Sheridan
Riding on the back of Trey’s motorcycle for the second day in a row has my heart somersaulting. I was too melancholy to get horn-gry riding with him to the restaurant, but now the giant vibrator between my legs and the familiar scent of Trey and his leather have me rocking my hips over the bike seat. My breasts press up against his back, arms loop around his washboard abs.
I still can’t believe he remembered.
I mean, I know today marks the anniversary of the day he took my V-card, but I doubt he marked it on a calendar to celebrate every year. Especially considering how easily he was finished with me at the end of senior year.
My brain wants to tear at this puzzle until I have it solved or demolished, but I keep pushing it away. If I think too much about Trey and his actions t
