She smiles. “I like seeing you happy—but you know you’re going to have to tell your dad eventually.”
“I know,” I groan. “But you know how he is. He warned the guys to stay away from me. Like I’m some possession to be wielded or something,” I whine.
She gives me a motherly look. “He’s your dad. In his eyes no one is ever going to be good enough for you. But this is your life, your choices, own them, sweetie. Tell him he can’t control you—because he can’t. If this is the man you want to be with, the one you love, be honest with him.”
“I will, but not yet.”
She pats my hand. “Do it soon.”
It’s as much a warning as it is a request.
“I will.”
28
Hollis
Cannon drops us back off at Mia’s place after the fantastic Thanksgiving dinner we had. Mia’s mom can cook like a goddess, that’s for sure. It was also fun playing with Mia, even if I ended up being tortured in the process. Trying to hide my hard-on in front of her dad was not my idea of a good time.
I follow Mia up the stairs to her apartment, my hands on her hips and one thing on my mind.
She unlocks the door and I urge her inside kicking the door closed behind us.
Before I can kiss her she puts her hands on my chest and gives me a shove.
She drops to her knees, tearing at my belt buckle like a mad woman.
“Oh fuck,” I say as she starts on the button and slides the zipper down.
Seeing her like this, wild, desperate, on edge … it nearly undoes me.
“Take your shirt off,” she commands, fisting my cock in her hand.
She strokes it up and down.
“Shirt,” she says again.
I tear at the buttons, getting them undone as quickly as possible.
As I toss the shirt aside she finally, blessedly, wraps her mouth around me.
I throw my head back, saying a silent prayer.
I look back down at her, her thick dark lashes fanning her smooth pale cheeks. “You’re so fucking sexy,” I tell her, and I mean it too.
I think she’s the sexiest girl I’ve ever met, and she doesn’t even know it. She doesn’t have to try to be attractive or get all dolled up, she already is. I’m drawn to her, her essence, her very being.
I put my hand in her hair, guiding her, and she gives me a
look that says I better let go.
I lift my hands. “Sorry,” I mutter and it’s a throaty choked sound.
She releases me and tugs at my jeans and boxer-briefs. She slides them down and I step out of them, kicking off my shoes and socks in the process.
“You’re wearing too much,” I tell her.
“Shut up.”