Chapter SEVEN
Scherri
I crawl into the attic room bed feeling a sulk push out my bottom lip for the first time in five years. You'd think I'd have outgrown that but, dammit if being back in the family home isn't working out well at all. The situation with Stick showing up is not what I expected and having both our parents interrupt every potentially perfect moment means I'm never going to get the happy ending I'm looking for.
I'm sure he had every intention of coming up to my room and giving me what I need. And oh my god, his body, his almost naked body was the most incredible thing I've ever seen. Stick has turned into a literal god, his shoulders wide and pumped up with virile strength, his core narrow and flat but flexing with two rows of muscular ridges and then that v shape pointing me direct to – heaven.
What would have happened if I'd never left? Would Stick and I have made it? Would we have been able to turn our friendship from best buds to something more? Because if I'd had to watch him turn into the man he's become while getting all hot for some other girl, it would have killed me. I literally could not have borne it.
I writhe around on the bed. Thinking about the small towel strapped around powerful narrow hips and get all twisted up in the sheet. My fingers keep finding their way between my thighs, stroking across my engorged sensitive little point, making me shudder with urgent need. I didn't know it but I've been waiting for Stick all these years and now that I recognize it, the craving desire has become unendurable.
I need him right now. And I'm confident he wants this as much as I do.
The clock reads two, then three. I sleep in short bursts and wake up disoriented and soaked between my thighs. One time I'm certain I hear a noise down in the hallway and my heart hurls itself into my throat. I lie still as a corpse, holding my breath while my pussy throbs with anticipation.
But then nothing happens.
Stick doesn't appear in the half gloom. Maybe I was dreaming. Maybe lust is diminishing my reason. Another time I jolt awake, certain I hear a male voice, close to me. I turn over, slowly with a decadent wriggle but again – no one is in my room. Then I hurl myself out of bed, determined to climb down one floor and slip into Stick's room. I need to know if he wants this as much as I do. I can't wait any longer or I'll expire from lack of sleep.
I press my ear against his door, my heart throbbing at the back of my mouth. My clit is pulsating with an agonized achy throb I need relieved. I press down on the handle, shaking right down to my toes. At least if he doesn't want me, I can claim I just came down to hang, like old times. That won't seem too weird in the middle of the night, right? Then I hear voices again and my heart leaps about ten beats while the blood surges into my cheeks. I peek around the half open door and Stick isn't there. His bed is empty and even more tussled than mine.
I give up.
This night is jinxed and I'm going to have to live with the swollen demand pressing at my edges. I pad downstairs looking for the sugar fix in a glass of juice and the aroma of coffee hits me at the same time those male voices do.
“Here she is,” Mr G. says as I wander into the kitchen, rubbing sleep out of my eyes.
Oh my god, he's sitting at the counter, wearing nothing but a pair of low slung sweat pants and his torso is so damn hot, even hotter next to his father, looking limp beside him in a baggy white tee.
“Mornin', couldn't you sleep either?” Stick says with a grin.
No doubt he's amused at my bed-head hair, made worse by my tossing about in frustration. But I notice his eyes are heading the opposite direction from my scalp. He grazes across my body with his ravenous stare. Taking in my nipples prodding through the thin material of my tank, but he doesn't stop there. His hunger continues to devour every pore as he moves over my tummy to my bare thighs. Very bare being barely covered by the little pajama shorts I have on.
While Mr G, facing the breakfast bar, continues sipping his coffee, Stick, behind him but turned on his stool to face me, his legs splayed to give room to the enormous jabbing prong in his sweats. I can't stare at his cock, throbbing and – Jesus – it looks freaking huge. Not that I know much about how to determine that. Perhaps it's a trick of the loose fabric of his pants. But the way that thing is thrusting at me, those dangerously low slung pants look set to drop.
Oh god.
My eyes bat up to his face and discover him meandering his way back up my body, drinking up every part of me with appreciation. I can't help but feel proud that Stick finds me – desirable. That his swollen prick is pounding to be free of his pants and inside – me.
His gaze has returned to hold mine and I stammer out a response to his question at last.
“Um, no. I was up all night. Wriggling around. Because I couldn't sleep. Not because – of anything else. I came down to get what I needed, to relieve my, um, sleeplessness.”
“Me too. Tossing and turning. Needing something. I came out to find it and ran right into Dad in the hallway,” he says, his eyes flashing a whole ton of significance.
That smile is holding a wealth of filthy intent. I grin back at him, our mutual understanding sealed. His eyes drop again to my hard nipples and his tongue curls out to nuzzle at the corner of his mouth. Christ, my knees almost buckle with the pressing need to have that tongue lap at my horny little peak.
“I see you all started the day without me,” the voice behind me sets my teeth on edge.
My mom strides in and takes up her position in the middle of the room, centered on the breakfast counter. She tuts when she sees there's only half a cup of coffee remaining in the pot and turns to make more.
“I should shower and get to work. We can talk more about this later, son. And if you think you do want to see a PTSD specialist, I'm behind you all the way.”
What? PTSD? Stick is traumatized? Ohmigod, what the hell must he have gone through?
“I'm fine, Dad,” he says with a roll of his eyes at me like, 'Parents, huh? Always making something out of nothing'.
But I don't think it's nothing. Stick's doing that to make light of his feelings. Just like he did when his Mom had died, except I was too young to detect it back then.
“I could do with some home made pancakes for breakfast. Can I cook up some for everyone?” Stick invites us.
“You can cook?” I say, although it comes out as a squeak.
“I can get through a stack of pancakes pretty well,” he says, his eyes alight with teasing.
He sure doesn't seem traumatized but I wouldn't know what that actually looks like.
“We're all out of milk,” my mother says triumphantly, as she tips the last of the carton into her coffee.
“No problem, I'll run to the store and get some,” I volunteer.
“I'll go with you,” Stick says, following me out of the kitchen to throw on some clothes.
At last. Some alone time.
“I'm sure she can manage three blocks by herself without a chaperone,” my mother shouts.
I'm half up the stairs but Stick turns to face my mother and inform her in no uncertain terms; “I'm sure she can, but I want to be with her.”
I think I've never loved him more than that moment.