Page 38 of Boyfriend
“Oh, yes baby.” Abbi moans, before suddenly clamping a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. She's amused. She finds this whole thing funny.
I'm just turned on. This is torture.
And then she moves a little closer to me, and my senses all go haywire. But it turns out she’s just trying to say something privately. “Jeez, Weston. Even you must be capable of a Christmas quickie. Just play along.” Then she increases the tempo of the bed's movements. “Yessss...." she cries out. "Faster."
Then she elbows me again.
Shit.
It’s risky to play this game. If I say anything, she'll be able to hear how tuned on I really am. I clear my throat. And then I clench my teeth and think about hockey drills. "Okay, yes!" I say woodenly.
“Is that the best you can do?” She hisses. “Really? You sound like you’re watching a game on TV. I suddenly feel sorry for all those women at the Biscuit.”
Wait, what? Is she questioning my skills? "Oh hell," I grunt. "You did not just say that.”
“Yes, yes," she moans in answer. “Let me hear it, baby.”
And now it's me who's stifling a laugh. Abbi is fearless, as well as hot. She pushes all my buttons.
"Weston," she moans, and then covers her mouth. I can feel her shaking with laughter.
Time to step up, I guess. "What, baby?” I pant. “You need more? I got more.”
"Harder," she manages to yell, but she’s clearly laughing over there.
I roll over and brace a foot on the floor. "Oh yeah," I call, nudging the rocking bed into a gallop. “Like that?”
“Yes! Yes!” she moans. “Just. Like. That…”
Oh God. My dick is trapped against the mattress. There’s some friction from the motion of the bed, and Abbi’s breathy moans in my ear. I’m dying, here. “Hurry, baby,” I groan.
And I’m not kidding. This torture has to stop. I move the bed even more, until the headboard smacks the wall on every stroke.
“Westonnnn!” she shouts.
And it’s so, so easy to picture the real thing—Abbi flushed and climaxing beneath me as I strain against her soft, supple body… “Uhnnngh,” I moan, because I’m so worked up. And then I flop down onto the mattress one last time and go absolutely still, which is a necessity. If I move any more I’m going to blow just from listening to Abbi fake it.
I force air into my lungs as the room goes still.
There’s no more sound from the other side of the bed, either. I’m expecting a joke, or maybe a compliment on my expert acting skills.
But all I can hear is Abbi’s rapid breathing.
And then I push my face into the pillow and smile. Because I think Abbi got a little more than she’d bargained for, too. I hope it keeps her awake. It’s only fair.
It’s going to be hours before this crowbar in my new pajama pants goes away. She might as well suffer, too.
Happy Christmas indeed.
Thirteen
Four Times More Awkward
Abbi
“And then what happened?” Carly demands.
“Then his brother believed us,” I say, rolling another fork and knife into a napkin. “At least I think he did. How could he not?”
