Page 40 of Kiss My Glass
“Shit,” I hear Danny mutter again. It’s time.
I open my eyes and smile up at him. Honestly, his jaw is so tight, he looks like he’s undergoing surgery without anesthetic. Pity it’s not going to get any easier.
“Sit up and stretch your legs out,” I tell him. “You’ll need to lean backwards and prop yourself up on your arms.”
“Okay.” He’s fully focused. No wasting energy on excess words.
“Right, I’m going to lower myself onto you,” I say. “But you’re not to move. I’ll do everything for us.”
Facing him, I lower myself onto his erection and hook my legs over his thighs. Then I lean back, too. His eyes are dark with lust and his breathing is rapid and shallow. But I now control the speed and depth of the thrusts and unless he does an Incredible Hulk and flips me over, there’s nothing he can do about it. So, naturally, I take it slow. And because I can, I continue to pleasure myself.
Poor Danny. His arms are trembling and he’s trying to lift his hips up to get more traction but he’s effectively trapped. I lean back a little further and the electric sensation of the new angle makes me gasp, and I quicken the pace of my fingers. That takes me right to the cliff-edge of orgasm, but the slowness of the thrusts means I hang there, teetering, unable to go over. It’s torture and it’s exquisite and I become a lot more vocal.
My partner is also becoming louder, though less appreciative, judging by the fact he’s just yelled “FUCK!” But the sex gods are merciful because at that instant, my orgasm breaks, and now both of us are shouting. Any night birds outside will be wondering what the hell is going on. Danny’s arms give out and he collapses backwards, and I’m left straddling him, limp and wrung out and laughing with the joy of it all.
Danny’s eyes are closed, his arms splayed out sideways like a scarecrow’s, and his chest is heaving. He’s also muttering a stream of what sounds like curse words.
“I did warn you,” I say.
He squints at me. “That was the kind of warning like ‘Parental Advisory’, which is basically an encouragement. You didnotsay I’d be taken to the brink of insanity.”
Lil Danny is still inside me, and the condom will soon be a hazard, so I gently lift myself off. And lie down beside Big Danny and nuzzle his neck.
“You did well, young apprentice,” I say. “Now, we should sleep.”
“Nate and Shelby will know you didn’t come home,” he points out. “They also know there’s only one bed here.”
“Sleep,” I insist. “And we’ll deal with our beloved families in the morning.”
ChapterTwenty-Two
DANNY
Of course, we both have to get up in the night to pee, but only I almost fall down the stairs. I blame Frankie for the fact that all my muscles have turned to cheesecake. I had an easier physical workout competing in a Tough Mudder race a couple of years back, where crawling along under barbed wire and scaling a mile of ten-foot mud mountains were only two of eighteen demanding dirt-themed obstacles. I was sore and crusty after that, but at least I could still navigate a set of stairs.
I rummage in Cam’s first aid kit for some pain killers but there’s only an herbal balm with a strong odor of Pine-Sol. I don’t want to go back to bed smelling like disinfectant, so I pass. It occurs to me that Frankie’s mom, Lee, might have given the balm to Cam, and I wonder if anything went on between them back in the day? Might explain why Frankie is so down on her mom, though she’s been civil enough with big man Cam so far. Ava would never tolerate anything but single-minded devotion in her relationship, so I’m certain that if there was ever anything between Lee and Cam, it’s long over.
Rough for Frankie to lose her dad so young, when she obviously got on better with him than her mother. I’d be bereft if Mom died and, yes, if Dad died, too. I know this because he almost did die last year, and I realized that despite our constant clashes, he’s my dad and I love him. Just wish he’d accept me for who I am instead of trying to make me fit some perfect Durant mold.
Going back up, I take the stairs carefully. My knees are still twinging and my quads and glutes are onfire. Forget beer, Frankie should start a fitness regime – Lindy Hop lessons and torture sex. A little niche, but I think it has potential.
Frankie’s fast asleep. Gingerly, I get back into bed, and check my phone, out of habit. Nothing urgent. Haven’t heard back from the producer guy yet. Despite his enthusiasm, I know it’s a long shot, but there’s part of me that really does want it to happen. I told Frankie I hadn’t failed yet, but that doesn’t mean I’m a success. No matter how good I am at it, being a car salesman isn’t like being a scientist or a Harvard MBA graduate. But if I have my own TV show, and it becomes popular … that’s something people might respect.
I fall asleep while rehearsing my speech for the Emmy’s…
…and wake to find all the covers have been stolen in the night. Okay, now I’m more alert, I can see that the covers are still here but are tucked around Frankie. She’s rolled herself up in them like a burrito. Hasn’t left me even a corner of the sheet.
I nudge her shoulder and hear a snarl. Lil Danny might be raring to go again, but Big Danny has survival instincts, and they’re telling me to put on some pants and go make coffee.
The smell of fresh brew precedes me through the bedroom door and it’s enough to rouse Frankie from slumber. She fights off the covers like it’s their fault she’s trapped, and blinks at me, disheveled and cross. Wild guess? Frankie is not a morning person.
She is, however, naked, and her luscious breasts are on full display. I can’t help it; my eyes have a mind of their own.
“Are you ogling me?” she demands.
“Yup,” I admit. “I also come bearing hot liquid. Want a shirt?”
She sees the coffee mugs in my hand, and realizes it’d be smart to cover up. Scalded bare flesh isn’t a fun way to start the day. I set the mugs down carefully on the floor because there is no side table as well as no closet in this room and fetch a shirt out of the drawer in the bed base. First one I lay my hand on happens to be a pink polo.
