Page 33 of Parker
“Yeah. Thanks.” She takes a gulp, then bites into the steak again, moaning with pleasure. “Ummm. Mmm.”
And—fuck!—as hungry as I am for food, my body decides it’s starving for something else entirely. Second by second, my cock is filling with blood. I’m getting hard, and it’s going to be both obvious and uncomfortable if I don’t find some privacy and take care of it.
“I gotta go to the bathroom,” I mutter, standing up and pivoting as quickly as I can.
I close the door behind me and brace my hands on the sink, thinking about the way she looked sticking that steak bone in her mouth. And the sounds she made eating the corn…and drinking the wine.Christ!Sliding my left hand into my sweats, I find my cock standing tall and proud.
“Can I put on the TV?” Parker calls from the bedroom.
“Yep! Go for it!”
A second later, I can hear the ambient noise of a television show and sigh with relief. It’ll muffle any noise I’m about to make.
Fisting my erection in my hand, I rub it up and down quickly, my other hand braced flat against the mirror over the sink.
I close my eyes, picturing her breasts covered by a filmy piece of fabric. I imagine licking the flavors of my dinner off her lips, my tongue tangling with hers while her moans echo in my hotel room. With only the bathroom door between us, she’s about twelve feet away from me, her body warm and perfect. I want her. I’ve wanted her forever. And she’s never felt closer.
When I feel myself about to come, I yank down my pants and lean forward, swallowing my grunts as best I can and climaxing in milky spurts into the sink.
Dizzy with relief, I run the hot water and pull up my pants.
God, that felt like fire.
“Everything okay in there?”
“Uh, yeah!” I call through the door. I look around, trying to come up with a reason for being in here so longthat doesn’t include taking a giant shit. “I left the floor wet after my shower. Just mopping it up!”
The floor is bone dry, so I take a second to wet a towel and throw it in the corner of the bathroom before I step back into the bedroom. When I do, she’s sitting back in the chair, knees bent against her chest, feet perched on the edge of the chair and the almost empty wineglass in her hand. I note with satisfaction that her steak bone is practically clean and most of the street corn is gone. She’s smiling at the TV, distracted, comfortable and content.
And for no good reason at all, the entire scene makes me insanely happy. So happy, in fact, that I lean against the bathroom doorway and stare at the ruffled bed and the trolleyholding our half-eaten food, and at the gorgeous girl whom I’ve loved for as long as I’ve been alive.
She looks over at me, wrinkling her nose a little.
“You were in there a while. Did you light a match?”
“I didn’t…do that,” I say. “The floor was wet, and I dried it up.”
“Well, you better sit down and eat,” she tells me, gesturing to the food with my wineglass, “or I’m gonna finish the rest.”
You’re welcome to it, I think,as long as you stay here with me. But I sit back down on the bed and dig in.
“What are you watching?”
She glances at me, then back at the TV. “Thisstuuuupidreality show.”
“Which one?”
“Love is Blind,” she says. “It’s on Netflix. I’m addicted. Three new episodes came out today, and I, like, can’t wait to see what happens.”
I’ve never heard of this show, which I tell her as I stuff my mouth with the best mashed potatoes I’ve ever eaten.
“Yeah,” she says. “Figures. You don’t love TV—”
What’s weird is that she’s right. I don’t. I don’t watch much TV at all, besides—
“—besides the Seahawks,” she says distractedly, finishing the wine as she stares rapt at her show.
I stop mid-chew.