I don’t do that this time around.
I pin her to the soddy ground, squeezing, moaning, and tweaking. My hands don’t stop moving. I play with her breasts, fondle her nipples, and grip her ass firmly enough to mark while returning a kiss hot enough to wear the Pants Jizzer title for the second time in twenty-four hours.
Emerson doesn’t seem to mind. She matches my rocks grind for grind while licking my lips and telling me how close to the edge she is.
I fucking love being able to get her off with nothing but a PG grind-up, but I need more.
More tension.
More friction.
More her.
“Tell me what you need, and I’ll give it to you.”
“I need you inside me.” Her words tumble from her mouth with a needy gasp.
“Where?” As one of my hands skates to the waistband of her jeans, the other tilts her hips high in preparation to drag her jeans to her knees the second she announces where she wants me. “Tell me where.”
“Anywhere. I just need you.” Her last sentence thickens my veins with exhilaration. My brain hazes with lust as we explore each other’s mouths, touching, tasting, and devouring. “Please, Mikhail.”
I trap her pretty little moans with my mouth while ruefully tugging at the fastener in her jeans. The button pops without too much coercion, but before I can lower the zipper, a giggle sounds from above us.
An alerted howl closely follows it.
I look back so fast that I almost give myself whiplash. A girl I suspect is around sixteen has her eyes covered by a woman I assume is her mother. The elder of the duo scowls at me so unrepentantly that wrinkles sprout from more than just the corners of her eyes.
She looks like she sucked on a lemon while scalding our highly inappropriate hookup spot. “This is apublicarea. You should be ashamed of yourselves.”
I should be, but I’m not.
Kissing Emerson righted the axis of my world again. It is no longer tilted.
I won’t let anyone take that from us, much less a woman who looks like she’s never had a day of fun in her life. She’s in her forties, not dead.
For the first time in the past twenty minutes, Emerson isn’t on board with my plan. “You’re right. I’m so sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“Like fucking hell it won’t,” I mutter under my breath when she rolls out from beneath me, buttoning up her jeans and righting her sweater on the way.
Begrudgingly, I follow suit, though my movements are slower since I don’t want to be arrested for public indecency.
After wiping her muddy hands down her jeans, Emerson thrusts one out in offering. “You have my word.”
When the lady huffs, rudely dismissing her wordless offer of a ceasefire, the teenager wrangles free. “Come on, Mom. You’re acting like I was conceived by immaculate conception.” After giggling at her mother’s horrified expression, the blonde slips her hand in Emerson’s, shakes it, then tilts in close. “The Gen Xs still think people come here solely for the view.” Her disgusted expression brings her age bracket closer to seventeen than sixteen. “That may be the case during daylight hours, but once the sun goes down, all bets are off.”
Emerson giggles, loving her free-spiritedness, and I move closer.
Big mistake.
The blonde’s eyes widen to the size of saucers as her mouth falls open. Emerson’s eyes rocket to my crotch, assuming the outline of my cock isn’t hidden by the low hang of my shirt and jacket. She’s not accustomed to my face being recognized by the younger generation. When we dated, the money-hungry gold diggers my grandfather dealt with during his entire political career fawned over my father and Andrik. I didn’t get a look in until I created my own hype.
Regretfully, it isn’t the type of exposure I want Emerson to learn about.
“Oh my god!” The teen’s breaths whip out of her mouth along with her words. “You’re Mikhail Dokovic!”
“Dokovic?” Her mother murmurs, her eyes raking over my face as a backpack is shoved into her chest. “As in, EllisDokovic’s son?” Her eyes flicker as if she is recalling me sitting next to my father at my grandfather’s televised wake. “Oh dear…”
Before I can assure her that she didn’t insult the future president of our great country—Andrik’s shoulders bore that burden from the day of his conception—the teen re-enters the conversation. “Mikhail Dokovic, as in Bachelor of the Year finalist three years straight. And...”—she pauses, building the suspense, only speaking when she wrangles a glossy magazine and an iPhone out of the backpack she shoved into her mother’s chest—“Russia’s most prolific fuckboy.”
