Page 33 of Top Shelf

I don’tneedher.

This is all pretend.

Although, her juices, still moistening my beard…yeah, that feels pretty fucking real.

I waited for a minute, hoping she would come back out the door, asking me for more. But she didn’t. So instead, I’m lying here, hard as a fucking brick, trying to find something on TV that will help soften me up a bit.

Finally, the water turns off. A moment later, she comes out wearing my t-shirt and boxers, drying her hair with a towel. And I swear, in an instant, I’m as hard as a rock again. She doesn’t look at me. She just hangs the towel up on the door, walks to the other side of the bed, and lifts up the covers. Before I know it, she’s curled up next to me, and I can hear her breathing shallow out.

I stare down at her, watching her shoulders lift and fall, looking at how fucking beautiful she looks in my shirt. As much as I want to ravage her, as much as I want to mark her and make her mine, all I want to do right now is curl myself around her, pull her into me, and wait for our breathing to sync.

So that’s exactly what I do.

The next morning, I feel around on the mattress before I even open my eyes. But much to my chagrin, it’s empty. I get up and walk downstairs, but she’s not there either. I check my phone, and there’s a text from her.

Didn’t want to wake you. Had some stuff to get done.

Fuck.

I feel myself starting to panic.

Did I go too far last night?

She didn’t stop me, though. In fact, the way she grabbed my hair and held my face on her pussy, I’m not sure I could have stopped even if I wanted to.

I hold my fingers over the phone for a minute, trying to figure out what to say.

Instead, I click on her name and let it ring.

“Hello?” she answers after a few seconds, and I instantly feel a wave of relief.

“Thought you were running out on me, Blackwell,” I say.

There’s a long, awkward pause.

Fuck. Bad joke.

“No, I…no, I’m sorry, I—”

“Stop,” I say, cutting her off. “I’m joking. You okay, Sade?”

I hear her clear her throat.

“Y-yeah,” she says. “I’m good. I’m sorry I left like that. I shouldn’t have. I just—”

“Hey,” I say, cutting her off. “The dinner is tomorrow night. You’re still coming with me, right?”

“Yeah,” she says. “I’ll be there.”

“Okay, good,” I say. “I’ll swing by and pick you up around six.”

The next day drags on. All I want to do is talk to her. I pull my phone out of my pants so many times to text her or call her. I just need to know where we are. Did I go too far the other night? Did she not want it like I did? Does she not want more?

It was clear after yesterday morning, though, that she needed some space. And I need to give her that.

Finally, I’m buttoning up my “going out” shirt, putting some food down for Odie, and getting in my truck. And in a few minutes’ time, I’m pulling up to the Blackwell house.

I get out of the car just as the front door is opening. Only, it’s not Sadie. It’s Debbie.

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