She didn’t pay us any attention, just turned and strode to my bedroom. We had a second to see the full swells of her tits beneath a red satin bra before she turned away. The view of her back half made me stifle a groan. She was short, but she wasn’t skinny, thank fuck. She had some meat on her bones, soft and ample curves to grip while fucking her into forgetting her own name.
She still had on her scrub pants and sneakers, neither of which were the least bit sexy, but her waist was narrow, her hips broad beneath the utilitarian fabric.
“What the fuck is she wearing?” Hardin asked, adjusting himself in his jeans as we watched her disappear into my room.
That bra was a weapon, ruthless and lethal to any man who saw it. It was the kind that only went halfway up, creating lush swells that made grown men come
in their pants. Her nipples were hidden, but if she took a deep breath or decided to go for a jog, they’d pop free. The shiny fabric caught the light and shimmered. And red.
Fucking red.
“Think the panties match?”
I licked my lips. “With her? Of course they do.”
He grunted. “We can’t fuck her.”
Fate was cruel, for we could see what we couldn’t touch? What we couldn’t lick, suck, kiss, fuck. And in satin? I’d be rubbing one out to the vision of her tits for the rest of my life. And we hadn’t even gotten her bare. If she took off her pants, I’d come in mine like a teenager seeing for the first time a girl in just her underwear.
“Not tonight.”
“But I’m not standing here.” With that, he strode toward my room.
I was smart enough to follow.
She’d climbed onto my bed and knelt at the edge. The satin bra was a sexy contrast to the utilitarian scrub pants. In the soft light of my room, her skin was pale, creamy and perfect. Those tits luscious and full.
I swore, then stepped up so Hardin and I stood side by side in front of her.
“Kiss me,” she murmured, her hand grabbing hold of my shirt and pulling me down. I wasn’t going to deny her.
She was clumsy and sweet, wild and full of passion, yet completely naive about kissing.
It was the hottest fucking thing in the whole world. My dick wanted to keep kissing her, to cup one of her breasts, test the weight, play with the nipple, see if it was sensitive.
But no. No.
I pulled back and she pouted. She fucking pouted.
“What about me?” Hardin asked.
She relinquished her hold on me and grabbed the tail of his flannel shirt. No way could she move him, but he lowered his head, ready for a kiss of his own.
Watching them kiss was just as hot as doing it myself. I could see how her back arched toward him, how her fingers gripped tighter. How her tongue came out, tangled with his.
Hardin lasted about as long as me and then he stepped back. Pressed his hand to his dick through his jeans.
“Why’d you stop?” she asked.
“You’re drunk, sweetheart. We’re not touching you like this.”
“You just did. You kissed me.”
“And that’s all we’re doing,” I countered, the words not only for her but for me and Hardin, too. A spoken reminder that we weren’t doing anything tonight.
Her hands went to her breasts, cupped them. They overflowed her palms, the upper curve of one nipple peeking out.
Fuck. Me.