Becca
pounds on the door just as orgasm number six tapers off. I can barely move by
this point, but I made it to the door to unlock it before number six and that’s
the main thing. Now all I need is for her to get this thing out of me.
“It’s me,”
she calls out. “Are you going to let me in?”
“It’s
open,” I manage to get out.
She walks
in, her eyes widening at the sight of me hunched over the couch, thighs
clenched, rocking back and forth on the floor. At least I’m not naked. I managed to half squirm my way into a
dress that I found lying on the floor in my room—though I must look a mess—with
only one arm through the hole and the skirt bunched up around my waist. Now
that I think about it, I’m not sure why I even bothered. She sprints over to
me, crouching down beside me.
“Jesus, are
you okay?” She glares at me as I let out a strangled sob. “Tell me what’s
wrong?” she says. She looks me over, her eyes wide with concern. “Were you
attacked? Did someone break in and rape you? Talk to me, Laura. Should I be
calling an ambulance? The police?” Her dark eyes study mine as I struggle to
form words to answer any of her questions. “For God’s sake, Laura. Say
something.”
“No
ambulance,” I mutter.
I groan and
clamp my legs together, gasping as my body begs for relief. This is a
nightmare. I point to the bedroom, where the box is still lying on the bed.
Becca stalks through to my room, returning a few seconds later with the box in
her hands. Her eyes widen, to the point where they’re nearly ready to fall out
of her head.
“No fucking way,” she hisses.
I nod,
sweat pouring out of places I didn’t know sweat could form. She clasps her
hands over her mouth and stifles her laughter, before quickly kneeling down
next to me.
“What do
you want me to do? Dig it out? I’ll do that for you,” she says as I glare at
her. “Wait… I should’ve asked before offering. Front or back?”
“Becca,” I
growl, my voice high noting at the end.
“What? I’m
sorry, it was a legitimate question,” she cries, holding her hands up in
defense. “You know I don’t handle poop. How on earth did you manage to get it
stuck in there in the first place?” she asks, shaking her head.
“Can we
discuss this later, after it’s been
removed from my vagina?” I beg her.
“Yes, yes,
I’m sorry. Okay, let’s get you down to my car.”
“Car?” I
say, alarmed. “What happened to you offering to help me—”
“You
seriously want me digging around in there like I’m looking for loose change
down the back of the couch?” she asks seriously. Then she giggles, but she
stops when she sees my expression. “Sorry. Disturbing mental image. You
understand this is pushing the friendship boundaries, right?”
I nod
weakly. Oh, I understand it, all right.
She sighs
and helps me climb up properly onto the couch while I try to steady myself as
my body begins to convulse. God, not
again. I wipe a layer of sweat off my forehead and rock back and forth,
riding out the orgasm as I whimper into the cushion. Then I gasp, clenching my
thighs again, until it passes.
“You’re
coming already? But I haven’t even worked my magic hands on you yet,” she
jokes, flexing her fingers. “Hey, do you have any kitchen gloves, or—”
“Just get
it out,” I beg her.
“Fine,” she
grumbles as she gets down onto her knees. She lifts up the skirt of my dress
and peers between my legs. “Hey, you smell really good. What kind of body wash
do you use?”
“Becs.”
“Right,
sorry,” she mutters. “Focus.”
R. Linda drinks wine and writes books.
Piper Rayne, or Piper and Rayne, whichever you prefer because we’re not one author, we’re two. Yep, you get two USA Today Bestselling authors for the price of one. Our goal is to bring you romance stories that have “Heartwarming Humor With a Side of Sizzle” (okay…you caught us, that’s our tagline). A little about us… We both have kindle’s full of one-clickable books. We’re both married to husbands who drive us to drink. We’re both chauffeurs to our kids. Most of all, we love hot heroes and quirky heroines that make us laugh, and we hope you do, too.
Sunny Shelly Reads 