Page 112 of The Longest Shot
She gives me a look that suggests serious doubts, then turns to her coffee maker—some Italian spaceship with more buttons than my PlayStation. But even though I'm on toast duty, I can't help watching her bent over, searching for filters in a low cabinet, the jersey riding up, revealing the perfect curve of her ass.
The toaster can wait, my brain demands.In fact, the toaster can fuck right off.
I come up behind her, my hands finding her hips, pulling her back against me so she can feel exactly what that view does to me. "I want you…" I say.
“James, the toast?—”
“Fuck the toast.” I find that spot behind her ear that makes her melt. My hands slide under the jersey, over warm skin, up to cup her breasts. Her nipples are already hard against my palms, and when I roll them between my fingers, she arches back.
“We have like five minutes before?—”
“Before grades post. I know.” I spin her around, lifting her onto the counter. The cold makes her yelp, but then I’m kissing her and she’s kissing me back, legs wrapping around my waist,pulling me closer. Then the jersey comes off, revealing all that pale skin marked with hockey bruises and my fingerprints.
I kiss down her throat when the memory hits, sudden and vivid. The exam room, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, my hand cramping as I stared at question thirty-seven:Explain Foucault’s theory of power and its relationship to knowledge.
My mind had gone blank. Then I remembered Morgan on her knees, my cock in her hand, looking up with those challenging eyes as she asked a very similar question. She’d rewarded me by taking me deep into her mouth, and that memory is what got me over the line to write the answer in the exam.
“James?” Morgan’s voice pulls me back. “Where’d you go?”
“Thinking about your teaching methods.”
Her eyes darken with memory. “Effective, were they?”
“Nobel Prize worthy.” I step between her legs. “Need you.”
“Then stop talking.”
I shove my boxers down and slide into her with one thrust, both of us groaning. She's already soaked, and I bury myself deep like my cock is going down a waterslide. After three days, you’d think the novelty would fade, but every time feels like finding exactly where I belong.
We find a rhythm between worship and desperation. She’s making these sounds that bypass my brain entirely, and soon I feel her getting close, muscles fluttering around me. I reach between us, finding her clit, circling with my thumb with the steady pressure that I've figured out drives her insane.
“James, I’m—fuck, right there?—”
That’s when I smell it.
Smoke.
Real smoke.
Not metaphorical sexy smoke.
Actual something-is-definitely-on-fire smoke.
“Is something burning?” I say.
Her eyes shoot open. “The fucking toast!”
Black smoke billows from the toaster like we’re signaling our location to nearby rescuers, and a second later the smoke alarm fires up, shrieking at a frequency that could shatter glass and possibly my will to live. Because there's nothing like a literal fire to kill the metaphorical one.
I pull out, my cock throbbing in protest, and we scramble into action. She’s grabbing a dish towel while I yank the plug. As we move, we're both completely naked, my erection bobbing around like it’s personally offended by this interruption and her breasts jiggling as she moves.
“Open the window!” she shouts.
“I’m trying!”
I yank at the window, but it’s painted shut by generations of landlords who’ve never met a maintenance request they couldn’t ignore. Giving up on it, I watch as Morgan climbs onto a chair, still naked and sexy as hell looking like this, pressing the button until it finally shuts up.
We stand in sudden silence, surrounded by smoke, looking at each other. Her hair’s wild, there’s soot on her cheek, and she’s got one hand on her hip like she’s about to give the toaster a performance review. Then she starts laughing—real, uncontrolled, tears-streaming laughter.
