Craft (The Gibson Boys 2)

“So,” Chrissy says, hands clasped together, “how long have you two been together?”

“Oh,” Mariah says in surprise. “Um, well, we …” She grips my thigh as if jostling me to help.

“We’ve known each other a while,” I explain. “A couple of years, actually.”

“That’s great. You look very happy,” Chrissy coos.

“We are,” I reply, trying to smoothen my features. “I feel like I’m constantly finding new layers to her I didn’t know existed.”

Mariah’s nails bite into my thigh as she scoots herself closer to me. “How sweet,” she says. Her arched eyebrow is nothing less than a coded go fuck yourself. It’s all I can do to not laugh.

“You’re sweet,” I wink, watching the arched brow go higher. “Then you’re …” The words fall as her hand rests on the crotch of my pants. It’s like she’s hit the mute button and I suddenly can’t speak. Every bit of focus is now directed to the spot where her palm sits heavily on my dick. “You’re full of surprises.”

Pressing my palm on top of hers, I wait for her to pull back. She doesn’t. Suppressing a growl, my insides rioting with all they have, I work her hand harder against me. My cock is so swollen there’s no way I could stand up right now.

Mariah, on the other hand, just looks at her sister with the most subdued look on her face. “We are. Just having fun.” She turns to me sweetly, as she inches her fingers even closer to my shaft. “Are you having fun today, Lance?”

Chuckling to cover the burn in my throat, I swallow. “Absolutely.” Lifting my hand from hers, I scoot it onto her lap. I work her dress into a ball. “I think you’re a barrel of fun.”

As soon as my skin touches the silkiness of her bare thigh, the hand that was touching me goes to her throat. A small laugh escapes as she responds to something her sister says, but she doesn’t look at me.

I turn in my seat, angled towards her, and toss a few words back at Eric to keep him talking. Moving my fingers towards her inner thigh, I let the weight of each fingertip rest against her before moving the next. Each touch dries my mouth, tangles my gut, and sends my heartbeat soaring in my ears.

She’s soft and smooth. The muscles in her legs tighten as she spreads them, moving one in my direction, opening herself up for me, making my blood turn to fire.

“Yeah, not much of a hockey fan,” I tell Eric when I realize he’s waiting for a response. He’s satisfied with this and goes back to whatever he’s watching on his phone.

Chrissy is telling us about Betsy’s last doctor’s appointment, lost in the flow of a story that is sure to take a while. Mariah watches her with what would seem to anyone to be rapt attention—anyone but me. I know her better than that.

The heat from her pussy reaches my hand as I move my fingers forward. I cup the inside of her thigh just inches from her panties. She steadies her features but doesn’t flinch.

Studying the side of her face, my skin suddenly not big enough to contain everything trying to spill out of me, I lift one finger. With my palm pressed into the top of her leg, I creep one digit towards the apex of her thighs.

Her breathing shakes as she pulls in lungful after lungful of air. My chest matches hers move for move.

Her skin is damp from the heated desire nestled between her legs. The edge of her panties form a distinct line around the curve of her hip to a sweet spot beneath her. I fix my gaze on the pout of her lips and try to remember that there are other people here.

“Eric,” she says, “how is your mother?”

My laugh is covered by a cough as I drag the edge of my finger beneath the lace covering her slit. It’s wet even there, the dampness creating an all-too-easy path along the side of her pussy.

She laughs again, this time with a tremble. Her body flexes forward as if she’s craving the contact as badly as I am. There’s no way that’s true. I’ve wanted this woman for as many days as I’ve known her.

Betsy’s cries from the other room pulling her parents’ attention elsewhere. Mariah sags back in her chair, a move that just gives me more access. As our lunch partners murmur amongst themselves, I slip my finger to the edge of her opening.

Her cheeks burn red. She reaches for a glass of water as I shift in my seat, the tightening in my balls so fierce I cringe. She’s so wet that her juices trickle down my finger, so hot the moisture from her body dampens my hand.