Page 48 of Emerson

“Don’t?”

“No. Fuck. Or I'll come.” I squirm when his laugh tickles over my sensitive skin. Then he grasps the band of my pants and pulls them down.

I don’t have time to think. Don’t have time to snark or beg or chicken out because Dillon pulls my pants down, locks eyes with me, and sucks my cock into his mouth with a groan so deep, I feel it in my core.

I squeeze the headboard posts in a death grip and curse, my hips shooting up.

“Oh my God, Dillon.”

Gay. Dillon is gay. And apparently, he has done this before because he knows exactly what he’s doing. A swipe of his tongue under the head of my cock, a smooth glide down, and a suck so good my eyes roll to the back of my head. One of his big hands is rubbing my thigh and the other releases my length to cup my balls.

“Dill,” I pant, breathless.

Dillon. This is Dillon.

Looking down is a mistake. Mused sandy waves and a pair of hooded blue eyes still watching me.

“Please, I…” Whatever else I was going to say is lost to a throaty moan.

He hums, sucking me to the back of his throat. I’m the one who chokes, and then I’m grasping for his head and holding him to me as I come, legs lifting and closing around him.

What the fuck.

“Feel better?” he finally asks when I loosen my grip and pry my eyes open to look at him. That takes longer for me to do than the orgasm took to hit me. My cheeks flame, and I swing my leg over, scrambling to the other side of the bed so I can get up.

Fuck. What the fuck?

Not a single article of clothing is put back on my body right.

My ankle barely twinges this time when I hop down from his window.

He never even moved the sheet.

Emerson

Ibite on the side of my thumb and watch him from the porch. He has a hat on backward today, sandy tufts of hair curling around his ears. Butterflies erupt from the trenches of my damn soul when he laughs at whatever stupid shit Warren says from next to him.

His one canine tooth is just ever so slightly overlapped with the tooth next to it. I don't know why I've always found that to be so endearing. Everything else about the guy is perfect. But that one tooth…

“Em, can you grab us a drink?” Warren calls, and I startle, pointing to my chest like a moron. I forgot I was visible, honestly. Warren makes a ‘duh’ gesture, flicking his hand out next to him, and I scramble up to get it.

Warren is moving out today. Moving in with Morgan. Twenty-three and already has his love, has a decent job working for Dad, has his best friend, and a body most men could only dream of.

Warren is the whole package. The first of the litter, best pickings. Most height, most muscle, most patience, and not a single acne scar. Jesse and Zane are smooth and charming with good looks and enough mystery that they have the girls frothing at the damn mouth. Ian is…Ian. Goofy, sweet, and apparently hot because he has a new girlfriend every other week.

Then, there's me.

There was no height left for me. I feel like a mouse living with a herd of elephants most days. And while they've all been playing sports and working out, I've been googling how much blush is too much blush, picking food out of my braces, and begging the universe to just, please, take away the cystic acne.

Being a teenager is the worst thing that's ever happened to me. I just want to skip this part. Skip the horrible high-school years. Skip wondering if there will ever be a guy for me. Skip being head over dick in love with my brother’s hot best friend.

Just skip it all until I'm thirty, flirty, and gay somewhere else that's not here.

I grab two waters from the fridge and knock the door closed with my hip.

“And tell him not to forget to come give me one last hug goodbye,” Ma calls after me, acting like he's off to war and not moving ten minutes away. She's been scrubbing down the kitchen like a madwoman since five o'clock this morning. I guess her first baby leaving the nest is hard for her.

Hard for everyone, I think. The boys were exceptionally quiet as they helped load up the truck earlier.