Page 53 of The Game Plan

He touches me with reverence, like I’m a glass doll about to break. I’m not that fragile.

Swiveling my hips, I take what I need from him. It doesn’t take long before that elastic band inside of me snaps under the pressure. Waves of pleasure ricochet through me.

“Holy... wow,” Miles breathes. He pulls his finger out of me with a wet squelching noise.

That’s all it takes. We’re both laughing now. I can hardly catch my breath as aftershocks run through me. My stomach aches from the force of my amusement.

Wrapping my legs around his waist, I bring our lower bodies into direct intimate contact. His laughter dies out in an instant. I can feel the hard, thick length of him, the rigid line of his cock pressed against my center.

“I want to touch you. Can I?”

I’ve never seen him without his trademarked hoodies. It’s nearly winter, so he’s always wearing long pants. Baggy clothes. The only time I ever see him in anything form fitting is on the football field, and even then, he wears a long shirt beneath his jersey.

His face is beet red. Rolling over, he sits up and pulls off his enormous hoodie. The fabric drags the hem of his shirt north, exposing several inches of his stomach.

“Shirt, too.”

I move to help him, and he flinches away from me.

I want to see him naked. I want him bare to me as I’m bare to him. I want to map the contours of his muscles. I want him to want me as badly as I want him, to be secure enough in his own skin that he isn’t afraid of me.

His hand shakes as he lifts the hem of his shirt a few inches.

“It’s just me,” I tell him quietly. “This is just us.”

This time, when I move to help him, he doesn’t flinch. Together we lift the hem of his shirt up, up, up. My hand slides over the curve of his belly, appreciating the smooth expanse of skin he’s revealing. His broad chest is covered with a smattering of dark hair fanning out towards his nipples. It travels south in a thin, wispy line over his belly, where it thickens into the waistband of his sweatpants that do a poor job in hiding his interest.

He hesitates.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. We can go as slow as you want.”

“I want this. I want you,” he says, like he’s trying to convince himself.

My finger dances along the edge of his sweatpants. Sweat breaks out along his hairline. When I slip my hand into his pants, he hisses. I wrap my hand around the thick length of his cock, and he groans out loud.

He feels like velvet wrapped around steel, satiny smooth. I can barely get my hand around him, he’s so thick.

Miles moves, and then he’s inching his sweatpants down off his hips. I help him with the thick fabric, and he sighs. He kicks off the pants and then takes my hand, moving it back to his cock.

He’s thick, the head an angry red, and weeping with pre-come. Slowly, impossibly slowly, I stroke him, learning what makes him sigh and what makes him groan, what has him flexing his hips into my touch. He wraps his fingers around mine, tightening my grip around him. I love the feeling of both of us working to get him off.

He initiates another kiss, all tongue and wet and delicious. For someone with so-called limited experience, I can hardly tell. He has no issues with taking what he wants from me.

He comes with a shout, hot come covering both of our hands. He’s breathing hard, the flush spreading down his neck to his chest. I press a kiss to his nipple, scraping lightly with my teeth, and he gives a feeble moan.

When he can breathe again, he reaches over me for the box of tissues on the bedside table. He cleans off my hands before he mops himself up.

I run my hands over his chest, my thumbs brushing lightly over his nipples. Miles groans again—I love how vocal he is—and pushes me onto my back. He climbs on top of me and wraps my legs around his waist again, pulling the blankets up around him to surround us in a cocoon of warmth. He’s up on his knees, so I don’t get the intense crush of his weight on me, no matter how much I want it. Need it.

There’s a little less urgency now. We kiss slowly, enjoying the moment. The thick length of his cock presses against my center, hot and a little wet, sending delicious zings of friction through my core. He grinds against me. He learns the shape of my body, the curve of my breast. His fingers close around my nipple, gently squeezing. I arch my back and try to get more friction. The head of his cock slips a little low, the tip pressing into me, and we both freeze.

“Condom,” I tell him, and he nods without hesitation. He reaches over and digs through his bedside table. It takes him a full minute and twelve seconds to find the unopened box of foil squares.

I take the strip from him, tearing off a square. He scoots back a little, and I mourn the loss of intimate contact.

“You’re sure you want to?” He meets my eyes. “I do want to take you out. You deserve—”

“I want that, too,” I tell him. “Right now I want you to fuck me.”

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