Promise Me

“I think I’d better give this some attention, too.” Her fingers dance over the tip. “Maybe one little kiss?”

I grab my pounding erection with one fist and manhandle it down until the tip points directly at her evil, cock-teasing mouth. “Yes, please.”

She does. Another of those tiny, chaste, annihilating kisses, and for a haphazard second I don’t know if I’m going to groan until my lungs deflate, pass out, or come. Possibly all three.

“I think it’s going to need more TLC, Vaughn.” That’s all the warning I get before she closes those lush lips around me and takes me deep. In seconds my legs burn like I’ve run an ultra marathon, but it’s the strain of standing still that slowly wrecks me. My muscles are receiving rapid-fire messages from some primitive part of my brain, commanding my hip flexors to move. But I can’t. I have to be a gentleman.

Do not fuck her mouth.

Do not.

Fuuuucck.

I can’t stop myself from looking down, watching my cock disappear between damp lips a shade darker now that they’ve been roughed up from the friction of working me over. I don’t remember letting go of the wall, but suddenly my fingers are sinking into the wet silk of her hair.

She makes an eager noise and follows the subtle pressure on her scalp that I didn’t even mean to assert. She takes me deeper.

“Kendall…”

A little deeper.

“Kendall, baby, don’t…

Deeper still, and then suddenly, she’s not taking anymore, she’s receiving. I’m giving. Glutes thrusting, hips rocking, head of my cock invading and retreating from the soft haven at the back of her throat while I hold her head just where I need it. Through the haze of an impending orgasm I look down and see her, beautiful and somehow…proud…knowing she owns this moment. She owns me. Then she closes her eyes, tips her head back one crucial degree, and swallows. I watch her throat work, and I’m lost. I come in a shuddering, groaning torrent. I come in her throat. Her mouth. On her tongue. When I finally realize what an impolite load I’m spending, I try to withdraw, afraid she’ll never volunteer the privilege of her mouth again, but she clamps her hands on my ass and nuzzles closer like she craves every last drop.

I hope to God she does, because I’m too far gone to do anything but give it to her. Seconds, hours…potentially days later I watch my wrung-out dick slide from her lips. She runs the tip of her finger along the corner of her mouth, and then looks up at me. There is no mistaking the triumph in her smile. “Say, ‘You’re the best neighbor ever, Kendall.’”

I drop to my knees and pull her into a soggy embrace. “Best neighbor ever.” My surrender comes out bouncy with laughter. “You win. You win all the things.”

“I feel like a winner,” she whispers, and runs her fingers through my wet hair.

I pull her face close for a kiss. “That makes two of us.”

…

Ever have those rare and mysterious spans of time where every pitch life throws in your direction, you knock that fucker right out of the park? Players call it a streak, and some do crazy shit to keep it going—don’t shave, don’t cut their hair, tap the bat against the sole of the right cleat, the left cleat, and then the outside corner of home plate exactly three times before assuming the stance. Whatever it takes.

That’s my life right now. I’m on a winning streak, except I’m maintaining it effortlessly. Becca texted me she’s over “us.” Anonymous Hollywood insiders might be bashing my chances of being the next host of America Rocks, but the fan reaction has been overwhelmingly positive, and that can be a game changer in and of itself. To top it off, my dad has finally picked up on my frustrations with him and given me some much needed space. He refrained from hovering at the sidelines of an interview I did over the first part of this week, and, more importantly, he hasn’t tried to meddle in my personal life.

Which brings me to the best part of this streak—Kendall. I love spending time with her. And no, that’s not a euphemism for “banging her like a screen door in a hurricane,” as Dylan cynically suggested when our paths crossed at the house and I told him I was on my way out to hang with her. Don’t get me wrong. I love her body—the feel of her, the taste, the uncensored way she reacts to the things I do to her—but with Kendall, sex is only one facet, as opposed to the primary objective. Hell, I don’t even know if there is a primary objective. All I know is with Kendall, I feel more like myself than I have in a long time.

Public parking sucks tonight, but I finally find a spot to pull into that doesn’t require a permit. I jump out of the car and hurry down the sidewalk toward the art gallery. Thanks to a meeting that ran long, traffic, and typical south of Sunset parking challenges, I’m much later than planned.

I pass a furniture store with a window display featuring a cushiony white sofa. Innocuous as it may be, it serves as a trigger. The kind that transports me to the night I laid Kendall out on my neighbor’s wet-dream of a sofa, hitched her long legs high, and then sank into her again and again while she gasped my name, and…okay, these kinds of memories are going to get me arrested for walking a public street alone on a Wednesday evening with a depraved grin on my face and a hard-on that won’t quit.

I adjust my khakis and my thoughts, but the grin persists, because now my mind jumps to last night in my bed, when I pretended to wrestle her off me after she snuggled close and wedged her cold toes between my calves. Next, I flash to standing beside her in the kitchen early this morning, brewing coffee and making her laugh at my attempts to seduce her with a whisk I didn’t even know we had while she flipped slices of egg-drenched bread in a pan. We froze when Matt walked in all geared up for another day at the academy, took stock of us—Kendall menacing the front of my sweats with stainless steel cooking tongs while I tried to whisk my way under the T-shirt she borrowed. “There goes my appetite,” he muttered, before he walked out. We laughed so hard we had to hold each other up.

I can feel a residual smile curving my lips as I turn onto a side street and search for Art In Progress. It’s not hard to find. A small crowd loiters on the sidewalk in front. I pick up my pace for no other reason than I can’t wait to see Kendall. She’s talked about this job, the kids, and this place enough for me to know she’s excited about tonight’s exhibit. And I’m excited for her. I know any job can seem shiny and bright after only a handful of days, but I wonder if she realizes she’s never sounded even a tenth as excited about getting her law degree as she has about AIP.

I keep a neutral smile in place as I walk past the mix of teens and adults gathered out front. Recognition flashes across a face or two, but this isn’t my night, and I don’t want to steal attention, so I ease through the door. There are even more people inside. It’s a decent-sized space, but nonetheless at capacity. The hum of conversation echoes in the well-lit room, along with soft background notes from a dark-haired guy playing a piano. Because I’m scanning the crowd for Kendall, it takes me a moment to notice the art. Photographs, sketches, and paintings decorate the dark-toned walls. Sculptures bask under spotlights. And then there’s the ceiling. Shades of blue and green swirl above, tinged with yellow, purple, orange, and re

d. It’s like an ocean. A sunset. A galaxy of color designed to shower inspiration down on all of us.

Duly inspired, I renew my effort to find my girl. My girl. I falter for a moment. The thought of her being mine is disconcerting. Not because I don’t want to be with her. I do. So fucking much. But I can’t promise I won’t unwittingly hurt her. Ultimately, my career is my main focus; it’s what I’ve strived for. But then I see her standing at the far end of the room, and I selfishly forget about everything but wanting her. Needing her.

She’s in conversation with a kid who looks about sixteen and a middle-aged woman with similar features. Kendall’s not facing me, but as if sensing my attention she turns her head, and her gaze collides with mine. My smile expands at the same time hers fades, and for a moment I’d swear she looks at me like I just sucker-punched her, but I don’t get a chance to confirm my impression because she turns back to her conversation.

What the…?