Sweet Spot

“Touch yourself,” he demands.

I reach between us, going to my clit. Booker grunts as his thrusts become harder. His cock is so deep inside me. It’s almost painful but titillating too.

“Booker.” I gasp his name.

“Give it to me.” My body locks around him as the orgasm hits me. Booker buries his face in my neck as he gives two more hard pumps, coming deep inside of me. I know I’m going to feel him all day. “Love you.” He kisses my neck. My heart flutters every time he says those words to me.

“Love you, too.” He slowly puts me back on my feet and quickly rinses off.

“I’m going to get you food.”

“I’m okay.”

“You need food. Breakfast is important.” His voice goes stern. I have to fight a laugh.

“Okay.” I give. He drops another quick kiss on my lips before leaving me in the shower. I finish washing off. When I get out, I towel dry my hair before pulling on some jean shorts and snag one of Booker’s baseball shirts. I have to tie it at the bottom or it would look like a freaking dress on me.

“Booker.” A knock sounds at the door before it slowly starts to open.

“He’s downstairs,” I rush to say, but Mr. Peters opens the door all the way. He’s in his normal suit. My face rushes with heat. He hadn’t been here when we got back here last night. Booker’s mom loves me and didn’t care that I was staying over. My mom wouldn’t care either, but I asked Grams. She told me I’m eighteen and can do what I want as long as I still handle my responsibilities.

“Carrie.” A frown shows on his face. My stomach cramps. “Sorry. I was looking for Booker.”

“He’s in the kitchen,” I tell him. He nods before shutting the door. Lovely.

What was the frown about? Having a girl over or the fact that it’s me? I know Booker’s dad has crazy expectations when it comes to his only son. Not wanting to let myself go down that path of thoughts, I slip on my sneakers and braid my damp hair.

I pause when I almost make it to the kitchen hearing Booker and his dad talking. “I’ll date whoever I want.” Oh crap. I guess I have my answer. Mr. Peters is not happy that Booker is dating me.

“Your focus should be on school. Girls are fine, but you don’t let them sleep over. They start to get ideas then.”

“Good. I want Carrie to have all the fucking ideas she can come up with when it comes to me and her.”

“You’re not thinking straight.” I take a step back, running right into Mrs. Peters.

“Don’t listen to him. He can be a big jerk sometimes,” she says loud enough for them to hear in the kitchen.

Booker steps around to see me standing there. The pissed-off look on his face fades. “Made you breakfast.” He grabs my hand, pulling me into the kitchen.

Mr. Peters actually looks a bit crestfallen. Booker guides me over to the kitchen island, pulling out my chair for me but not before he kisses me. It’s not a quick kiss either. His hand grips my hair as he presses his mouth hard against mine.

“Love you,” he says it loud enough for his parents to hear. My whole face flushes. He’s making things very clear to his father.

I want to both kick him and kiss him at the same time.

Instead I dig into the waffles he made me.

Chapter Nineteen

Booker

“Tell me about the art show,” invites my mom. “How many pieces did you show? Was it your first exhibition?”

“It was my third exhibition and I had five pieces,” answers Carrie between waffle bites.

“Third? Where were the first two? When were the first two?” I thought I knew everything about Carrie, but she’s been slipping off to art shows without me.

“You were gone at tournaments,” she explains. Her feelings aren’t hurt, but I’m still mad at myself. That said, I won’t be missing any more in the future. I’ll be glued to Carrie’s side from now until they’re shoveling dirt onto my casket.

“Did you buy any of Carrie’s paintings, Booker? I have a perfect place in the living room for one. We can take down the watercolor of the lily pond and put hers up,” Mom suggests.

I open my mouth to proclaim proudly that I bought every single one of Carrie’s paintings when Carrie says, “No. I sold out the show before he could buy a single thing.” She turns to me and beams. “I’m actually so happy you didn’t buy anything. It means that people are really resonating with my art. It wouldn’t feel the same if you were the one who bought it.”

A prick of guilt skitters down my spine. “What do you mean? I resonate with your art. Am I not a person?”