)
“Oh, my god,” she says, panting as I slide my finger over her clit, repeating the motion until her hips are moving in time with my touch. She rolls onto her back and eases her jeans and panties down, spreading her legs.
I shove her shirt up, squeezing her breast through the bra. Her nipples pebble beneath the fabric, and I bend down, nudging the satin cup away and taking her nipple into my mouth.
“Naz,” she moans.
“You have great tits, Kira,” I manage to say. “You’re beautiful.”
I cup her pussy and slip a finger inside. She’s so tight, and the slick walls clamp around my finger like a fist. I don’t want to assume or hurt her.
“Are you a…” I press my lips closed over whatever awkward thing I was about to say. “Have you ever—”
“I’m not a virgin, Naz. It’s okay.”
I keep rubbing her clit. It’s swollen, and she’s so wet and tight. I ease in another finger, watching her expression for clues that it feels good or if it hurts.
“Yes.” Her eyes roll back. “Naz. Don’t stop.”
“Kira,” I groan, taking her breast into my mouth, licking the darker halo of skin around her nipple. As my fingers move in and out of her tightness, I can’t help but imagine how it will feel when that’s me. When she’s spread under me and I can push into her. Wetness seeps into my briefs. I’m leaking at the thought. Her eyes squeeze shut, and she bites her lip. She grips my wrist, and her back arches, a cry trapped in her throat as she soaks my hand.
“Did you just…” I falter, not sure. “Did you just come?”
She nods jerkily. “No one’s ever made me come before. Only when I touched myself. That’s what they were talking about?”
Laughing, the sound rich and delighted and floating in the crisp air, she turns on her side to face me. Her kiss-swollen lips pull into a wide smile. Reaching between us, she grabs my dick through my jeans and says, “Your turn.”
“Takira!” Cliff’s voice climbs the stairs. “You up here? Mama’s looking for you.”
“Oh, shit!” she whisper-shouts, moving swiftly beneath the blanket to pull up her underwear and jeans. “He’ll kill you.”
“Fuck!”
We scramble to our feet, and she shoves the blanket into a storage bench. Her hair is all over the place, one of her braids halfway unraveled. I can clearly see that one cup of her bra is still pulled down beneath her shirt, and her hard nipple pushes against the thin fabric. Her jeans are pulled up and zipped, but unbuttoned. Cliff’s heavy footsteps echo up to us, and my heart triple times in my chest, but I take a second to pull her toward me so I can fix her clothes.
“You’re a mess,” I mutter, buttoning her jeans and reaching beneath her shirt to pull her bra into place. I have no idea how to braid, but I’m trying to smooth her hair when our eyes catch.
Damn, she’s pretty.
There’s something luminescent about her skin, and her lips are rosy, like all the blood has rushed to them. Her eyes—her eyes outshine the stars, and I’m gone. My heart melts in my chest looking at her. She grins up at me and laughs, shaking her head. It’s no use pretending, and I don’t care what her brother thinks.
“What the hell are you doing up here with my sister, Armstrong?” Cliff growls at the door leading to the rooftop. He looks at where my hand rests at her waist, at the smooth skin bared by her shirt. “I’m gonna kick your ass.”
“No, you’re not.” Takira steps in front of me. “Cliff, stop.”
“I got this,” I whisper in her ear. “Let me—”
“We’re just talking,” she says. “I stayed up here after the team left. You know how I like it up here. Naz forgot his jacket, came back to get it, and we started talking.”
“Everyone else left two hours ago,” Cliff snaps, narrowed eyes sending me kill messages. “You been up here talking that long?”
“I know your conversations consist of grunts, half-formed thoughts, and plays from a handbook,” Takira says, her tone dry, “but some people do talk. Unlike most of your teammates, Naz can actually hold a conversation.”
Cliff looks at me suspiciously, and with good reason. My jacket covers a monster erection that probably won’t go down for days.
“Well, the game is tomorrow,” Cliff finally says, his tone still rough, but his breathing more even. “Go home and get ready to ride that bench, scrub.”
Resentment rises in me—that because of him I never get to play, that he holds it over my head all the time and tries to demean me in front of the team because of his own insecurities. Most of all, I resent that because of him, I have to leave Takira.