Not About the Dishes

Over the next couple of weeks, Graham and I have a blast. We go out to eat and take in a couple movies.

The team loves it, and we’re informed that we’re playing our roles extremely well.

Ha, if only they knew we’re not playing.

This is as real as it gets, folks.

We’ve totally fallen for one another.

Though the Comets are pleased with our relationship, it seems not all of the fans are. The men don’t care one way or the other, but a lot of the women are unhappy. Not the real fans, they’re okay with us. But the newer ones who just like how Graham looks hate that I’m in the picture.

I blame the team for the way they’ve been marketing Graham, building him up as some kind of a sex symbol for the female fan base. Graham’s been featured on even more hot magazine covers. There was even a spread recently with a photo of him naked.

Thank God, it was only from the back, showcasing his hard, hot ass.

Even I haven’t seen that view yet. At least, not in person. Though I fully intend to remedy that.

I feel like we’ve taken things slowly and cautiously up to this point, just like I requested. Graham never presses; he’s respected my wishes from day one.

But I’m ready to move to the next level.

Since we live together, we’ve become exceptionally close. I feel like I know him quite well, his good points and his flaws.

I just freaking know him, okay?

God, that makes me smile.

And I have to laugh too. Just like Graham assured me in the beginning, he never uses all the hot water. I can’t tell if that’s due to him taking fairly quick showers, or if it’s because we have a really large hot water tank.

Not that it matters.

I’ve also learned that Graham’s pretty neat and clean, except in one area. Just like he warned me, he leaves a lot of dirty dishes lying around.

That’s why, one evening, when I walk into the living room and find Graham sprawled out on the sofa eating a big bowl of ice cream, I just have to give him a hard time.

“Hey,” I begin, “I hope you’re planning on taking that bowl and putting it in the dishwasher once you’re done.”

Glancing over at me, a playful glint in his eyes, he drawls, “Hmm, I’ll think about it.”

I place my hands on my hips and glare over at him. “I’m serious, Graham. I’m tired of cleaning up after you.”

I have to admit I’m actually a little irate, though it’s not really directed at him. It’s just that I’m so freaking tired of not being able to touch him everywhere.

“Ah, babe, don’t get mad at me,” he says. “Maybe I can make it up to you beforehand?”

Oh, he has my interest now.

“Beforehand?”

“Yes.” He nods. “Why don’t you come over here and I’ll show you what I mean.”

Graham is wearing gray sweats and a tight white tee that clings to his hard pecs and abs.

Ugh, it’s been so damn hard lately. We haven’t moved beyond making out, and I think, as a result, we’re both feeling sexually frustrated.

That’s why I don’t hesitate to go to him.

When I walk over, he puts his hands on me, just like I hoped he would.

I murmur, “Go ahead. Make it up to me beforehand, Graham.”

“You got it, babe.”

Swiftly, he pulls me down on top of him and we stretch out on the sofa.

Cupping my jean-clad ass and shifting beneath me, he murmurs, “This isn’t really about dishes, is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your irritation with me, I have a feeling it’s due to something else.”

Playing coy, I ask, “Like what?”

“I think you know.” He lowers his hands, his fingers splaying dangerously close to where I want him so badly.

I let out a tiny gasp and lower my mouth to his.

“I do know,” I confess against his lips. “And you’re right. I need more.”

“I do too. But I want you to know if we move forward we don’t have to do everything.”

This man, he’s too perfect.

“You really are too good to be true,” I murmur.

“Not actually,” he warns. “The things I’m thinking about doing to you right now are far from good. Some may even call them very, very bad.”

“Oooh,” I rasp. “I think you should definitely do them all to me, especially the bad.”

The man doesn’t need to hear another word. He undoes my zipper and yanks my jeans down my legs, sliding his hand into my panties.

“Unh, Graham…”

Caressing, circling, he works me like a finely tuned instrument.

Damn, this man is good.

“Yes,” I hiss.

His free hand moves up my filmy blouse. Slowly, he takes care of each button, but leaves my shirt on when he reaches inside to unclasp my bra.

We’re frantic as our mouths find each other once more.

While Graham kisses me, hard this time, he works my clit.

Excited and already close to release, I grab and claw at the hem of his tee.

“Off,” I demand.

Chuckling, Graham leans up and yanks the damn thing over his head. And then his mouth is back on me, but not just on my lips. He deposits a flurry of kisses down my neck, stopping to lick my collarbone. He then continues his descent, until he finally, finally sucks one hard, erect nipple into his hot mouth.

“Yes,” I cry out.

Graham pumps his fingers into me while working my breasts, one and then the other.

When he begins to grind up into me, I pant, “You’re so damn hard.”

“For you,” he says. “You make me like this. You make me fucking crazy.”

I can’t wait another minute to finally feel him bare. So shoving my hand down the front of his sweats—God, yes—I grasp Graham Tettersaw’s fucking huge-ass cock.

I stroke him up and down, and he groans as he moves with me.

“That feels so fucking good, Eden.”

He pumps into my hand, never letting up on what he’s doing to me. This man really is multitalented.

In the fog of impending release, the rest of our clothes are lost, leaving me under him and us bared to each other.

“Come for me,” he rasps, his fingers pumping faster and faster.

“No, I want to come when you do,” I counter, stroking him hard.

Lowering his forehead to mine, he murmurs, “That’s going to happen real soon if you keep up like that.”

“Good, ’cause I’m about to…aah…aah…Graham…”

I shatter around his fingers, but I don’t let up on him. I continue squeezing and stroking until I feel him explode.

“Fuck, Eden…”

A minute passes, and then he says, “Shit, I guess we better clean that up, huh?”

I look down to see Graham has left a mess on my stomach. I don’t care. In my post-orgasmic haze, nothing could bother me.

I tell him as much, but he insists on cleaning me up with his discarded tee.

Afterward, as he tosses the garment aside, he says, “Does this mean I can leave my ice cream bowl in here and you’ll be cool with that?”

I laugh. “Hmm, was that your dastardly plan all along when you said you’d make it up to me beforehand?”

“It was something along those lines,” he admits.

Pulling him down to me, I say, “Well, it totally worked.”