“Shit … Darby!” His body goes rigid as I swallow every last drop of his salty essence.
My trip back up his body is just as leisurely as it was going down. Best. Trick. Fix. Ever!
He flips the cover off my head and the smile on his face … no words, just no … words.
“Good morning, Mr. Roth.” I grin, running my tongue in a seductive circle over my lips.
He shakes his head. “I think it’s time for me to return the favor.”
Rubbing my lips together, I feel the warm tingle of rosiness spread along my cheeks. “Um, yeah about that…” my nose wrinkles “…I sort of took care of that too…” I dig my teeth into my lip and shrug “…you know, since I had a free hand.”
“Jesus, Darby!” Trick squirms under me. I feel him start to come back to life. “Do you have any idea what the thought of you touching yourself with my cock in your mouth does to me?”
I kiss the corner of his mouth then sit up, wrapping the sheet around me. “I have an idea.”
“Where are you going?” I’ve never heard Trick sound anything but raw and masculine, but I detect a hint of a whine in his voice.
I laugh. “Eggs and jellied toast. I’m hungry.”
He tugs at my sheet. “But you just ate.”
Twisting my body, I free myself from his grip. “Yes, I had my morning dose of zinc, calcium, potassium, fructose, and protein, but it wasn’t very filling.”
“There’s more where that came from.”
I snort. “I’m sure there is.” Standing, I hustle into my closet and pull on a pair of pink plaid flannel lounge pants and a sweatshirt.
He slips into his jeans and tugs his shirt over his head. “I don’t think the average woman knows the nutritional composition of semen.”
Wrapping my arms around him, I slip my cold hands into his back pockets. He brushes my hair away from my face as I gaze up at him. “I’ve never been that good at average.”
He kisses me, then brushes his nose against mine. “Thank God for that.”
*
“So what’s my BFF have planned for us today?” I flip my hair up, shutting off my hair dryer.
Trick leans against the vanity, arms crossed over his bare chest. A few rivulets of water still cling to his messy post-shower hair. “You know I don’t respond to your text talk.”
I reach up on my toes and kiss the corner of his jaw. “You sure did in the shower. Every time I OMG’d, you gave me more hashtag wowza!” I bat my eyelashes at him. “Emoji winking face. Emoji face blowing a kiss.”
I think he growls, but it’s so subtle I can’t say for sure. The scowl … that I can’t miss. “If your oral skills weren’t so refined, we’d no longer be friends.”
Shoving my dryer in the bottom drawer, I laugh. “Yes, we would be.” I hop up on my vanity next to him. “So, Mr. Artistic God to the Stars, what’s my face need today?”
Trick stands, turning toward me. I don’t know if the day will ever come that I don’t feel a twinge of nerves under his expert, scrutinizing gaze. He feathers the back of his hand across my cheek bone, then brushes his thumb along my bottom lip. “You’re with me today. Your face doesn’t need anything.” He slides his hand behind my neck and presses his lips below my ear.
“It doesn’t have to be a lot. Maybe some mascara or lip gloss?”
He straightens shaking his head, then turns, sauntering out of the bathroom. “I only hide your perfection from other people. Come.”
I’m beginning to lose track of how many times he says something that feels like a defibrillator to my static heart. Trick doesn’t claim to be a gentleman, and truthfully he’s not, but when it comes to sweeping me off my feet he has the biggest fucking broom I’ve ever seen.
“Where are we going?” I brush past him to my closet as he slips on his shirt.
“My place. I want to show you something.”
“If it’s your arsenal of weapons, I don’t want to see it, but Nana might.”
He leans into my closet doorway, resting his hands on either side. “I don’t have an arsenal. I have a gun … or two.”
I glance up at him while tugging on my boots.
“Your nana’s into weaponry?”
“I don’t know if she has a machete or a grenade belt, but she has a handgun in her nightstand.”
Trick’s eyes crinkle in the corners as a smirk plays across his face.
I duck under his arm and grab my phone off the nightstand. “That’s only half of it. She and her friend, Mary, go to the shooting range every Monday.”
“That’s … awesome.” He turns.
“Awesome?” I shake my head, heading toward the stairs. “I don’t think senior citizens with arthritic hands, glaucoma, dementia, and a slew of other issues should be packing.”