I DON’T KNOW EXACTLY WHAT I’m doing with Poppy, but I know doing nothing isn’t enough anymore. The day after the gym, Poppy tells me she’s going to her parents’ house instead of Dad’s for our regular Sunday dinner, which I completely understand. They’ve missed her, too, and I get to come home to her every night.
Come home to her every night? Christ, Booker. Get a grip.
What I don’t expect is the disappointment I feel when she texts me to say she’s going to spend the night. I’m telling myself it has nothing to do with me, she’s just catching up with her family. But there’s an ominous fear in the back of my mind that she might be trying to avoid me again.
After a typical Sunday night dinner at Dad’s, my space in my flat feels empty. Poppy’s room is dark. The kitchen backsplash light is off. I leave it on for her every night so she doesn’t get creeped out walking to the loo in the dark. Years of disturbing Grimm’s Fairy Tales perpetuating her fear. I can’t help but feel disappointed by how quiet it is. It’s crazy how even with all the tension and awkward moments that have come and gone between us, I still want her here, no matter what.
I miss her.
Poppy is easy to miss.
Draped on my back on top of my big bed, my thoughts drift to her at the gym yesterday. I replay everything in my mind, wondering if I pushed too hard or too fast. Eye-fucking her probably wasn’t the best idea, but I couldn’t help it. The sheer cutouts on the sides of her leggings went all the way to her waistband, and I never saw a knicker line.
Fuck me.
That was a very different-looking Poppy. Not that she hasn’t always looked great. But when someone returns after six years looking like that, you can’t help but ogle. Her glutes never had that bounce. Her waist was never that defined. Her muscular thighs…Fuck me if I didn’t picture them wrapped tightly around my hips as I drive balls deep into her.
Fuuuck. That night we had together feels like a lifetime ago. And I was merely inches away from slipping inside of her.
Working out with her yesterday was a bad idea. It just made me horny. Hornier than I’ve felt since I was a teenager.
My hand drifts down to my balls. I groan at the aching of my stiff shaft that shoots up just from thinking about her. I don’t even need to see a picture of her to remember those large lush breasts pushing together as she did lat pulls.
I rub my cock through my shorts, flexing my fingers and hating that this need is so strong that I have to touch myself. Why can’t I just go fuck someone else to get my mind off of Poppy? I’m not as man-whorish as Cam and Tan used to be, but I’ve gone out enough in London that I have plenty of phone numbers I can call. “Harris Hoes” is what Belle calls them.
The truth is, I’ve been tired of that game for a while and I don’t want a Harris Ho.
I want Poppy.
I picture her here with me as I add pressure to my grip. A flash of her graceful neck on full display because of her short hair has me licking my lips, wishing I could taste the spot just below her ear.
Groaning, I slide my hand into my boxers and squeeze myself with my rough hands. Keeper’s hands. I might wear gloves, but my palms take a beating.
My hard-on grows with every stroke. My grunts become louder, holding nothing back after three weeks of sexual oppression. Three weeks of denying what I want so fucking bad. I picture Poppy sprawled out naked on my sofa, that fucking nipple ring shining at me like a lighthouse calling in a ship. Her large green eyes blinking up at me like she’s waited her whole life to feel me push inside of her.
“Fuck yes, Poppy.” I husk out her name and, bloody hell, it feels good. It creates a frenzy of need in my lower stomach and spurs my climax to the very tip of my shaft. “God, fuck, Poppy. Yes!”
Repeating her name like a chant has me blowing like a fucking teenager all over my hand and boxers within minutes. Pathetic. I reach over and grab some tissues, wiping away the mess that I so carelessly blew all over myself. This is what the woman does to me.
Now I need a shower. And hell, maybe round two because I’m still semi hard.
After depositing the tissues in the trash, I rise from my bed and open my door, shocked to see the backsplash light on in the kitchen. Did I turn that on and not realise it?
I swerve my gaze to the left down the hallway. My heart explodes in my chest when I see the dim yellow light peeking out from under Poppy’s pocket door.
“Fuck me” I whisper. “She’s home.”
Oh my fucking God, oh my fucking God, oh my fucking God! I heave in big gulps of air as I stand out on the small balcony outside my room. Thank goodness fresh air exists for moments just like this. Moments when you overhear your best friend masturbating to your fucking name!
Unless he has a girl in his room who also has the name Poppy?
I scoff out loud. No, not likely.
I had planned to stay with my parents for the night to get in some good family time. However, Dad got called in for a vet emergency—some dog swallowed a pushpin—and Mum thought she should go with him. So they called me a cab and I dragged my arse back to Shoreditch.
To my flat.
That I share with my best friend.
Who apparently thinks of me while he masturbates.
What the fuck this all means, I have absolutely no idea. What I do know is that I paused in the hallway for much longer than was appropriate. Like a pervert, I stood there—my ear brushing the wood frame of his door—long enough to hear his happy ending. I cringe, a deep, hot flush of embarrassment running up my neck to my cheeks. But with that sensation, a pebbling happens over my nipples. I cup my treasonous breasts and my finger accidently catches on my nipple ring.
God, that feels good.
Not as good as Booker’s hands and mouth felt, but it feels similar. Like if I close my eyes and tease it a little, I can imagine—
Jesus Christ, Poppy! What the bloody hell are you doing?
Was I actually going to start masturbating to thoughts of Booker? Tit for tat? The tingling sensation between my thighs is like a hot bolt of electricity pointing to YES! Good God, what is wrong with me? Living with Booker was so much easier when he was consumed by football and travelling. Now that he’s here, he’s everywhere! I can even smell him on my shirt.
And God, it smells good. How does he smell so good?
This is madness. I need to get control of this situation. I need to remember what Booker did all those years ago. I need to remember that if he didn’t see me romantically before, he won’t now. He had a lifetime to develop feelings for me—real, genuine feelings—and he didn’t.
I’ll take a cold shower and put these raging hormones to bed. Without a happy ending. I simply need to keep being myself and let Booker Harris do whatever it is he needs to do.
There. Blocked that shot from a mile.