Page 8 of Don’t Go Breaking My Heart (Houston Baddies #3)

turner

. . .

T he ride home was as unbearable as the ride to the bar.

Too many drinks and way too much flirting.

Not that I regret it.

Not even a little.

But now my jeans are too tight, my brain is mush, and every time I close my eyes, I see Poppy’s lips on her cocktail glass, licking sugar off the rim like she wasn’t slowly dismantling my entire nervous system.

Jesus.

I scrub a hand over my jaw as the car turns down our street, the tension in my shoulders tight enough to snap. She’s quiet beside me—leg pressed against mine, thigh warm and soft—and I swear to god, if this car hits one more pothole and bounces us an inch closer, my dick will get hard.

I’m not drunk.

Tipsy, maybe. Loosened.

Every part of me is dialed in to the fact that she smells like vanilla and sweet liquor, and I’m one polite conversation away from saying something I’ll regret in the morning.

Such as: Can I lick your pussy?

Poppy laughs under her breath at something the driver says, and I feel it in my balls. It’s a full-body awareness and my soul is leaning in for a better look.

I chance a glance sideways.

Her head’s turned toward the window, but I can see the soft line of her jaw, the soft curve of her silky hair. I remember the way she touched me at the bar, accidental sure, but my body reacted as if shocked by a taser.

By the time we pull into our driveway, I’ve already given myself seven stern lectures and mentally signed a vow of celibacy. Doesn’t matter that she’s gorgeous. Doesn’t matter that her flirting has turned me inside out.

She’s my roommate.

Off-limits.

And she wants boundaries .

Great.

Perfect.

Easy!

Except, nothing about her is easy.

She climbs out of the Uber first, heels clicking against the concrete as she walks toward the house, slow and unhurried and a bit crooked.

I follow behind her like a shadow, watching the way her hips sway under her tight denim, ready to catch her if she stumbles.

She pauses on the porch while I punch in the door code, the warm night air charging the energy between us. Unless I’m a fucking idiot and completely reading the situation wrong.

“This was fun,” she says quietly, voice softer now, like she’s afraid to break the moment. She waits for me to push open the door to the laundry room, but I don’t move.

Instead, I turn to her.

The light bathes her in a halo of gold, catching on the curve of her cheekbones, the edge of her smile, the sweep of those lashes I’m suddenly obsessed with. She looks up at me, eyes wide, waiting.

God she’s pretty.

“You heading to bed?” I ask, because I need this moment to end before I do something stupid. Like ask her to stay up and have a glass of wine on the patio. Or worse—kiss her.

She nods, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah. Big day tomorrow—more unpacking.”

“Right.”

Another beat passes. Too long.

“Goodnight, Turner.”

I swallow. “Good night, Poppy.”

She stops outside her bedroom door. “Hey.”

I look up.

“Thanks again for the drink.”

I nod, heat flickering low in my stomach. “Anytime.”

She disappears inside, closing her door with a soft click and I stand for several seconds, exhaling through my nose.

Inside my room, I toe off my shoes, peel my shirt over my head, tossing it somewhere in the vicinity of the laundry basket. My jeans hit the floor next. I kick them off with unnecessary aggression, as if they’re to blame for this sudden, full-body need crawling beneath my skin.

I sit on the edge of the bed in my boxer briefs, elbows on knees, trying to not think about her mouth.

Her laugh.

The way her fingers had curled around my wrist when she said thank you for the drink like it wasn’t the softest, most devastating contact of my life.

It’s fine. Everything is fine.

This is normal. People flirt. People have moments. And then they go to their separate bedrooms and pretend they’re not imagining each other on the other side of the wall.

Naked.

I scrub my hands over my face and climb into bed, rolling onto my back, the sheets cool against my overheated skin.

Tomorrow, I will be more of a gentleman. Tomorrow, I’ll be less of a pervert.

Tonight, I just need…

I get comfortable against my pillows, feeling around the comforter for the TV remote, clicking on Netflix to the last documentary I’d been watching.

Close my eyes, running my hand over my stomach, down into my briefs.

I lift my hips to shove down the waistband, freeing my dick, making it easier to stroke.

Bare legs.

Pink lace.

The sway of her hips as she moved to the stove, completely unaware she was frying my brain right along with those eggs.

My chest rises. Falls.

Hand strokes, up and down my hard cock… picturing Poppy behind my closed lids but doing my best to picture someone else. Anyone else. An Only Fans model. An ex-girlfriend’s tits. Whatever celebrity.

All I see is tan, round ass.

I stroke harder, teeth biting down on my lower lip, willing my orgasm to arrive, needy, urgent.

Fuck it feels so good…

I imagine her mouth swallowing me… eyes looking up as she takes me as deep as he can.

Up, down, up, down…

I groan softly, shifting my hips.

Spreading my legs wider.

I need to get laid… My cock wants to fuck …

Imagine her above me. Riding me in nothing but that pink bra, while I lean up to suck on her rosy nipples through the fabric as she fucks me.

My tongue wets my lips, chest rising and falling…

So hard.

I play with myself, fondling my balls, pressing down on my taint the way I envision Poppy would.

I moan with pleasure when the first wave of an orgasm surges its way through my veins, starting in my toes… up my legs, causing them to shake a little.

Goddamn it feels good.

Haven’t jerked off in ages, either.

Might be time to start doing it on a more regular basis.

Eyes closed, head tilted back against the pillows, I let out a low breath as I come, jizzing in my palm. My hand slows, easing through the last remnants of release. I’m too blissed out to care about anything?—

“Oh my god!”

The voice hits me like a punch to the chest.

My eyes snap open and I meet my roommate’s startled expression, her eyes on my dick, on my face, back to my dick.

Jesus Christ …

My door slams shut so hard the walls shake.

I sit upright in bed, heart slamming against my rib cage like it’s trying to escape.

She saw.

Oh she definitely saw.

My hand drifts to the sheets—instinct, maybe—and I feel it. I’m still hard. Worse, I’m getting harder.

Jesus Christ.

Underneath that shame, curling low in my gut like smoke?

Desire.

The thought that she saw me doing something naughty—the way I’d seen her, practically naked.

Good. Give her something to dwell on, the way I’ve been fantasizing about her.

I shift against the sheets again, breath slowing. Still wired. Still pulsing. Still half-hard and nowhere near sleep. I grip my swollen dick and begin a slow, languid stroke…

I’m not some teenage boy.

I’m a grown man, and I’m not sorry.