“Okay,” I give. “I mean, I need to check with Grams first. I already got the weekend off. The show is Saturday. We’d have to leave after my shift Friday.”
I know my mom would be more than okay with me taking off to a hotel with a boy for the weekend. Grams will be a bit more hesitant, and I respect whatever she’ll have to say. I already know it will likely be fine with her, but she’ll have a few words with me first. We are eighteen.
“We can leave whenever you want. You talk to your grams and then I’ll arrange everything.” I don’t know how I got like this with Booker, but I’m not complaining. The idea of going on a real date never seemed appealing to me before. But Booker has changed that for me. Butterflies fill my stomach thinking about us staying overnight together.
“Will you be getting two separate beds or one bed?” I ask. He sits up, pulling my notepad out of my lap, gently placing it on his nightstand.
“I’ll never push you for more than you want to give me. When it comes to sex,” he corrects himself. “But cuddling will be happening.”
“Cuddling.” I snort a laugh. I find myself leaning into him. “I don’t know if I’m a cuddler. I’ve always slept alone.”
“I’ve always slept alone too, but I know I’m going to cuddle the fuck out of you.” He grabs me, pulling me into his lap so that I’m straddling him. My heart starts to race.
“Booker?” I lick my lips.
“Yeah, baby?” He raises his hand to brush some of my hair off my shoulder.
“Will you kiss me—” His mouth cuts off my words, coming down onto mine.
I melt into him as he locks his lips with mine. His tongue comes out, licking across the seam of my mouth, asking for permission. I answer him by parting my lips.
He groans against me as I press my body into his. My breathing is heavy, and my sex grows slick. I gasp when I shift against him, his hard cock pressing against my clit. I can’t stop myself from rocking my hips back and forth, stealing the friction I desperately need. His mouth breaks from mine.
“Baby.” Booker grips my hips. “I’m going to make you come.”
“Yes.” I dig my fingers into his shoulder as he takes over, his hand pulling me back and forth across his cock. “Booker. Yes, please.” Words spill from my lips, the orgasm building quickly. It’s long overdue.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he says against my neck as he licks and sucks at me there. He moves me faster. My panties are so wet they start to stick to me. “Let me see you come. Come for me, baby.” He thrusts his cock up hard, hitting my clit perfectly.
I go off, coming for him. Booker groans my name. His whole body goes hard as he jerks against me. He continues hitting my clit again and again, drawing out my pleasure until I collapse onto him, burying my face in his neck.
“Now I understand the whole coming in your pants like a teenage boy thing.” I giggle against his neck, never wanting to move. My whole body feels warm and fuzzy.
“We could have been doing this for years,” I whisper against him.
“I guess we have a lot of making up to do then.” His cock jerks against me, drawing out a moan.
“I suppose we do.” I kiss his neck before I nip him. He shifts. In a heartbeat I’m under him, and he’s kissing me again, showing me a Booker I never knew existed.
I may not have known, but now that I do, I’m going to enjoy learning every inch of him.
Chapter Eleven
Booker
“This one is really good. I’m jealous.” Carrie points to a painting that appears to be one big brush stroke of red with black on the bottom. We’ve been touring all the art that will be on display tomorrow before going to the hotel. The painting that Carrie is admiring looks like a mistake, as if someone was painting something else and accidentally swiped their painting tool across a nearby canvas. It’s the third piece of art that Carrie has said is better than hers.
“It’s not as good as yours,” I say.
“But the color. It’s so vibrant. I need to work on my colors more. Some painters are famous for their color mixing. The Italians for one. Renaissance art was full of color that the past periods weren’t. Doesn’t this red jump off the canvas? It feels alive to me.” She’s so enthused that I nod along, feeling dumber than a pet rock.
She continues to talk about the other artwork in the room, almost always mentioning how great it is as if hers isn’t the best thing here. We stop in front of another piece, only this time it’s a sculpture made out of iron. With its straight lines it seems simple and kind of phallic, but Carrie’s jaw drops slightly as if it is one of the most amazing things she’s ever laid eyes on. A guy steps away from the side and sticks his hand out. “Carrie Montlain, right? You did the acrylic and pencil work. Admirable stuff. Reminded me of Julie Mehretu stuff. I’m Ray Whitney.”