The Woman in 3B - Eliza Lentzski Page 0,72

open mouth each time the inseam of my jeans dug into me, pressing the denim material tight against my clit.

She dropped hot, wet kisses to the side of my neck and her solid knee found its way between my jean-clad thighs. I groaned again, this time in frustration. The pencil skirts I wore as part of my work uniform were more constricting than jeans, but they at least had easier access.

She tugged at the dumb knot I’d tied at the center of my stomach to retrofit my extra-large, giveaway t-shirt until it unraveled. The way she was moving her hips and pressing her upper knee between my thighs would have me unraveling as well. The extra loose t-shirt, unlike my skinny jeans, gave her license to roam. Her hands moved beneath the excessive material as she continued to lick and suck on my exposed neck. I desperately wanted her mouth tasting more intimate areas.

She slid her palms up my stomach until they rested on the padded cups of my bra. I arched my back, thrusting my breasts into her hands. Her fingertips curled around the tops of the demi-cups and I hissed at the feeling of her warm fingers brushing against my more sensitive flesh.

I heard a quiet, constant chime coming from somewhere in my room. I paused my movements to listen to the noise. It took a moment before I recognized the sound as Anissa’s cellphone ringing in her back pocket.

She heard it, too. “That’s probably the pizza,” she mumbled into my neck.

I huffed in protest at the bad timing. I was hungry, but I really didn’t want to stop kissing her.

Anissa removed her hands from my t-shirt and fished her phone out of the back pocket of her skin-tight jeans. “Hello,” she answered the call.

I was tempted to distract her from the phone call with my mouth and hands, but I remained motionless beneath her in case the caller wasn’t actually the pizza place.

She grinned down at me, her dimples making another appearance. Her hair fell around both of our faces, hiding us as if in our own secret lair. “Yep, you found the place,” she confirmed with the caller. “I’ll be right down.”

She ended the call and peppered a quick kiss to my mouth and then the tip of my nose. “Pizza’s here,” she chirped.

She rolled off of me and bounced to her feet.

I sat up, albeit reluctantly. “How much is it?”

“Don’t worry about it.” She waved her hand. “I’ve got it.”

“It’s my apartment,” I frowned. “I should buy.”

“That’s not a real rule,” she refused. “Besides, you bought hot dogs and beer at the baseball game. That’s got to be like half of your paycheck.” She frowned suddenly. “Because stadium food is really expensive,” she clarified, in case I’d taken her words the wrong way. “Not because you don’t make money.”

“I want to pay,” I insisted. My tone was nearly a whine.

Anissa regarded her reflection in the mirror above my dresser and smoothed her hair. I’d disturbed a few of her thick curls. “Too bad,” she sing-songed. She bounced back onto the bed, long enough for a loud, wet kiss to my mouth. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

We ate the pizza in my living room straight out of the box, eschewing plates and forks or any other eating utensils. We used my coffee table as a dining table and sat on the floor. I opened a bottle of a California red blend that wasn’t too terrible, or else Anissa was too polite to make me feel insecure about my wine choice.

The pizza was delicious. I never could understand in those national debates about whose pizza was best—New York thin crust, Chicago deep dish, etc.—why Detroit was on hardly anyone’s radar. The chewy deep dish crust, thick caramelized cheese, and crispy pepperoni was like heaven. I especially liked watching Anissa eating Detroit-style pizza. She took large, enthusiastic bites, sinking her white teeth into the soft, chewy crust. Strings of whole milk mozzarella cheese hung in the balance between her closed lips and the pizza slice. She separated each piece of pepperoni from the top of her pizza square and, holding the crispy, greasy sphere between two fingers, popped it into her mouth. I’d never seen someone get so lost in a meal. Each bite was followed by a quiet murmur of pleasure that made my throat tighten and my thighs clench.

Anissa caught my stare. “What?” she questioned around a mouthful of pizza.

I discovered myself overwhelmed by