little something to look forward to. One hand slips from her ass to the front of her panties before delving inside. I groan as my fingers brush over the soft lips of her pussy. She widens her legs as I push two fingers deep inside.
Once they are completely seated inside her warmth, a moan escapes from her.
“Feel better?”
“Yes.” Her eyelids drift shut as her head lolls back.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything as sexy as Demi gyrating against me, getting off on my fingers. Slowly I drag them from the heat of her body before plunging inside again. It doesn’t take long for us to find a rhythm. A flush stains her cheeks as her teeth sink into her lower lip.
She’s so fucking beautiful.
When a furrow creases her brow, I know she’s hovering at the precipice. I pump my hand, giving her everything she needs to find her release. Her body tightens as her movements become frenzied. As she opens her mouth to scream, I seal my lips over hers and swallow down her pleasure. I continue thrusting my fingers inside her until her muscles turn lax. Only then does satisfaction fill me as I slip free from her body.
If I have my way, that will be the first of many orgasms I give this girl.
23
Demi
We spend the rest of Saturday morning working on a statistics assignment and kicking around a ball in the backyard. The QB may be hot stuff on the stadium turf, but on the soccer field? I run circles around his ass. Since the refrigerator looks like Mother Hubbard’s cupboards, we decide to make a run to the grocery store and pick up a couple of necessities to get us through the rest of the weekend. On the way home, Rowan detours, swinging into the paved parking lot of Twist ’N Dip, a small ice cream stand in the center of town.
He doesn’t realize it, but this place holds a lot of fond childhood memories for me. When I started playing soccer, Dad would bring me here as a special treat after each game. It was something I always looked forward to. Once I started playing with higher-level teams, and we started traveling more, we’d stop when we were in the area, but that became less frequent. I haven’t been here in ages. Probably since middle school.
“I love this place.” Nostalgia fills me as I study the small white brick building with a sliding glass window. It looks exactly the way it did ten years ago.
Rowan flashes me a grin. “Yeah, I remember you mentioning it.”
Huh...I don’t recall that conversation.
“Really?” My brows lift as I sift through my memories.
“It was a while ago.” He shrugs. “You said your dad would bring you here after games. You loved the dipped cones.”
That’s exactly what I’d order.
Every single time.
My heart flutters beneath my ribcage at the realization that he tucked away such an insignificant piece of information. It’s another reminder that Rowan has been quietly hovering at the edges of my life, paying attention to the minute details, while I was intent on creating walls to keep him at a distance. I pegged him as a player who would only end up hurting me.
How did I not see him for the person he truly is?
Why was I so stubborn about giving him a chance?
I don’t realize I’ve become trapped in a web of my thoughts until Rowan reaches over and gently strokes his fingers along the curve of my cheek. “Does it weird you out that I know so much?” Concern and embarrassment weave their way through his deep voice.
If it were anyone else—yeah, I might find it creepy or stalkerish. But how can I possibly feel that way when this is Rowan we’re talking about? Someone who has been a part of my life for so long? He and my dad have formed such a strong bond. We sit down for dinner every Wednesday night. We’ve had at least one class together every semester. Had I paid more attention, I’d probably know as much about him as he does about me.
“No.” If I’m being honest, I like that he knows me so well. Rowan understands what’s important to me. I’ve been with enough self-absorbed guys who didn’t ask one thing about me. Some couldn’t even be bothered to discover what position I play on the field. They talk about themselves ad nauseam and barely ask any questions. They don’t care about my thoughts or feelings. Sometimes, I