Page 13 of When Best Friends Fall

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Ten

Harrison

We have a seven o’clock reservation at The Blue Heron, so our time is more limited than I would like. I arrived a half hour ago at five-thirty but haven’t seen so much as an inch of her as I speak through Trina’s bedroom door.

“Trina honey? Everything all right?”

“Still getting ready.”

“We need to leave soon to make our reservation.”

“Working on it.”

Up till now, I’ve been a paragon of restraint—this is our first formal date, after all—but my patience has officially reached its end. Without further ado, I burst into her room, see that she’s wearing heels, an unzipped skirt, and a push-up bra with all these pastel flowers along the bottom of the cups and transparent netting where her nipples are… And well, that’s pretty much all she wrote.

I am a man, after all. How can I be expected to resist all these feminine wiles?

So, I basically attack her.

One minute I’m at her door and the next I’ve vaulted over her bed to get to her. I have both hands squeezing her ass under her skirt when she yells, “Harrison, wait! I’m not ready, I…” But her protest devolves into a moan as I tug her bra cup down and suckle that nipple of hers right then and there.

“This little pink flower matches your nipple exactly,” I mumble, only half aware of what I’m saying. It’s difficult to construct logical sentences when all your blood has rushed south.

“Harrison… Oh…”

It’s a matter of seconds as I pop her bra fastener—it’s a front close this time,yes—peel her skirt and identical floral panties off, and stare down at her as she lays haphazardly across her mattress. She’s a vision. A daydream. And she’s all mine.

Or I assume so since her fingers have created furrows in my hair as I stay latched onto her nipple. Only after little speckles appear do I switch to her other one. And when I lower my hand to her center, I find her sopping.

“Thought you said you weren’t ready yet,” I growl at her, my fingers delving through her folds and making my already stiff length grow concrete hard. “What I’m feeling right now claims otherwise.”

She turns the tables on me as she runs her small hands along my shaft over some of my fanciest trousers. I groan out loud, something uncommon for me, as she continues without releasing me.

“Turn over on your spine,” she orders, and I don’t hesitate to obey.

Her nimble fingers soon have my pants and boxers around my ankles, and I kick them off, needing to be inside Trina more than I can say. My button-down is still on as she climbs me like a downed tree and straddles my lap. Then, ass sitting on my thighs, she handles my cock, rubbing me until I grow dangerously close to reaching my climax before helping Trina reach hers.

And we can’t have that.

“Honey, let me make you come.”

“Oh yes… please.” Within two seconds, she’s raised herself over me, gradually impaling her body on mine.

“Shit,” I mutter. I’m too close.Waytoo close. “Shit, shit.”

“It’s okay if you come. I don’t need it every time.”

Oh, hell, no. Not on my watch.

Still, I have to think of some of our fussiest and most ridiculous men’s suit styles in an attempt to back off of my climax. When that’s not enough I picture Captain Henrik—a patron of ours who smells conspicuously like rotting onions—in that same suit before I regain control. It works, though, and as Trina rides me, I feel like I can make my hard on last.

For a little bit, anyway.

The only problem is from this vantage I can see her large love bitten breasts swinging and how her waist cinches inward as she swivels her hips in a figure eight motion. And… I’m right back to square one.

Shit.

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