Page 65 of Trick Shot
We both have our knees on the bed, and I snake my hand up under my jersey to let my fingers trail across the undersides of her breasts. She cries out and reaches for the headboard while I thrust my cock deep inside her.
“Pete—” she pants my name like she’s overwhelmed in the very best way. I’m toying with her nipples and squeezing her breasts while burying my cock in her heat.
“I’m right here,” I say, my voice low. I’m kissing her neck and that sweet spot right behind her ear that makes her shiver.
She feels too damn good, and those little whimpers and moans are gonna be the end of me, I swear. When I feel her thighs start to tremble against mine, I lower my right hand on the soft skin of her stomach to hold her upright. And holy fuck, that’s a good idea. I can feel the intensity as she grinds her pussy on the base of my cock. I can fucking feel every flutter and tremor as I pump inside her. She’s so damn close and I can’t wait to watch her go right over the edge.
“You look so fucking good in this,” I say, my eyes roaming over my jersey. “I thought I was gonna come back here and take matters in my own damn hands, but I like this plan a lot better.”
“Me, too,” she says on a stuttered breath. “But the idea of watching you get yourself off—oh, god, right there.”
The words are said on a rush as her body tenses. Tilting my hips up, I hit that sweet spot inside her as sheholds onto the headboard with two hands and cries out. Her orgasm is powerful. Her body tightens on my cock like a vise and I don’t have a prayer of holding out. I don’t even want to. There’s nothing better than holding Claire in my arms as we each make each other’s body detonate with pleasure.
We collapse on the bed and after a few minutes, I muster up the presence of mind to toss the condom. When I come back to bed, I’ve got a towel to clean up the mess we made, but Claire’s curled up in the covers, her eyes closed and a smile gracing her lips.
I don’t even bother putting my shirt back on. I just wrap my body around hers and pull up the covers.
My fingertips brush the letters on the back of my jersey as I press a kiss to Claire’s temple and drift off to sleep.
23
Claire
“Okay, I need help,” I say, reaching for the bowl of chips on the coffee table and popping a few in my mouth.
“You do need help,” Pete agrees. “Anyone who eats salt and vinegar chips needs help, Claire. But you’re admitting it, and that’s the first step.”
We’re sprawled out on the couch in my suite. I’ve got my back against the armrest and Pete’s at the far other end of the sofa with his legs propped up on the coffee table. My computer is in my lap, my knees are bent, and my feet are perilously close to Pete’s ass. So, I kick him. Playfully, of course. There’s no force behind it. I love that ass and I’m not going to risk damaging it just to throw a temper tantrum in defense of the most delicious snack food ever created.
He grabs my foot and threatens to tickle me but thinks twice when I bust out my patented frosty glare.
We’re alone in my apartment and though it’s safe to say we’d both rather be in my bed right now, we have work to do. I’m doing prep work for an upcoming story, and Pete’sworking on a lesson he has to teach to an advanced biology class in a few days.
We’re busy people, so it makes sense that we’re getting our shit done and still spending time together.
Except it doesn’t. We aren’t a real couple. And there’s literally no one else here right now. The dying cactus that Maggie gave me as a thank-you for doing her photo shoot doesn’t count.
But hanging with Pete is quickly becoming the best part of my day, and as ridiculous as it sounds, I don’t want to lose what we have. The logical part of my brain tells me that what we have is fake, so I can’t really lose it.
But the emotional part of me—the one who rarely shows her face—is so damn happy in this fake relationship that I don’t want to do anything to risk it.
“Fine, I’ll help,” he says with an exaggerated sigh. “What do you need? A backrub? A frontrub, maybe? Or someone to explain that the mitochondria really is the powerhouse of the cell? Because I was made for this shit.”
“I need you to take a picture of my wrist.”
Pete’s been looking at his computer screen, but he slowly turns his head toward me. “Of all the things I imagined you might ask for, that was not on the list.”
I’m a photographer and a proud member of Gen Z so using my phone to take a photo at an odd angle should be right up my alley. But this is trickier than it looks.
I set my laptop down and hand Pete my phone as I scoot my butt closer to him. “This isn’t going to work,” I say, realizing I’ve scooted my way into the shadows.
“Whoa, just because I’m not an actual photographer doesn’t mean I can’t take a decent shot. I haven’t even started and you’re already coming at me.”
I roll my eyes at his dramatics. “We need better lighting. Come over to my side.” I inch my way back over to myoriginal spot as Pete hops off his side of the sofa. God, I love his body. It’s so strong and powerful. So warm and cuddly. And yes, I know the man has only walked two feet across the room, but he made it look like a damn runway.
We run into more issues because when he sits beside me, he’s blocking the light. Finally, he kneels on the carpet in front of me and I spread my legs wide so that there’s enough room for his broad chest and hulking shoulders in the vee of my thighs.
Pete smiles at me. “I think this is the perfect position. I’m not sure what the hell we’re doing, but I like this position a whole fucking lot.”
