Page 27 of Alexander: Alexander's Story

“Someone had to do it.” He dries his hands while turning around to face me, then leans back against the large, apron front sink. “Should we have waited till Christmas morning? Opened them even though they were addressed to someone else? Done it after Christmas? Fuck that’s depressing. I did him a favor by ripping off that bandaid.”

I arch my eyebrows, pursing my lips together, “Well, alright then.” I take my jacket to the mudroom, hanging it and the beanie I was wearing on an empty hook.

“So, where were you two love birds this morning?” Blanks asks the second I’m back in the kitchen. He immediately grabs a clean mug when he sees me turning towards the coffee maker, filling the cup for me.

“Uh, we just went for a walk.” He watches me, my movements, my face.

Passing the cup to me, he says, “You fucked, didn’t you?” It’s not crass, just matter of fact.

“No, we didn’t.” He laughs, but the chuckle has no warmth behind it.

“He turn you down, then?” My cheeks flame at the inference.

“No.” My business, and Alex’s business, is none of his. “Are-are you jealous?” I stutter out.

He leans forward, crowding my space, then does something that has my panties twisting. He fists the front of the sweater I’m wearing, the material disappearing in his massive hand, and he drags me closer to him.

“Not how you’re thinking, Angel. We’re leaving in an hour. Be ready.” He releases the fabric, and I sway backward, no longer inches from his face.

“Okay…” I whisper when he stalks out of the kitchen.

Having a sister or a best friend could be really fucking helpful right about now. Or justanyoneto talk to at all.

I’m still thinking about the gesture and confused as hell about it as I blow dry my hair post-shower, setting it back to straight.

Is he jealous of Alex spending time with me? Or me spending time with Alex? I was insinuating the latter. The closeness they share…The never-apart thing… But maybe…

No.

It’s confusing. Being here. Surrounded by them.

The hand on my leg. The fist in my sweater. His length on my tongue.Oh god, I won’t make it through the day unless I take care of this. Setting down my blow dryer, I lean against the freestanding bathtub ledge. In only my bra and underwear, I watch myself in the mirror as I slide a hand down, feeling the smooth, freshly shaven skin heat under my own touch.

I’m wishing,dying, for it to be someone else’s, though. I tip my head back when my finger pad brushes my clit, massaging. But it’s not enough. I want pressure, I want movement, I want to be fucked like I’m someone’s one and only other half.

That’s the only way I’ll take it; otherwise, it’s not worth it. I turn, straddling the edge of the tub, letting my panties pull tight between my lips, and I thrust my hips forwards, the fabric tugging at my pussy, and my inner walls contract. I rub my clit and think about him holding me down. I think about that fist inmy hair and not my sweater. I think of him slipping into my bed at night to do lewd things with me.

I rock back and forth across the tub ledge and rub my clit with a prayer:let me have someone. Give me someone, please.“I’m begging you…” I say softly to the universe.

As the heat in my pelvis grows, my inner thighs turn taut, and I rock forward once more, my chest jutting out. My nipples strain against the lace fabric of my bra, and I ride the high.

I turn to look in the mirror to watch myself come undone when his eyes meet mine.Fucking asshole.But I don’t stop riding it out, fucking myself as best I can all alone.Though not entirely alone.

With my thighs and walls clenched tight, I can feel the rush of wet heat.Fuck! Yes!!!The thrill of an audience sends me somewhere that’s eluded me before. I want to scream, but I hold it.

When I’m done, I slide my hand out of my panties and lick the pads of my fingers clean while he watches me.

Fucking eat your heart out.

Saying nothing, I swing my one leg off the side of the tub to head to the water closet.

“Five minutes, Angel,” he says to my back as I walk to the toilet. I hold up one hand in a one-finger salute as I retreat, and I hear a faint chuckle.

Sitting beside him in the car should probably be embarrassing for me, but I’m not. He should be embarrassed for not looking away.

He leans across, taking the seat belt out of my hand, and buckles me in, the gesture confusing me.

“For the record, Sweetpea, I’d never leave you begging afterward.” I turn my head to face him, and with him leaning over to slip the buckle in, his face is just millimeters from mine. Our mouths would touch if either of us so much as exhaled.