Page 161 of How to Score Off Field

Is that all this is?

My eyelids are heavy, and the last thing I hear is Lana, the talking, judgey cone fromToo Hot to Handle—a show about singles living on an isolated island for two weeks. They aren’t allowed to have sex, kiss, make out, or get sexually physical in any way, shape, or form—and if they do, they lose exorbitant amounts of money each time.

Cameras follow their every movement.

Every touch.

The hostess announces that two contestants kissed, costing the group two thousand dollars. The other contestants argue about being betrayed.

Next to me, Tess is already sleeping.

My lids slide closed.

So tired.

But maybe I should have asked her again what’s wrong.

’Cause I know it’s something.

Behind my sleepy eyes, I see her smiling at me. Her ass in those jean shorts at the miniature golf course, her boobs in that dress she had on at the honky-tonk…

She has me on the dance floor, our feet moving, bodies pressed together. Laughing. Steps into me, wearing only that skimpy silk top and that thong, ass on display, an invitation for my palms…

Tess has her hands on my shoulders. Those move, too, until they’re behind my head, nails lightly scratching the back of my neck as she kisses me.

I pull her closer, still.

Fingers flirting with the hem of her thin camisole or tank top or whatever this excuse for a shirt is, the fabric as silky as her skin, and I run my hands beneath it—tentatively at first.

It doesn’t take long for the tips of my fingers to brush the underside of her tits. Trail along her smooth flesh. Thumbs grazing.

Then.

My hands are covering her tits.

They fill my palms perfectly, just as I’d imagined those few times I’d imagined what they look like, feel like, taste like. Damn, it’s been an age since I’ve felt boobs—and all the reasons I had tried to date with intention last year rush back, sex being one of them.

Sex.

Affection.

Physical touch.

All the same thing, basically, marketed differently.

I groan when her nails scratch my scalp. Fuck that feels good…

She groans when I pinch her nipple, and now I want to see what her boobs look like, reaching to lift the hem of her barely-there shirt over her head.

Damn.

The view does not disappoint, and neither does the weight of her breasts in my hands.

For real.

Best tits ever.

“My least favorite position is missionary…” she whispers, pushing her hands into my chest as she rides me, loving it on top. “You better be careful, or you’ll get me pregnant.”

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