Hot Laps (19 page)

“Great,” The corners of his mouth were carefully avoiding a smile. “By the way, I’m
very expensive.” He then got out, walked around to my side of the car and opened the
door for me. Such a gentleman.

“Do you accept sexual favors as payment?” I stepped out holding onto his hand to steady
myself as I stepped through the soggy lawn toward the door.

“If I’m a prostitute, and you paid me in sexual favors,” he paused for effect, “how
is that payment for me when I’m the one who is supposed to be sexing you?”

“Sexing?” I couldn’t help my laugh.

“Oh, shut up,” he smirked at his own humor, shoving me back a little, “you get it.”

I giggled knocking on the door. “No, I really don’t. Explain this sexing thing to
me.”

My dad answered the door just as Casten said, “Oh, I plan to later.”

Andrew, my dad, eyed Casten. “What is it that you plan to do later?” he asked to a
very quiet and nervous Casten.

“I, uh …” he sputtered jetting his hand out with a grin. “Nice to meet you, sir, I’m
Casten Riley.”

I bit my lip and said nothing. Try as I might, I couldn’t help but feel my heart jump
up in my throat wondering what Dad would say next.

“Riley, huh,” my dad stepped to the side allowing us to come inside. “As in your dad
is Jameson Riley?”

“Yes sir,” Casten said in a remarkably smooth tone, stepping forward and following
me inside.

And that’s all that was needed for my dad to be in love with Casten. I never did have
to explain who he was.

I literally had to pull him out of their house around midnight.

“So, did you have fun?” I watched in amusement as he stumbled down the driveway.

He looked back at me over his shoulder. “Your grandmother called me a pussy and drank
my shot for me. I can’t really think of any other way to feel welcomed than that right
there.”

I laughed and drove his car back to his place, he was a little wasted but once we
were inside, I wasn’t any better when I found his liquor cabinet.

Our time spent drunk was becoming predictable. And annoying. We made out, topless,
and drank a lot of fucking alcohol. He had no problem stripping the clothes from my
upper body but when it came to below the waist, no go.

His hands were up my shirt and his mouth on mine but he hesitated. There I was, straddling
his lap in the living room of his parent’s house. His dick was searching for me, I
could feel it, but no, the cocky engine builder kept the monster on lock down. I wiggled
to see what he’d do and then ripped my shirt off throwing my boobs in his face to
see if they could seal the deal. No dice, he did show them some attention, pulling
my left nipple into his mouth and sucking gently, but still, nothing. Humping him
over his jeans, he definitely got excited, let out an adorable groan and held onto
me tightly but when I reached for his zipper, he pulled my wrist away firmly grasping
them with one of his large hands.

“Come on already!” I nearly screamed in sexual frustration. “Why won’t you have sex
with me? Do you not want too?”

He kissed my forehead once. “I never said that,” he let his words sink in for a moment,
and then continued. “If I remember correctly, I told you I wanted too a few times
already.”

“Then what the fuck is the problem?” I quirked an eyebrow at him, he shrugged.

Casten laughed leaning to one side, his head fell back against the couch as his bloodshot
eyes fell to the beer in my hand.

Even in my drunken state, I caught on.

“Are you saying you won’t fuck me because we’re drinking?” I’d never heard of such
a thing. It seemed just … absurd to think. Who in their right mind has this sober
logic?

“Let me ask you something,” he paused meeting my eyes letting go of me completely,
his green eyes intense. One of his hands brushed the fallen hair out of my eyes. “Have
you ever had sex when you’ve been sober?”

“Has anyone?”

“Yes, actually,” his eyes narrowed, “believe it or not, it’s possible. I actually
prefer it that way.”

Again, ridiculous. “So you’re saying we can’t hump until I’m sober?”

“
We
,” he clarified.

“Both of us?”

This seemed even more irrational. He had to be joking.

“Yes. Listen, Hayden,” he removed me from his lap so that I was looking at him. “I’m
not that guy who takes advantage of the drunk girl. That’s not me and I won’t do it.
Sure, if after we’ve already done it … I can’t say I’d control myself as well.” He
paused smiling. “But … for the first time, we need to be sober.”

“Why?” I tried to understand his insanity. “You’ve never had a one night stand or
anything while drunk?”

“This isn’t a one night stand, Hayden.”

“Well, I know that. But it still doesn’t make any sense.” My mind kept racing trying
to put sense to his logic. I was drawing a blank. “Or have you never had sex for the
first time drunk?”

“No. I have. But I don’t want to with you.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he shrugged in a manner that seemed somewhat shy. “I want you.” He whispered.
“I want to show you just how much I want you and, for that, I want us sober.”

Now I was beginning to understand.

“Let’s sober up then.”

“That anxious?”

“You really have no clue how much I want that…” I gestured south. “Inside me.”

“Is it even about me or just my dick? Cause it’s kind of attached to me.”

“No, no, it’s you but that,” I gestured south once again, “sorta gets all my pistons
firing.”

“Wow,” he replied mocking me.

“You shut up and sober up.”

Flying Lap – It’s the quickest of laps.

Is it pathetic that I’ve never been sober while having sex?

Yes, actually it is, you whore.

I could hardly tell you how many people I’ve had sex with let alone if it was enjoyable
or not. The only guy I distinctly remember was Jacob, and for twenty-one, that boy
was gifted in bed. He had me screaming to the roosters until the wee hours of the
morning what I remember. He’s also the boy who left the red mark on my ass that’s
still there eight months later.

After Rosa left, who showed up and watched a movie with us, Casten and I sat there
side-by-side watching some television show he seemed intently focused on when my boredom
peaked right along with my need.

This getting sober shit was going to take some effort; effort I wasn’t exactly sure
how to go about.

I remember how I tried to sober up when I was younger, fearing my parents would know
I started this “drunkenness” at around thirteen. I’d become fairly talented at it
so I did what I normally did. Jumping jacks.

Casten noticed real quick, his eyes darting frequently from the large flat screen
television mounted on the wall in his living room before he finally asked, “What are
you doing?”

“Jumping jacks. What does it look like?”

“It appears you’re jumping but in a strange spastic motion. I’m not so sure those
are actually jumping jacks. It looks like some drunk version of cross fit.” Again,
he paused seeming amused with himself. “Why are you jumping?”

I let out a panting breath. “I once got pulled over for a DUI when I was seventeen
so I ran around the car a couple times and then did some jumping jacks. I’m convinced
it knocked my number down at least a few points.”

The corners of his mouth twitched adorably and appeared childlike. “Great logic.”

All this jumping got me thinking and, quite frankly, made me a little self conscious
about jumping around by myself and in front of a man who held god-like status in his
attractiveness and masculinity.

I’ve also learned, over time, and through extensive research with Anna, it’s best
to have company when doing something stupid. That way, when you got caught and maybe
even land a spot on let’s say, hypothetically, the front page of the newspaper for
crashing a car through the McDonald’s Golden Arches, it listed you and your accomplice.
It just looks better that way. Believe me. When it’s just your name, it stands out.
But when it’s two, it blends together and then, eventually, I feel people lose interest.
Unless you’re Bonnie and Clyde. Or Thelma and Louise. Okay, maybe my theory wasn’t
that great. Partners in crime are memorable, too.

At least this was sobering me up. Confusion always does that for me.

“Come on, get up and jump,” I urged eager to see his jumping moves.

So he did, and then I started with, what seemed appropriate at the time, Kris Kross
lyrics.

Eventually, I knew I was sober. I just knew it.

I stopped jumping as well, still panting though. “I’m sober.”

“I think I twisted my ankle,” he let out a little laugh and fell against the couch,
watching me standing there looking at him. “I’m not sure you’re sober yet.” His hands
reached out to my thighs, dragging up them carefully before the giggle returned.

Quirking a questionable eyebrow at him, I continued to pant, holding my side but leaning
towards him to rest my hands on the back of the couch on each side of his head. I
was hovering. “You were just watching my boobs, weren’t you?”

He looked up curiously through his lashes, his head in line with my vagina.

“You caught me, pretty girl. I was eyeing your boobs.”

Leaning down again, I straddled his lap.

Finally,
fucking finally
, movements and clothes were peeling quickly as he pushed himself forward on the leather
couch, sliding to the edge and then standing while my legs remained wrapped around
his waist tightly. With steady, but hurried movements, he carried me up the stairs
toward his bedroom.

When we got there, it wasn’t lost on me that I briefly wondered how many women he’d
carried to his room. I was turning into a girl. I never worried about this kind of
shit. Now look what happens when I’m sober, I start thinking irrationally.

Fumbling briefly with the handle to his room, the door slammed open, hitting the wall
and then flying back and smacking me in the ass.

Nothing, even the burning of my ass, was going to stop me tonight.

I never stopped kissing him. I was going all out. I was giving it everything I had
to get those damn pants of his off tonight.

Grunting, he tried to get closer, his hands wild, controlling, and memorizing my body’s
shape against his, but saying nothing.

His knees hit the edge of his king size bed, still kissing me in frantic but deep
passionate Earth-shattering kisses, he didn’t let go. Instead, he bent forward at
the waist, letting me fall against the bed before he let go completely.

“Prepare yourself, I have the most comfortable bed in the world.” His eyes, that deep
penetrating green darkened.

Crawling backwards as sexy as I could, or thought I was, I moved to the center of
the bed. “I’m not concerned with comfort. I want control.”

He just stood there staring at me until he raked his hand through his wild mess of
hair.

Dropping my eyes nervously, I asked. “What are you going to do, give me a sobriety
test?”

His large talented hands made the path from my knees up my trembling thighs, to rest
on my hips, his body hunched forward.

He was now the hoverer.

“No,” he shook his head against my stomach, his teeth latched onto the edge of my
panties.
Oh God
. “I’ll know when you’re sober,” he continued until they were completely off and then
dropped them from his lips, playfully. “I can read you pretty well.”

Spreading my legs further, he settled between them sitting up on his knees towering
over me. “I think we both know I’m sober.” I told him with confidence as my hand instinctively
reached for the prize in front of me and dipped inside his jeans finding the hardest
dick I think I’ve ever had the pleasure to palm.

Casten’s gaze broke from my eyes to my hand, his breathing deepened. It had to look
good from this point for him. How is it not a win-win situation?

Someone else’s hand in your pants is pretty much a winning situation, at least in
my book.

Growling, he grabbed my hips roughly pushing me back on his bed, kissing me. I knew
he wanted this but the enthusiasm he was putting forth was magical.

Most can guess what happens when you’re getting down and dirty. Clothes disappear,
movements become frantic before someone makes the first move toward insertion and
then you’re having sex. At least that’s how it’s been for me in the past. Don’t put
too much weight on those theories though—keep in mind I’ve never
soberly
had sex.

Well, all that shit went out the goddamn window that night in Casten’s room.

Now I’m not saying it wasn’t frantic or whatever, but it was different from my past
encounters.

Instead, let us focus on the hovering sexy engine builder who’s about to show me just
how well his shaft insertion could be.

He was thorough, I’ll give him that.

At one point, I was on all fours and he was behind me. I’m not entirely sure how that
position came about, but it did, and he was face to ass. For me personally, I’m not
that comfortable with my ass in the air or my asshole on display. Especially when
the person behind me was Casten Riley. It might have been different if he was pile
driving me from behind but no, no insertion had actually taken place yet. This was
still part of that whole let’s-be-thorough-as-possible-task that he had taken great
pride in.