Page 96 of The True Garza

“See?” He switches off the engine. “We survived.”

Undoing my seatbelt, I ask, “Do you have a handkerchief?”

“For what?”

“To cover my face. You know, so I can stop being a ‘hot topic’ in your family group chat.”

“No, I don’t.” He opens the door and gets out. “And they’d still know it’s you.”

“How? Oh… my hair?” I reach up and touch my curls. “Go in first then and bring me back a hoodie.”

“Stop being ridiculous.” He shuts the door, then comes around to my side and opens mine. “Come on.”

“Let’s go to my place instead. Brook won’t mind.”

“No.”

“You didn’t even ask before bringing me here,” I snap. “I don’t wanna be the goddamn topic of conversation in your group just because we’re hooking up. It makes me uncomfortable.”

“Fucking Tripp,” he mutters under his breath. “People talk about people, London. Whether you know they’re talking or not.”

With that, he reaches in and scoops me out like I’m a weightless doll, leaving me no choice but to lock my arms around his neck. He shuts the door with his knee, then carries me to the house.

At the front door, it takes him a minute to awkwardly key it open—since he refuses to put me down—and cross the threshold with me like I’m a new bride.

Only when we’re in the living room does he set me down. On the couch, on my back, my dress bunched up at my hips as his brawny broadness pries my thighs apart. One at a time, he removes my shoes.

“You have the sexiest fucking legs,” he muses, dragging the tips of his fingers along the length of my legs, my inner thighs. He’s transfixed on them, as if fascinated.

There’s an unmissable scar on my left thigh that I got from a high-speed-car-chase accident during my time in Germany. There are also several other small, faded scars sprinkled across my knees from my rough-romping childhood days as a tomboy. So, I’mcertainhe’s seen better legs than mine, but I’ll take the compliment.

I just wish he would hurry it along, because I’m as hungry and eager as the straining bulge behind his zipper. I want it inside me. Right now. I haven’t had an orgasm since the last time I was here. My fingers just don’t do the job anymore.

Tired of him giving all his attention to my legs, I reach for his belt and begin to free the thing stifling behind his denims.

“Someone’s a little eager,” he mumbles through a light chuckle. “Can’t a man play with his woman first?”

“No.”

I free his cock, giving it room to breathe and stretch. My breath quickens at the sight of it. Thick, venous, curved,ready.

“You need to finish what you started two weeks ago,” I tell him.

On that note, he locks one arm around me and, in one smooth flow, repositions us so he’s seated on the couch and I’m astride him. “Take it, then.”

No need to tell me twice. I lift my dress up and off. Between us, his cock stands strong and proud. It knows its strength, its power, its prowess.

I cup it with both hands, stroking up and down, enjoying its heat and girth.

“What’d I tell you about playing with my cock?” True hisses out.

“Fuck off. You’re not a part of this.” I squeeze the base, eliciting a groan from him. “We’re having a private moment here. Butt out.”

I stroke until the head is swollen red with impatience, pre-cum spilling from its slit. Still it doesn’t come close to the sopping wetness of my own slit. To prove this, I let go with one hand and pull my soaked panties aside, shift my pelvis forward and upward, then glide my slick folds along the side of his shaft, bathing it with my juices. The friction makes my clit weep with joy.

Over and over, I rub my pussy against his length, andohhow good it feels. His cocklovesit, more and more pre-cum spurting from the slit. Or is it tears of fury from my teasing it for so long?

Done messing around, I raise up to its height, a small whimper escaping me when the head pokes unerringly at my entrance. Slowly, steadily, I lower, allowing my walls to welcome him inch by inch with gripping enthusiasm.