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CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Morgan
Dad has been basically ignoring me. He’s like a child most of the time, getting angry when everything doesn’t go his way or people don’t do what he wants. He’s still pissed about our argument and me leaving to stay with Dusty last night, so I’ve spent the day helping cook and get pills for someone who will hardly say a word to me. Fun times.
I wonder what Mom ever saw in him, how she could have loved him, but then, he was different with her. He was affectionate, and as long as she didn’t complain that he tried to be king of the world, he would have given her anything.
It’s close to eleven, and I haven’t tried to get any sleep yet. I’m sitting in my old room that holds so many damn memories, it’s hard not to feel like I’m suffocating in here. Down the hallway is Ella’s room, which looks exactly the way it did when she died, just like Mom’s does. Is that normal? Is that what people do?
It feels like everything is unraveling, though. I’ve been an architect designing the perfect walls around myself, then learned how to build them, and now I’ve kissed Dusty and broken up with Rob. Everything is crumbling around me, and I’m not doing anything to stop it. The sledgehammer is in my own hand.
My phone buzzes from the nightstand. I pick it up to see Dusty’s name on the screen.
Your light is on, so I’m assuming you’re awake. Let me in.
I push out of my bed like an eager teenager and head straight for the door. We used to do this when we were younger. Dusty would sneak out and come to my house late at night, but it was always when I called him. I couldn’t leave because of the twins.
The second I get downstairs and pull the door open, he’s there, arms loose at his sides, brows furrowed, eyes holding secrets I don’t know how to uncover.
Before I can register what’s happening, he’s on me—hands holding my face, mouth pressing against mine. It only takes about two seconds for my brain and body to catch up, and then my lips are softening against his, arms around him, hand threading through his soft hair, tugging his hard body closer.
I still don’t know what we’re doing. How I was so good for so long and now I’m ruining it all, but I don’t have it in me to stop.
Dusty pushes the door closed with a foot, hands shoving up and under my T-shirt, lips trailing down my throat. “I want you. I’m tired of waiting. Tired of trying to do the right thing. I want you, Morgan, and unless you tell me no, I damn sure plan to have you.”
“Yes. Fuck yes,” falls from my lips. There’s not a chance I’m telling him no.
I take his hand and pull him toward the stairs, blood already rushing toward my groin. My body tingles, pinpricks of awareness spreading beneath my skin and frying all contact with my brain. I’m not going to overthink this. I just want to feel, want to feel something good, and nothing has ever made me feel as good as Dusty.
I close the bedroom door, and then we’re kissing again. I’m only wearing underwear and a T-shirt, and Dusty is way too dressed for what I want from him.
I tug his shirt over his head, realize that his hair is drying from a shower.
As soon as I have his shirt off, he’s removing mine. They meet each other on the floor before he grabs my face, holds it so I’m looking at him. “I told myself I wasn’t going to do this, that I couldn’t, but goddamn you, Morgan. You’ve been under my skin my whole damn life. I’m tired of not knowing what you feel like…what you taste like.”
He drops to his knees right there in the middle of my childhood bedroom. The place we used to play G.I. Joes, sit up all night talking, laughing, and where I locked myself after we lost Ella. I wouldn’t let anyone in except Dusty, so afraid to tell him, to tell anyone that it was my fault.
He rubs his cheek against my cotton-covered bulge, burrows his nose in and inhales deeply. “I want to worship you. Want to know what every inch of you tastes like…smells like. Want to touch you and lick you everywhere until you’re coming apart beneath me. Then I’ll start over again.”
My knees nearly give out, pulse racing, dick throbbing. I want that, Christ, I want it so fucking much. I’ve had a lot of sex in my life, really good sex, but I don’t know that I’ve ever had what Dusty is describing. I’ve never felt worshipped the way he says he wants to do to me.
“Fuck yes.” My hand lowers to the back of his head, pushing so his face is pressed even harder against my erection. He mouths at the fabric, the simple action sending electric currents shooting through my body. Dusty sucks the head of my cock through my boxer briefs, hands running up and down my thighs.
“You smell good—like soap and amber. I swear the second one is embedded into your skin, but I like that I get the soft hint of sweat here too, of sex. You fucking want it, don’t you, Morgan?”
“Shit…yes…” I say breathlessly.
Dusty hooks his fingers in the band of my underwear and eases back just enough to tug them down.
My dick springs free, but Dusty doesn’t touch it, just keeps sliding my boxer briefs down until they hit the floor and I step out of them.
His lips brush against my left knee, and I groan. It’s a fucking knee, so I don’t know why it feels like he’s dishing out the world’s greatest pleasure, but it does.
Dusty rubs his stubbled cheek against it, alternating between the friction of his facial hair and the softness of his lips—the left knee, then the right, then the left again.
“Fuck, Dust. Why does that feel so good?”
I can’t take my eyes off him, off the sandy hair that’s just slightly curly, off my best friend who is on his knees for me.
