“We should go upstairs.” Her voice was coarsely ground. It was like she hadn’t had a drink in days. Parched. Desperate. Thoughts were a distant memory. All she knew was want, need. Primal lust that craved anything he had to give.
He pulled back just enough to look at her beneath his lashes, noses grazing. “Are you sure?”
Together, they had outlasted almost everyone. So few of them remained on the island that Fletcher couldn’t stop hope from sprouting. Maybe they actuallycouldmake it off Lydell alive. She’d thought that if—when—they did, Waylon would go back to Brooklyn, and Fletcher would cross the East River. That their lives would go more or less back to normal, give or take a few extra therapy sessions.
But this was a bridge they couldn’t uncross. She couldn’tunfuckWaylon any more than her colleagues could beunkilled.
Fletcher nodded. “Never surer. Are you?”
He made a noise at the back of his throat. “I’m happy to show you how certain I am.”
With her legs wrapped around his waist, he carried her up the spiral staircase to the loft and eased her onto the mattress, the sheets devastatingly soft against her back. Egyptian cotton, for sure.Hallelujah.
He caged her, hands splayed on either side of her head, the feel of hiscertaintyundeniable between them. Fletcher was going to have sex with Waylon Cartwright. Likely very,verygood sex. Her experience was comparatively limited, but the half-lidded way he looked at her stoked a fire in her belly. Made her feel confident and capable. Like just beingherwas enough.
Waylon kissed the tender skin between her breasts as his hands mapped up her body. Fingertips trailed up her legs, flush against the borrowed fabric. His palm glided between her thighs toward the center of her, and he pressed against her aching pulse point. Fletcher raked her fingers through his curls as he circled, her nerves arcing with each revolution. She’d never hated a pair of khakis more than she did right now.
His other hand slid past her loose waistband, curving against her ass, fingertips expecting to meet a pair of underwear but…not.
“I decided to wash mine and let them air-dry,” she said, relishing the surprise on his face as his fingers met her bare skin. “But I appreciate the offer.”
His mouth hung open, a devious smile lifting the corners. “Fletcher Spence, you are full of surprises.”
She unbuttoned the trousers and kicked them off, eager to feel his touch at the apex of her thighs, and he obliged with one finger, then two. Waylon’s lips found hers again—firm, needing. It worked her into a sweat, the heel of his palm, the rhythm of his fingers.
“You like that, honey?” he asked.
The words forI’m not sure I’ve ever liked something quite asmuchas I like thisfelt too far away, so she settled for a breathy “Yes,” and a reedy, “Whatever you do, don’t stop.”
“Anything you want.”
Fletcher believed that he meant it. Pleasure pulsed, hot and tingling, through her. She’d sustained herself for the last several years on touching herself in the shower and compulsory sex with a man she didn’t truly love. It was like a vampire drinking only from squirrels. Survivable, but barely.
She’d told herself for so long that it was fine, that everything was fine. That being with someone who wanted only things she couldn’t give was par for the course. That chasing her dream life meant living in a nightmare sometimes. That getting what she wanted might always be out of reach.
But here was Waylon, finger-banging her to her heart’s content like he didn’t have his own burgeoning need for release. Smiling into their kiss like he didn’t mind the wait. Sharing his clothes. Saving her life. Maybe in more ways than one.
Even when she reached her peak, it wasn’t enough. She needed more of him. Waylon may have majored in business, but he must have minored in telepathy because as soon as the thought crossed Fletcher’s mind, he leaned back, reaching for his own waistband.
Adrenaline coursed through her body as he unzipped his pants. Beneath his boxers, the length of him was already bulging. Then, the boxers were gone, too. Fletcher reached out to feel him, all of him, and Waylon sucked a breath through his teeth.
His head dropped forward, eyes pinched closed. Gathering himself. “Fuck. Two seconds,” he whispered, and his weight shifted off the bed.
Rising onto her elbows, Fletcher tracked his movements as he pawed clunkily through his backpack at the foot of the bed. A metallic square manifested in his fingers.
“You packedcondoms? What else did you find time to grab? TheOxford English Dictionary? A Jet Ski with a satellite GPS and a full tank of gas?”
“Condoms are very small, Fletcher,” he laughed, rasped.
“I’m not complaining. Look at you, being all prepared.”
Waylon’s thigh warmed under her touch as he sheathed himself in whatever brand of condom billionaire heirs preferred. “I learned from the best.”
“Personally, I was more concerned with not getting killed by Asshole Rick or Deepti or the Brians but—” The sentence died in Fletcher’s throat as Waylon pressed into her. “Oh.”
He smirked, and if her heart hadn’t already been hammering, it would have lurched. “The only name I want to hear out of your pretty little mouth tonight is mine.”
Her hips drew wide, making more room for him. There was a shuffle as they found the right shape. Him lowering, her rising to meet him. Then: a moan. Hers or his? Both, maybe.
