The boy next door. That’s what he was. Dash Frasier—my hero from the day we met, when I was six and he was nine. His sister was my best friend, the three of us one happy crew. Then one sweaty summer night changed everything.
No one understood me like Dash. No one made me feel so loved. That’s why, when he skipped town, it wrecked me.
Now I’m older. Wiser. I’ve just snagged my dream job, writing at a film studio. The lead animator on my project? You guessed it.
He’s not the boy next door. Not anymore.
I’m guarding my heart this time.
But Dash has secrets that could break us both.
“Come here…” He pulls me against him, and I hear a beep and see his lights flash. He opens the back door, climbs in, and pulls me up too.
Dash sits in the middle, spreads his legs, and pulls me onto his lap, so my ass is between his spread knees. His arms are around me.
He kisses me deep and hard, demanding…
I groan. I’m trembling with adrenaline as his hands frame my face and our mouths meld, soft and hot and slick. His hand is on my chest, it’s gliding up. His hand is cupping my breast.
“Christ, Amelia…” He nips me through my blouse, and I cry out.
Then I’m fumbling at his abs. My hungry hands are working his pants button, tugging down his zipper.
Dash groans as I find him in his pants. He’s long and hard, jutting upward in the cotton prison of his boxer-briefs. So it’s easy to peel the elastic away and reach inside to find his smooth head. I reach both hands inside his boxer-briefs as he kisses my throat, and start to stroke him: up and down, just slow and steady up and down… Until he’s biting underneath my jaw and I can feel the precum slick on his tip.
“Does it feel good?”
Our mouths meet, and we kiss so hard and deep I finally have to pull away, gasping for air as Dash thrusts against my palm and his hands delve into my pants, his fingers reaching.
“Yes,” I gasp.
I feel him work the little wooden button, feel it pop off. Then he’s reaching past my thong. His fingers glide between my lips and find their mark. He rubs; I gasp. Then he’s pressing gently inside, stroking upward, curling slightly…and the pressure—“Ohh!”
For a long moment, my hands forget to stroke his dick. His panting reminds me.
Then it’s just our groans and heavy breaths, hands and heat and teeth and tongues. We come just like that: me halfway on Dash’s lap, our arms tangled like a game of Twister, my hands stroking his thick cock, Dash’s fingers driving me to high-pitched cries.
And then it’s over, and my arms are wrapped around his neck. His face is pressed into my shoulder, and it’s so tragic, because it feels absolutely right. I feel like we’re lovers. I feel like we’re old friends. Maybe we are both. But none of this is real.
About Ella James
Ella’s obsessions include vanilla cream soda, hiking, other obscure, crunchy stuff like rock collecting, and the antics of her 2.5 little monsters. (Monsters 1 and 2 will meet Monster 3 in November).
To find out more about Ella’s projects and get dates on upcoming releases, find her on Facebook at facebook.com/ellajamesauthorpage and follow her blog, www.ellajamesbooks.com. Questions or comments? Tweet her at author_ellaj or e-mail her at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Ella is represented by Rebecca Friedman of the Rebecca Friedman Literary Agency.