Page 145 of You've Got Hate Mail
Summertime spreading in my chest.
“We’re not done yet,” I tell her.
Her smile inches higher. “Good. Lose your pants. I get to play now. Soon. In a minute. When I catch my breath.”
I crawl back up beside her, and she tilts her head to kiss me.
Home, something nebulous and fleeting whispers in my head.
But I don’t dwell on it because she’s rolling to her side and reaching for the button on my jeans, making quick work of unzipping me too, then she’s pushing the denim over my hips, then shoving my boxers aside to release my cock.
She takes me in her hand and strokes.
My eyes cross.
My breath whooshes out.
And I hear it again.
You’re finally home.
25
THE BANGOVER
Cricket
My armsand legs are noodles made of jelly.
Floppy and boneless and likely to completely fall apart in a mess.
Except they still work well enough for me to explore Heath’s body.
Specifically, this unbelievable hard-on.
He’s thick and long, and he makes a guttural noise in his throat as I slide my fist up his length, lingering at his head to rub the bead of moisture at the top with my thumb.
“Is this me?” I whisper.
The lights are on.
I can fully see him.
He can fully see me.
Or he could, if his eyes were open.
But his head is arched back and he’s panting for breath as I stroke him.
“Yes,” he says on a long hiss.
I smile so big my cheeks hurt. “It’s not just evening wood?”
“Don’t—get—evening wood.”
“Do you get morning wood?”
“No. Condom. Back pocket.”
