The Perfect Stroke (Lucas Brothers #1)(23)

“You with me?” he prompts me when I get lost in my thoughts.

“Cammie’s mother learned of our friendship.”

“And?”

“And that was it. Her daughter couldn’t fraternize with someone below their standing in the neighborhood.”

“What a bitch. I’m suddenly glad that’s one Riverton I haven’t met.”

“Yeah, Cammie’s parents divorced a while back. Davina moved to Paris with some shipping tycoon. She didn’t want Cammie.”

“Shit, that’s rough.”

“Yeah. Some mothers shouldn’t have kids,” I agree, but I’m thinking completely about my own mother.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and I shrug off his concern, feeling my face heat. I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me. I especially don’t want them to know how much my mother’s actions hurt me.

“Anyway, once Cammie realized she shouldn’t be seen with someone who was beneath her, that pretty much ended our friendship.”

“That’s it? I could have sworn there was more animosity than that between the two of you.”

“Well, add in high school, us liking some of the same boys, years of resentment and a few other spices, and you have a recipe for disaster.”

“Women are just too f*cking complicated.”

“This is why I prefer to hang around men.”

“Well, that’s one thing I can be glad of,” he says, pulling me on the bed until he has me pinned on the mattress and he’s leaning over me. “Being a man, I can tell you, Cooper, that I’m glad you prefer hanging around me too,” he whispers, bending down and placing a small kiss on my chin and then slowly moving along the main bone in my jawline. He’s cupping my face with his hands, his thumb brushing against my skin, and he’s holding me so gently I could get lost in the needs he’s awakening inside of me.

“Well, I aim to please.”

“Show me,” he says, sucking gently on my neck and nibbling there. I’m trying to concentrate on what he’s saying, but the desire and heat he’s stoking inside of me almost makes it impossible.

“Show you what?” I gasp just as I feel one of his hands move between my legs.

“How much you want to please me.”

“We’ll be late,” I tell him, but not really giving a damn. I’m sure he can tell by the way I spread my legs to allow him easier access.

“I don’t really give a f*ck,” he says just as I feel his fingers slide into my *.

“In that case,” I gasp as he thrusts his fingers hard and deep inside my walls.

“Yeah?”

“Fuck me, Gray. Oh god, f*ck me and don’t stop.”

“I got you,” he whispers against my lips, driving his fingers in again just as his tongue thrusts into my mouth. “I got you,” he says again, and he does. I’m addicted to this man. It’s never happened before, but it’s too late to stop it now. I let myself get lost in the sensations he’s creating in my body and try to ignore the fear—at least for now.





“You’re late,” Miranda grumbles as I walk through the diner to the back booth—the same booth Miranda claims every freaking time we eat here. She demands we sit at the back of the room, and she always faces the doors. She’s got more than a few issues. She’s also the one friend besides Jackson that I allow in my life, so I put up with the quirks. God knows I have more than enough of my own.

“I had sex,” I tell her, smiling sweetly and grabbing a menu. “Have you already ordered? I’m starving.”

“Wait… you had sex? You’re smiling and you’re starving? Who are you and what have you done with my best friend who is always grouchy, says men aren’t worth the trouble, and who eats like a horse but usually not until the afternoon so she can wake up?”

“Hmmm… Yes, I had sex, and it was awesome sex, so of course I’m smiling. It’s almost noon, so I’m awake enough and I’m starving because having sex on the regular is exhausting. I need food to keep up my stamina.”

“I’ve entered some kind of alternate universe, haven’t I? That’s the only explanation. Oh, and I think I hate you in this universe, too.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because the beauty of our relationship is: we both bitch and quarrel about men and go long periods without sex and can whine about how lacking our vibrators are.”

“What can I get you girls?” the waitress asks, interrupting us. Miranda orders a chicken salad and an iced tea. Usually I would order the same, but today I really am hungry.

“I’ll have the turkey club, no mayo, and an order of fries, and a tea to drink too, please?”

The waitress leaves, and I catch Miranda staring at me with her mouth open. My best friend since sixth grade, Miranda Kerr is everything I’m not. She’s tiny, small-breasted, and so pretty it hurts. She’s got dark black hair and shining blue eyes that look almost lavender in color. She wears glasses in the newest, trendiest frames and has plump to-die-for lips smothered in dark red lipstick. We don’t match at all—the grease monkey tomboy and the book nerd, girly-girl—but somehow we click on every front. I trust her with my life. She’s as loyal as they come.