“This way,” she murmurs when I round the vehicle.
She doesn’t take my hand, but she does check to make sure I’m following as she climbs the three low steps of the back stoop. Her keys jingle softly in the quiet night as she unlocks the door.
A moment later, we step into a tiny kitchen. It has ugly yellow-and-pink-patterned wallpaper, and in the center sits a square wood table surrounded by four chairs. The appliances look old, but they’re clearly in working order because dirty pots and pans are strewn atop the stove burners.
Sabrina blanches at the mess. “My grandmother always forgets to clean up after herself,” she says without meeting my gaze.
I glance around the cramped space. “It’s just the two of you here?”
“No. My stepfather lives here too.” She doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t ask for details. “Don’t worry, though. Friday is poker night—he usually stays out and then stumbles home sometime around noon the next day. And Nana takes an Ambien every night before bed. She sleeps like the dead.”
I wasn’t worried, but I get the feeling she’s not trying to reassure me, but herself.
“My room’s this way.” She ducks into the corridor before I can say a word.
I trail after her, noting how narrow the hall is, how dirty the carpet is, how there aren’t any family photos hanging on the walls. My heart starts to ache, because the droop of Sabrina’s shoulders tells me that she’s ashamed of this place.
Fuck. I hate seeing her look so defeated. I want to tell her about the peeling paint in our place down in Texas, about how for the entirety of high school I slept in the tiniest room in the house so Mom could use the larger bedroom for her in-home hair salon that supplements the income from her hairdresser job in town.
I keep quiet, though. I’m following her lead here.
Her room is small, tidy, and clearly her source of refuge. The double bed is perfectly made with a pale blue comforter. Her desk is immaculate, overloaded with neatly stacked textbooks. It smells clean and fresh in here, like pine, lemon and something addictively feminine.
Sabrina unbuttons her coat, shrugs it off, and drapes it over the desk chair.
My mouth waters. She’d thrown a T-shirt over the skimpy bra that constitutes a work “uniform,” but she’s still in those little shorts. And the heels. Jesus fuck, those heels.
“So,” she starts.
I unzip my jacket. “So,” I echo.
Her dark eyes track the movement of my hands as I toss the jacket aside. Then she shakes her head abruptly, as if trying to snap herself out of…checking me out, I guess? I hide a grin.
“I meant it when I said I didn’t want to get involved,” she says.
“I know you did. That’s why I haven’t called.” I wander over to the desk, scanning the titles of her textbooks, all gazillion of them.
There’s a small cork bulletin board on the wall, with pictures tacked on it. I smile at a shot of Sabrina sandwiched between two other girls. The one on the left has bright red hair and she’s sticking out her tongue while squeezing Sabrina’s butt in an exaggerated fashion. The one on the right has long, thin braids, and she’s smacking a kiss on Sabrina’s cheek. They obviously adore her, and I feel a spark of approval knowing there are at least two people out there who have her back.
“My girls,” Sabrina explains, coming up beside me. She points to the right. “That’s Hope—” She points to the left. “And Carin. They’re my angels sent from heaven. Seriously.”
“They seem cool.” My gaze travels over the other pictures before landing on a white piece of paper with the Harvard emblem in the corner. “Holy shit,” I breathe. “Is that what I think it is?”
Her entire face lights up. “Yup. I got into Harvard Law.”
“Fuck yeah!” I swing around and yank her toward me for a hug. “Congrats, darlin’. I’m proud of you.”
“I’m proud of me too.” Her voice is muffled against the side of my neck.
Oh boy. This hug was a bad idea. Now all I can concentrate on is the way her round, full tits are pressed up against my chest. I swear her nipples are hard too.
Sabrina’s breath hitches the moment she feels the change in my body.
“Sorry,” I say ruefully, easing my hips back. “My dick got confused.”
A laugh pops out of her mouth. She tilts her head to look up at me with humor. And heat. I’m definitely seeing a spark of heat there.
“Poor guy,” she murmurs. “Do I need to explain to him the difference between a hug and a fuck?”
Je-sus. This girl is not allowed to say the word fuck. It sounds too much like a promise when it’s leaving those pouty lips.
“I think that’s wise,” I answer solemnly. “Though he’s not the smartest fella—you might need to give him a hands-on tutorial.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “What happened to no pressure?”
“Ah, I’m just playing. No pressure at all, babe.” Except for the pressure behind my zipper, that is.
She goes quiet for a moment. We’re no longer hugging, but still standing only a few inches apart.
“Honestly?” she says. “I tend to function better under pressure. Sometimes I need…a little push.”
I hear the unspoken question, but although my cock gets harder, I force myself to show restraint. “I won’t push you. Not unless I’m a hundred percent sure it’s something you want.” I study her expression. “Is it what you want?”
She moistens her lips. “It…is.”
“Not good enough. Tell me exactly what you want.”
“You. I want you.”
“Be more specific.” Fuck, I’m a masochist, apparently. But this girl has turned me down twice since we slept together. I need to make sure we’re on the same page.
“I want you. I want this.” Her palm covers my package, and my erection nearly hammers its way out of my pants.
“Where do you want it?” My voice is pure gravel.
“In my mouth.”
Goodbye, restraint. Sabrina James literally took a wrecking ball to it with those three lust-drenched words.
I’m kissing her before either of us can blink. And it’s the kind of kiss that goes from zero to sixty in a hot second. My tongue slides through her parted lips in a greedy stroke. She gasps with delight and kisses me back, her tongue tangling with mine for a few mind-melting seconds before she kisses her way toward my neck. Her breasts rise as she inhales deeply, and the soft moan she gives zips right to my balls.
She doesn’t take my hand, but she does check to make sure I’m following as she climbs the three low steps of the back stoop. Her keys jingle softly in the quiet night as she unlocks the door.
A moment later, we step into a tiny kitchen. It has ugly yellow-and-pink-patterned wallpaper, and in the center sits a square wood table surrounded by four chairs. The appliances look old, but they’re clearly in working order because dirty pots and pans are strewn atop the stove burners.
Sabrina blanches at the mess. “My grandmother always forgets to clean up after herself,” she says without meeting my gaze.
I glance around the cramped space. “It’s just the two of you here?”
“No. My stepfather lives here too.” She doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t ask for details. “Don’t worry, though. Friday is poker night—he usually stays out and then stumbles home sometime around noon the next day. And Nana takes an Ambien every night before bed. She sleeps like the dead.”
I wasn’t worried, but I get the feeling she’s not trying to reassure me, but herself.
“My room’s this way.” She ducks into the corridor before I can say a word.
I trail after her, noting how narrow the hall is, how dirty the carpet is, how there aren’t any family photos hanging on the walls. My heart starts to ache, because the droop of Sabrina’s shoulders tells me that she’s ashamed of this place.
Fuck. I hate seeing her look so defeated. I want to tell her about the peeling paint in our place down in Texas, about how for the entirety of high school I slept in the tiniest room in the house so Mom could use the larger bedroom for her in-home hair salon that supplements the income from her hairdresser job in town.
I keep quiet, though. I’m following her lead here.
Her room is small, tidy, and clearly her source of refuge. The double bed is perfectly made with a pale blue comforter. Her desk is immaculate, overloaded with neatly stacked textbooks. It smells clean and fresh in here, like pine, lemon and something addictively feminine.
Sabrina unbuttons her coat, shrugs it off, and drapes it over the desk chair.
My mouth waters. She’d thrown a T-shirt over the skimpy bra that constitutes a work “uniform,” but she’s still in those little shorts. And the heels. Jesus fuck, those heels.
“So,” she starts.
I unzip my jacket. “So,” I echo.
Her dark eyes track the movement of my hands as I toss the jacket aside. Then she shakes her head abruptly, as if trying to snap herself out of…checking me out, I guess? I hide a grin.
“I meant it when I said I didn’t want to get involved,” she says.
“I know you did. That’s why I haven’t called.” I wander over to the desk, scanning the titles of her textbooks, all gazillion of them.
There’s a small cork bulletin board on the wall, with pictures tacked on it. I smile at a shot of Sabrina sandwiched between two other girls. The one on the left has bright red hair and she’s sticking out her tongue while squeezing Sabrina’s butt in an exaggerated fashion. The one on the right has long, thin braids, and she’s smacking a kiss on Sabrina’s cheek. They obviously adore her, and I feel a spark of approval knowing there are at least two people out there who have her back.
“My girls,” Sabrina explains, coming up beside me. She points to the right. “That’s Hope—” She points to the left. “And Carin. They’re my angels sent from heaven. Seriously.”
“They seem cool.” My gaze travels over the other pictures before landing on a white piece of paper with the Harvard emblem in the corner. “Holy shit,” I breathe. “Is that what I think it is?”
Her entire face lights up. “Yup. I got into Harvard Law.”
“Fuck yeah!” I swing around and yank her toward me for a hug. “Congrats, darlin’. I’m proud of you.”
“I’m proud of me too.” Her voice is muffled against the side of my neck.
Oh boy. This hug was a bad idea. Now all I can concentrate on is the way her round, full tits are pressed up against my chest. I swear her nipples are hard too.
Sabrina’s breath hitches the moment she feels the change in my body.
“Sorry,” I say ruefully, easing my hips back. “My dick got confused.”
A laugh pops out of her mouth. She tilts her head to look up at me with humor. And heat. I’m definitely seeing a spark of heat there.
“Poor guy,” she murmurs. “Do I need to explain to him the difference between a hug and a fuck?”
Je-sus. This girl is not allowed to say the word fuck. It sounds too much like a promise when it’s leaving those pouty lips.
“I think that’s wise,” I answer solemnly. “Though he’s not the smartest fella—you might need to give him a hands-on tutorial.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “What happened to no pressure?”
“Ah, I’m just playing. No pressure at all, babe.” Except for the pressure behind my zipper, that is.
She goes quiet for a moment. We’re no longer hugging, but still standing only a few inches apart.
“Honestly?” she says. “I tend to function better under pressure. Sometimes I need…a little push.”
I hear the unspoken question, but although my cock gets harder, I force myself to show restraint. “I won’t push you. Not unless I’m a hundred percent sure it’s something you want.” I study her expression. “Is it what you want?”
She moistens her lips. “It…is.”
“Not good enough. Tell me exactly what you want.”
“You. I want you.”
“Be more specific.” Fuck, I’m a masochist, apparently. But this girl has turned me down twice since we slept together. I need to make sure we’re on the same page.
“I want you. I want this.” Her palm covers my package, and my erection nearly hammers its way out of my pants.
“Where do you want it?” My voice is pure gravel.
“In my mouth.”
Goodbye, restraint. Sabrina James literally took a wrecking ball to it with those three lust-drenched words.
I’m kissing her before either of us can blink. And it’s the kind of kiss that goes from zero to sixty in a hot second. My tongue slides through her parted lips in a greedy stroke. She gasps with delight and kisses me back, her tongue tangling with mine for a few mind-melting seconds before she kisses her way toward my neck. Her breasts rise as she inhales deeply, and the soft moan she gives zips right to my balls.
