Page 35 of Where It Begins
We start moving, me rolling my hips, him holding them to help shift me back and forth, and up and down, both of us making appreciative noises.
“I knew your cock was going to be damn well magical,” I moan when it hits the right spot again and sends heat flooding through me.
“Your pussy is tight as a damn fist,” Sidney groans.
“Violet was breech. I had a C-section.” Not that he needs me to tell him that. I have a scar across my lower belly to prove it. I grab his hands and move them up to my chest. “I need you to hold these so I can bounce without hurting myself.”
Sidney happily cups my breasts and I lean into his hands, planting my palms on his chest so I can lift and lower with ease.
“Grab my shoulders,” he orders.
I do as he says, and he uses his amazing abs to pull him to a sitting position, so now we’re face to face, my chest mashed against his. He cups the back of my head, fingers sliding into my hair and anchoring there so he can angle my head and slide his tongue in my mouth.
We kiss and grind for a minute, the friction on my clit pushing me that much closer to another orgasm. And then I’m lying on the bed again. Sidney stretched out over me, hips rocking into mine, pelvis rubbing on my clit in exactly the right way, the head of his cock stroking me from the inside. He pinches my right nipple, and it’s like a direct, psychic link to my already highly sensitive clit. The orgasm hits me with the force of a hurricane and I scream his name and a bunch of other random words, mostly comprising deity praise and accolades to his impressive cock.
I’ve just regained my vision and the somewhat uncoordinated use of my limbs when Sidney tells me he’s going to come. I kegel like it’s my damn job and his entire body goes taut, jaw flexed, arms shaking and biceps bulging as he pumps his hips. The headboard thuds against the wall, one, twice, a third time, and I swear I feel his cock bang into my ovaries on his final thrust.
“So fucking good,” he grits out.
I have to give it to him. He doesn’t collapse on top of me. Sure, he’s pressing me into the mattress in the most appealing way. But he’s bracing his upper body on his forearms. His forehead rests against the side of my neck. I’m looking down the muscled expanse of his broad back, all the way to the dip in his spine and the ridiculously bubblicious globes of his ass. I run a hand down his back and give the right cheek a light smack. I grin when it jiggles.
He lifts his head and arches a brow.
“Ten out of ten for ass jiggle-ability and pounding me into the mattress.”
He smiles.
Which is the moment we hear the pounding of feet on the stairs and my daughter calls out. “Mom? You home? I think the neighbors parked their son’s truck in the driveway again!”
CHAPTERELEVEN
I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER
Violet
We’ve all had a moment where we realize half a second too late that we’ve walked in on something we can’t unknow or unsee. I don’t know why I automatically jump to the conclusion that the truck in the driveway belongs to my next-door neighbor's adult son. Maybe because once my mom let him park his truck in our driveway so he wouldn’t get a ticket for parking in the overnight lot without a permit? But whatever the reason, I also miss the pair of men’s shoes at the front door. Obviously, there’s somebody else in this house and it’s likely not the next-door neighbor's son. Or if it is the next-door neighbor’s son, my mom’s MILF status has gone through the roof.
I’m already up the stairs, standing outside my mother’s bedroom door. Which is ajar. Not by a couple of inches, either. And in that space is a very bare man-ass and a bunch of intertwined limbs I don’t want to examine too closely.
It’s when I see the bare ass, that I finally connect the dots. My mom must have texted me seven-hundred and fifty times, give or take 100 either way, asking what time she thought I should pick her up this morning. I kept saying noon on the off chance I’d be able to sleep in at a friend’s house, which honestly never happens. And Sasha has a younger brother who is as quiet as a train in the morning, so sleeping in was already a pipe dream.
Logic implies the truck parked in the driveway belongs to the guy my mom has been dating for the last two months. And that means that she, too, had a sleepover. Hers was just a lot more exciting than mine.
“Oh, my God! Why the hell is the goddamn door open?” The question is pointless and redundant. I already know the answer.
My mom did not expect me home at 8:30 in the morning. In fact, she didn’t expect to pick me up for at least another 3 1/2 hours and she sure as hell didn’t expect menotto text before I got a ride home. So, while redundant, the question still feels valid. Because when you have a teenage daughter, learn to expect the unexpected. And that includes my being dropped off several hours early.
“I thought I was picking you up at noon!” mom shouts as I spin around and head for my room.
Half of me wants to walk right back out the front door, but I don’t have anywhere to go. There are coffee shops close by, but I’m exhausted from my shitty night’s sleep and all I want is a greasy breakfast and a nap. Except now I have man-ass burned behind my eyelids forever.
I close my bedroom door, flop down on the mattress, and pull a pillow over my head. Mom must be serious about this guy if he spent the night. So I probably need to get over seeing his ass.
A few minutes later, footsteps pass my room, one light and one heavier. Clearly the heavier ones belong to The Butt.
Several minutes pass before there’s a knock at my door. “Violet, honey, can I come in?”
“As long as no one is naked, sure!”