Craft (The Gibson Boys 2)

Just like the sixteen-year-old version of myself, I’m on the precipice of falling. Whether in love or in lust or in a slight obsession, I’m not sure. I just know with absolute certainty I can’t do this again with Lance Gibson.

He’s a dead-end street. A good girl’s worst nightmare.

An unnecessary problem.

There’s so much potential beneath that sexy exterior. It’s almost possible to be tempted to give in and play his game. But I’m not just a good girl, I’m also a smart one. Smart enough to know it’s a game I’m well-versed in and one that will send me to heartbreak without passing go.

His smirk curls through my mind, like the slow, sly way the corners of his lips upturn. My back arches off the sheets, my toes digging into the mattress as I relive his touch.

My palm drags over my chest, remembering the feel of his hand on the small of my back, pulling at the towel covering my body. The air bites away at my warm skin, beading my nipples as I slip my hand between my legs. Covering the stretch of flesh connecting my thighs, a dampened heat warms my fingers.

I can’t do this every night. I can’t get myself off every twenty-four hours while pretending Lance is licking me. Touching me. Fucking me in positions I didn’t even know I could dream up.

Dipping fingertips into my soaked flesh, I release a shuddered breath. My decision is made.

I’m going to take matters into my own hands. And then I’m going to take other matters in my own hands before I’m really screwed.

Lance

Every light in my house is on. I went room to room and flipped every switch, looking for something to entertain myself. I don’t even care what it is as long as it’s distracting and fully consuming.

And not Mariah.

Falling spectacularly onto the guest room bed makes the springs squeak under my weight. This doesn’t help my current predicament. With every move I make, it sounds like a precursor to a good fuck and that makes my cock hurt worse.

“Damn it,” I growl out loud.

Hands over my face to block out the light I just turned on, my foot bounces on the floor. It’s a habit I’ve had since I was a kid and one I’m constantly on my students about. Sit still. Stop moving.

But I can’t.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I don’t take it out. It’s a reminder that I didn’t check the message on my dating app. The one from Nerdy Nurse.

“You should log in and find someone to fuck, you asshole,” I say to myself. “That would solve this stupid little fascination you have with Mariah.”

Just saying her name makes my balls tighten.

Cringing, I unbutton my pants and try to relieve some pressure. It just gives me more room to grow.

Historically speaking, getting off cures a lot of these type of ailments. Any time I think I might actually like a girl for more than her pussy, I can just come and everything is fixed. It’s almost magic. Like my jizz is some kind of anti-ship medication, proven to wash away any thoughts of words ending with those four letters.

The problem is this: I’ve already jacked off once since I got home. Thinking about Mariah’s round ass and swollen lips only made it worse. It’s like my cock is mad at me. Like it knew it wasn’t the real thing and now feels cheated.

Sighing, I get off the bed and roll my eyes at the squeak. Even the bed is taunting me.

My phone is heavy in my pocket and I take it out. The notification is on the front screen from Nerdy Nurse. I almost open it. Almost.

I stall. I get a drink. I place my phone on the fucking counter and purposefully walk into the other room like it’s a barrel of feelings I’m trying to avoid because God knows I avoid those. But it’s not. It’s a phone. A message from a woman I’ve been happily trading messages with for what feels like a long time.

Peeking around the corner, it sits right where I left it beside the coffee pot. I kind of hoped it would just vanish.

“Get your shit together,” I warn myself. Like a man on a mission, I march into the grey and blue kitchen and pick it up. Then I open it and call the only person I know to call. It rings four times before she picks up.

“Hello?” she asks.

“Hey, Blaire.”

“Preface this conversation by telling me if anyone is in jail.”

“No,” I laugh. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” she sighs. “It’s Saturday night. You’re calling late. The last time I talked to you, you were giving me a dissertation on dating apps. Machlan called a little while ago and he and Peck were going at it before the call was ended.”