pulling it over his head. His impatience to get undressed forces a ghost-like grin onto my mouth.
It doesn’t last long.
It vanishes when I realize he’s wearing an undershirt.
While smiling at my childish stomp of disappointment, Brandon rips off his white t-shirt like it’s made out of tissue paper before signing, “Better?”
“Much.”
While chewing on his bottom lip, hiding his smile, Brandon’s eyes roam over my body as he signs, “Your turn.”
With my eyes on the crotch of his trousers that grows bigger with every millimeter my zipper descends, I release the clasp on my skirt, then shimmy it down my thighs. Hoping to give the impression of a mafia princess with money to burn, I brought lace-top stockings and a sexy boy-leg suspender package at a lingerie store earlier today while picking my powerhouse outfit.
Well, that’s what I’m planning to tell the IRS when I claim its two-hundred-dollar price tag on my expenses this tax season.
Brandon doesn’t have a chance in hell of hiding his smile when I kick my skirt to the side while signing, “I am really hoping you have grown averse to boxer shorts the past eight years.” I know he hasn’t, but it’s fun to tease him. His flaming red cheeks were one of the first things I noticed about him.
My eyes bulge out of my head when the lowering of Brandon’s zipper gives me a tiny preview of the cropped blond curls spread across his groin. Before excitement can take hold of every sense I own, his thumb releases the waistband of his Calvin Klein boxers, snapping them back into place.
I pout like a baby. “You are no fun.”
I’m lying. I’ve seen snippets of Brandon’s playful side the past few months, but it’s never had this depth, so I’m going to relish it as long as possible. He could never be accused of being cocky, but as he stands across from me without a care in the world, there’s no denying his confidence.
Can you blame him for standing proud? His face is gorgeous, his body is divine, and his smile, although slightly crooked, is perfect. He should be strutting like a peacock. He just doesn’t know how because it was never taught to him.
I fell in love with a courageous, handsome, and lively boy when I was only a child, and I get to stand across from that same courageous, handsome, and lively man twenty-three years later.
How lucky am I?
Even if he doesn’t touch me, this moment will stay with me forever. We’re stripped, naked and raw, and completely free. It’s just us. Me and the boy who piggybacked me across a sloshy field because it didn’t matter how impossible the task, he never let me down.
Just like he doesn’t this time, either.
When the emotions teaming between us become too much to bear, Brandon’s fingers weave through my hair, his lips land on my neck, and his arm bands around my back to pull me in close to his fit body. “Tell me your triggers?”
Although I’d prefer to keep my assault out of our exchange, Dr. Avery is adamant this is a step we need to take to move our relationship past the friends’ zone. We need to be open and honest, both inside and outside of the bedroom.
As my hand drops to stroke Brandon’s cock through his boxer shorts, which I’m pleased to report is virile and thick despite the uncomfortable subject matter we’re discussing, I say, “Don’t flip me over or pin my arms behind my back.”
“Okay,” Brandon agrees softly, kissing my neck in a way that makes me want to purr like a kitten. “Anything else?”
While using the precum pooled on the tip of his cock as lubricant to quicken my strokes, I mutter, “Don’t fully shave beforehand. Keep the stubble you had when we were kids, and you were too lazy to shave. I like the roughness.” He acknowledges he heard me by dragging his stubble-covered chin across my collarbone and over the mounds of my breasts. “Yesss…” I hiss out on a moan, “… just like that.”
After tugging his boxer shorts the rest of the way down his thighs, he guides me onto the bed like he did all those months ago. Strands of blonde hair fall into his hazel eyes that are a little greener today when he commences sliding my lace-topped stockings down my quivering thighs. “Anything else?”
“One thing,” I say, breathing heavily. Can you blame me for my gasping response? The person I’ve loved for two decades is