fails to recognize is she has since day one. Her readiness is in the flushing of her skin, in the way the tip of her tongue teases me, the way she rolls her hips against my groin.
Decision made, she lifts her arms in surrender. “Satisfy yourself, Coop.”
Holy shit, this girl slays me with her consent.
Grasping her wrists, I draw her arms around my back and descend upon her mouth, giving her lips one lick. “I’m gonna need you to come up with a different nickname than the one my best friends use,” I say, between chaste kisses.
Her mouth works with mine, enjoying the discovery of individual preferences rather than opening wide. Each time her lips land on top, I withdraw and re-engage, fighting for the upper hand by coaxing her into my mouth, and each time I tilt left, she nudges me to the right.
Laughter expands my chest as she works for control. Awe, honey, you’ve got another thing coming. I haul her arms above her head and secure them while grabbing her hip and nudging her with my free hand. “Spin,” I say.
She follows my order, and I slap her hands on the bag and maneuver her by the hip until her spine is a perfectly dipped arch, and her ass is beautifully aligned with my dick.
“Oh, damn.” She hisses, her bold gaze catching mine over her shoulder. “So, I can give you a new nickname?” She bats her lashes and deepens her arch until she’s sandwiched my needy dick between the cheeks of her ass. “One of my very own?”
“Stay like that.” I pinch her hip and release her.
“Yes, sir, Fifty.” She giggles. “Are you getting the rope?”
“No, Little Aggie, you can’t call me, Fifty.” The humor she stokes with her little jibes burns to lust when my hands slip beneath the hem of her tank top. “Though a rope sounds fun. We’ll save that for another time.”
Spreading my fingers on either side of her spine, I push her top up her back at a slow, torturous pace. Exposing inch by perfect inch of her smooth flesh and reveling in the ability to touch her. She dips her spine, creating a lovely slope for my thumbs to trace. Her chin drops to her chest with a quick inhale when my fingertips meet her ribs. Her ability to flash cocky gazes and tell jokes gone. When I reach her nude bra, I let my thumbs rest on the clasp for a beat to test what she’ll do. She makes no move to stop me. I check over my shoulder out the open door of the shed. I have neighbors, teenage guys who show up to work out or chat if they spot me in the makeshift gym. Playing it safe, I bypass her bra, bunching her shirt up to her neck.
“This,” I say, my voice reverent as I run an index finger from top to bottom. “I’ve wanted to do this—touch you, taste you—since you strolled up to me with nothing but the little crisscrossing straps of your sports bra covering your back.”
I bend over her, my lips whispering across the faint tan lines left by said straps, and goosebumps pepper her skin. I’m dominating her, one hand holding the base of her neck and the other sliding around her waist and supporting her body, my fingers splayed beneath her breastbone. My palm is a front-row witness to the steady hammering of her heart and shallow breaths. I explore, my mouth landing at the dimples in her back before the flat of my tongue runs up her spine, fully committed to devouring every inch of her. She tastes of ocean air, like salt and sunshine and freedom.
And, damn, my brain is fucked because I make no sense. “I may be obsessed with you.”
Her hands slip on the bag and she braces herself, standing tall without removing them. “Yeah?” She cranes her neck, pinning me with heat-filled eyes.
Her body withdraws from mine when she straightens, and I shift and close the space. My bare chest pressing against her, the taste of her skin lingering on my tongue. “Most definitely a distinct possibility,” I admit, my teeth grazing her shoulder.
“There’s a distinct possibility I may be obsessed with you too.” Her words are broken by little pants as I tease the underside of her breast, my finger working its way beneath the band of her bra.
Letting go of the shirt I hold bunched at her neck, I grab the back of