Page 12 of Keeper
Without a reply, she bends down and sweeps her tongue over the moisture leaking from my tip. My hips jerk at the shocking contact of her hot tongue touching my most erogenous spot. When she pulls me into her mouth, a grunt rips from my throat. She takes me so deep that my thighs begin to quake with each bob of her head. I reach and grab a fistful of her hair for balance.The perfect fistful.
My mind leaves my body as I fuck her mouth, thrusting myself down her throat. God she feels so fucking good. If it weren’t for the whiskey in my system, I’d be coming in her mouth by now. But I need more. More than just her mouth. When I pull my dick away, she looks up at me with annoyance but then quickly understands as I shift to pull off her shorts and knickers. Everything is rushed and desperate and manic. Sloppy.
When she drops onto her back—staring up at me with lust-filled eyes, wild, messy hair, and one metal barbell twinkling in the dim light—everything slows. Her chest rises and falls with her breaths, her eyes blink a slow blink of readiness. Her familiar face displays our past, but her mysterious body taunts me with secrets.
She is Poppy. But she is not.
“Booker.” She whispers my name and I meet her gaze with mine. It’s her granting permission this time. She reaches low and grabs hold of my length. My eyes close when she squeezes me and swipes her thumb over my sensitive tip that’s aching for a place inside of her. She positions me right where I want to be and croaks, “Make love to me.”
I instantly tense. Her words like a bucket of ice cold water in my face.What the fuck am I doing? This is Poppy. This is my best friend. I can’t be doing this.
Suddenly, I pull back. The couch is sticky and uncomfortable, the air heavy and damp. Our slickened skin against each other feels odd as our laboured breaths work to slow down our heartrates. She feels the shift in the air, too. It’s like waking up from a dream and trying to figure out where sleep ends and awakening begins.
Poppy is beneath me.
Reality has fully returned, and all that’s left is a whiskey buzz wearing off much too early.I almost fucked my best friend.
MIND-BLOWING ALMOST HOOK UP, FOLLOWEDimmediately by earth-altering awkwardness.
I can’t even look Booker in the eyes when reality dawns on me over what’s just happened. How much did I show him? How little control did I have over myself?God, I hope I didn’t scream out “I love you” or something moronic like that!
No words are spoken as I wiggle out from under him and grab my clothes up off the floor. I scurry into the loo as fast as my shaky legs can take me. Dropping down on the toilet, I run my hands through my hair as I desperately try to shut off my libido and wake my brain the fuck up.
I finish peeing and wash my hands and face before putting my clothes back on. Glancing at my reflection in the mirror, I shake my head in disgust as I dry-swallow my birth control pill like it’ll somehow calm my anxiety-filled head.
I came back to London under the guise that I had changed. That I no longer needed, wanted, or cared about Booker Harris like I once thought I did. And what’s the first thing I do? Nearly sleep with him hours after I’ve moved in to his flat.
I’m officially ridiculous.
A knot forms in my throat as disappointment and shame cloud over me. I brush my teeth, trying to stop the tears from falling, but it’s no use. I’ve really fucked things up, and this splitting headache creeping over me isn’t helping matters. I don’t even feel drunk anymore, but surely that’s the only excuse I can claim after such an outrageous display of affection.
Swallowing hard and praying I can sneak out of the loo without being noticed, I open the door and dash out with my head down. When I pass his room, I think I’ve made it, only to collide with a shirtless Booker propped against the wall beside my door. Nerves explode in my chest as I eye his abs—hard, corded abs that I was stroking only moments ago.
I look up to see Booker’s sympathetic gaze in the dark. Christ, he’s mortified. “Poppy, I didn’t mean to…I hope you don’t think I—”
“It was nothing, Booker. No need to apologise. There’s really no need to say a word.”
The very last thing I need to hear him say right now is that he doesn’t have feelings for me. He couldn’t put a bloody shirt on for this?
He frowns and tugs on his earlobe. He’s had that nervous tic since we were kids. “That wasn’t what—”
“Let’s just forget it. It’s late. We’ve had too much to drink.” I make a move for my room, feeling like the cheapest kind of whore, but his hand shoots out, stopping my retreat.
“You’re not leaving, right?” His eyes are wide and fearful. His hand clenches the doorframe firmly, like he’s trying to stop himself from flipping out.
I shake my head. “Not unless you want me to leave.”
He closes his eyes with a heavy sigh. “That’s the last thing I want. I just hope you don’t think I was trying to take advantage of you.” He rushes the words out, tension radiating from his thick forearm. “I’d rather kill myself than have you think that’s why I asked you to move in with me.”
I shake my head awkwardly, eyes downcast. “No need to get suicidal. I’m equally as guilty, Booker. You have no idea.” And he never will. I’ll never tell him that this isn’t the first time I’ve thought of him naked with me.
“What do you mean?” His voice sounds curious more than accusatory.
My mouth opens and closes a few times before I stammer, “I was the one mixing the drinks.” I laugh nervously and hate the sound of my voice right now. “Please, Booker. I’m drunk and I need to pass out.”
He stiffens with a sharp intake of breath and then slowly drops his arm. I scurry past him like a shameful child who got caught shagging the neighbour boy, which I very nearly did.
I slide the door closed.
