“I-Is it hot in here?” she mutters under her breath, fanning herself by yanking on the collar of her black t-shirt.
“Yeah it’s fucking hot in here.” And getting warmer with every passing second.
“Should I open a window?” I volunteer, half off the couch and walking to the bank of windows at the front of the room before she can reply. I adjust the stiff dick in my pants, easing it to the side of my thigh before unlatching the lock and sliding my hands under the frame, pulling upward.
I crack the window a good nine inches—the length of my throbbing cock—wipe a set of sweaty palms over my pants, and yank my shirt down over my crotch.
Violet misses me gimping it back to the couch because her eyes are glued to the horny Highlanders banging on the television, in high def and Technicolor.
I ease myself back down, and despite the rising temperature in the room, grapple for the blanket and spread it across my lap, adding a throw pillow on top like a teenage boy afraid to be caught whacking it by his mother.
Normally I wouldn’t give a shit if some chick saw my boner, but this is Violet—I don’t want her to feel violated or whatever. I want her to feel safe with me, not like I’m going to fucking jump her with my giant cock.
On screen, Claire Frasier has just spread herself wide on the bed, and the Highland ginger Jamie is slowly scaling lower on her body. Nipples pointy and wet from his mouth. Head tipped back. Lips parted, sounds coming out of them both while he goes down on her.
This was such a bad idea.
I fucking knew the wedding episode had sex in it; I just didn’t remember it being this graphic.
The actress’s tits are right fucking there.
“Do you want to turn this off and watch something else?” I hear myself croak out, realizing just then that when I sat down on the couch, I grossly miscalculated the distance between us. Instead of giving her inches of berth, our legs and thighs and hips are touching.
“No,” comes Violet’s soft whisper. “It’s okay.”
“No?”
I shift in my seat, the heat from her denim-clad thigh only making the tension worse.
“No. We’re good.”
I know I shouldn’t react—I do—and yet, when Violet’s soft hand finds mine beneath the blanket and slides into mine, and fits…I move, body inching closer like a magnet is drawing me nearer.
Our fingers entwine, her other hand runs along the top of my thigh, patting it, seemingly unaware of the raging war inside my underwear, my body losing an intense battle with itself.
Fucking traitor.
She innocently lays her head on my shoulder.
The blonde hair on the top of her head tickles my nose, sending an odd twitch straight from my spine to my already pulsing dick. The little terror strains against the fabric of my jeans.
“This is snuggling,” she informs me just as Claire Frasier has an orgasm not ten feet in front of us. Violet’s pretty face tips up so she can look into my eyes.
Her body leans, fingers finding the bulk of my bicep and landing there, all the while clutching my other hand. It must be uncomfortable.
So I move.
Shift my body, slide my newly free hand around her narrow waist, pulling her in.
I groan, head hitting the back of the couch, counting one, two, three, four in a piss-poor attempt at some semblance of self control.
Four.
That’s as high as my brain can count because I stop breathing when her smooth lips find the pulse in my throat. Give it the tiniest, barest whisper of a kiss.
Soft, exploratory kisses, up and down the column of my thick neck, gentle nuzzles beneath my ear. “You’re not so bad at it,” Violet says, lips just inches from mine.
Whoa, what the fuck.
There is no fucking way she’s trying to seduce me right now. No. Way. She’s too naïve and gentle. In my gut, I know she’s just being affectionate. No way is she trying to get laid.
So what the hell is she doing, kissing the side of my neck and whispering flirty shit into my ear? She might as well be whispering lines from a porno. My brain works in overtime, trying to sort it out but coming up with nothing.
I sit ramrod straight, afraid to move. Not wanting to lead her on, or worse yet—take advantage.
Is this what being noble feels like?
If it is, being noble fucking sucks.
Am I attracted to Violet? Yes.
Do I want to bang Violet? Yes.
Would I screw her if she threw herself at me? Yes.
Her head hits my shoulder again, whole body relaxes into me, vibrant and warm. Buzzing. The hum of electricity circling is deafening, and when she tips her face to smile up at me?
I lower mine.
Give in, just this once.
Lips grazing.
Again.
Again. And again.
Faint. Tantalizing.
Small, teasing kisses I didn’t know I was capable of.
Kisses that leave bruises? Those have always been more my speed. Girls that bite and spank and like to be told what to do? That’s what I’m used to. Girls who make all the moves, are aggressive, who don’t expect anything in return but an orgasm—those girls don’t want to be friends.
My lips rest on hers, and I inhale her clean skin and perfume. Lift my hand to stroke the side of her face, caressing her smooth porcelain skin with the pad of my calloused thumb. With hands that might not have known hard work, but have worked hard. Hours upon hours of training and breaking my back for the wrestling team. Early mornings and late nights. Long road trips. Short weekends. Sacrificing a personal life to sink every spare moment into my team, until I’m left gasping for breath, because they’re all I’ve got.
But Violet is with me now.
I’m not sure what the hell it all means, or what the hell I’m doing here with her, but I know how good it fucking feels with her mouth pressed against mine. With her fingers running the length of my thigh, intentionally or not, driving a hot zip of friction to my groin.
I groan into her mouth, dragging a hand from her face, straight down her arm. It hits her hip, kneading the flesh above the waistline of her jeans. Squeezes. Fingers the fabric of her hemline and curls, tugging.
She presses closer with a little hum, small breasts brushing my chest, our breaths mingling.
We can’t get enough of each other. Violet’s hands are in my hair, gliding along my shoulders, gripping, feeling, memorizing every hard line of my upper torso. Touching me like she’s never felt a man’s pecs before, never felt their arms or chest or muscles.
Touching me like…
Like I’m…
Shit. The way I’m touching her.
I want to fuck her so bad now I can hardly think straight.
My hand roams her slender form, large hand running up and down her thigh. In between her legs and under her shirt.
Up her flat stomach.
There’s nothing special about her bare torso; it’s not like I haven’t had my hand up a girl’s shirt before. But this is Violet’s heat, Violet’s skin, and she’s letting me run the open part of my hand toward the curve of her breasts.
I arrive at her bra; it’s so small I can fit my entire hand over the sheer cup. No underwire. Textured, I finger the lace and slide my hand all the way inside. Fingers toying with her breast, thumb flicking her nipple.
Violet moans. So unexpectedly long and loud, I play with her again. Her tits are small, sure, but when I effortlessly glide my palm over the palest, silkiest skin I’ve ever felt, the size isn’t even registering in my brain as inadequate.
She feels perfect. Unspoiled.
On the television, there’s shouting and arguing as the Highlanders engage in battle, but I barely hear any of it.
Our tongues roll, hers tentative at first. That’s fine, I don’t need her trying to devour me; we can build to that.
My hands slide out from under her bra, tracking toward the waistline of her pants. Dip down into her waistband, back and forth over her hips with just enough room to roam.
She sucks in a breath.
Holds it.
I smile into her mouth, teeth nipping at her bottom lip, fumbling to find the button on her jeans, feeling around the denim belt loops blindly, like Helen Keller on steroids.
“Zeke, please stop.”
I freeze. Stop. Fingers motionless at the fly of her pants. Lowering my hand slowly, I pull away from her body, eyes seeking her wide hazel irises. Face flushed, her parted lips plump from being thoroughly sucked and kissed.
“I’m sorry, but we have to stop.”
I lean forward on the couch, resting those coarse palms on my knees, running them up and down my thighs before raising them to my head, running them through my hair.
“It’s fine, Violet.”
“I-I thought m-maybe I could do this, but I can’t.”
Can’t?
That—that right there is what sets me off.
“Do this with me, or with anyone?” The words slip out of my mouth, already knowing the answer.
She doesn’t want to do this with me, and why the hell is that bothering me so much? I’m not fucking good enough? Too angry, too dark, too forward?
“This has nothing to do with you.”
“Whatever. I said it’s fine.” My jaw is clenched. I work it back and forth to loosen it, certain I must look like a psychopath.
She’s struggling to tug her shirt down, straightening the hemline, pulling it over her waistband. “Y-you don’t sound fine…”
I laugh, the sound slightly maniacal. “Trust me. I was fine before you came alone, and I’ll be fine long after you’re gone.” I stand abruptly, snatching up my jacket then tugging on my boots.