The Stocking Was Hung(16)

My mouth is still attached to Noel’s nipple and my hand is still down her pants and I have no f*cking idea what just happened, but my dick is about ready to stab someone.

“So, that was Nicholas,” Noel says casually as I finally detach my mouth from her tit, pull my hand out of her pants, and look down at her.

“I figured. Nice guy. Seems friendly,” I reply sarcastically.

“We should probably get downstairs before my dad and Aunt Bobbie decide to barge in here as well, pull up some chairs, and give us a critique.”

Aaaaaaand there it is. Boner killer.

With a sigh and a silent word of apology to my quickly wilting wiener, I kiss the tip of Noel’s nose and roll my body off of hers to get out of bed.

“Just because we were interrupted doesn’t mean I’m finished with you,” I inform her as I grab some clothes from my duffle bag on the floor. “Those ‘After Sex Pants’ are going to be used properly before this night is over, so brace yourself, Noel.”

I leave her in bed with a flushed face, parted legs and her long red hair spread out on her pillow as I make my way into the bathroom with a smile on my face.

If I can survive her milk-hating father, handsy Aunt Bobbie, and cock-blocking brother, I can survive anything. Even whatever this family outing is, I’m sure of it.





Chapter 7




Noel


“Brace yourself, Noel.”

Sam’s parting words before he walked into the bathroom and took a shower this morning still bounce around inside my brain, even over the loud arguing happening in the van around us.

I almost had sex with a stranger this morning.

I almost had sex with a man who knows more about me than most people in my life and makes me hotter than any man before him.

I could be having sex right now if I wasn’t stuck in a van with my entire family, listening to them argue about the fastest way to get to our location and then curse at each other when my dad takes a wrong turn.

Nicholas was right when he barged in on us this morning. I’m a slut. I’m a slutty slut who is acting slutty and should be ashamed. I JUST broke up with my boyfriend of a year. Like, literally three days ago. A man I thought I could spend a very long time with, even if I cringe at the words forever and marriage. He was nice, treated me good, let me move in with him a month after we met when the lease on my own apartment was up, and made living together so easy it seemed as if we’d been doing it for years. Maybe that’s the problem. Everything was too easy with Logan. We never argued, we never disagreed on anything, and I never got butterflies in my stomach or even a tinge of wetness with just one look or one touch of his hands on me. All I have to do is think about Sam and the feel of his body on top of mine, his hardness rubbing against me, and his tongue plunging into my mouth and my underwear is soaked.

Not a very comfortable feeling or appropriate thoughts when I’m squished in the second row of my parent’s van with my mother on one side and my brother on the other, shouting around me. Sam unfortunately got thrown in the back row with Aunt Bobbie, so Nicholas’s wife, Casey, could be up front with dad, and I’m pretty sure his coughs every ten seconds are a verbal cry for help each time Bobbie’s hands stray to his lap as we bounce over potholes and take corners at an entirely too high rate of speed.

I’m too tightly packed into this seat to do much more than crane my neck and look back over my shoulder at him with a sympathetic smile.

“We’ll be there soon, I promise,” I tell him softly.

“Logan, I noticed on your bag I carried upstairs last night that it said Sox on it. What’s that all about?” my dad calls back to him, his eyes shooting daggers into the rearview mirror.

Shit!

Sam coughs loudly and when I sit here trying to come up with some excuse for the nickname on his bag, he continues coughing until Aunt Bobbie wraps her arms around him.

“Breathe, dammit, BREATHE!” she shouts, grabbing his head and pulling it down to her chest.

Now, he really is coughing, choking on a mouthful of spit and panic, as Aunt Bobbie nestles his face into the fake cleavage created by her custom-made silicone boob vest that’s barely covered by her low-cut red sweater.

“I don’t get the whole Sox thing. Your name is Logan Masters, why does your bag say Sox?” my dad questions again, totally oblivious to the molestation of Sam’s face in Aunt Bobbies tits at the back of the van.

“Cheeses Christ, Bobbie, let the poor man up before he suffocates!” my mother complains with a huff, prompting Aunt Bobbie to finally remove her hands from Sam’s head.

He jerks up and scoots as far away from her on the bench seat as possible, all while still coughing and shooting me the evil eye.

“The boy’s fine. Now answer the Sox question,” my dad reminds us.

“Uh, he likes socks,” I reply lamely.

Nicholas snorts from next to me and I punch him in the thigh.

“That’s dumb,” my dad quips, causing Sam to cough again, probably agreeing with him that the answer is, in fact, dumb.

You try coming up with something on the fly when your brain is filled with missed orgasms and you can still feel a big, warm, very skilled hand rubbing your vagina.

“Yep, socks. He collects them. Looooooooooves socks so he got the nickname Sox,” I add, crossing my arms and glaring at my brother before he even thinks of saying something stupid.