“No one is here, Abby,” he says, pausing to glance up at me and then resuming his work, as if that settles the matter.
But we’re in a pool in someone’s backyard, and although I can’t see behind me, I can see one neighbor’s house. What if they’re home? What if they see us?
“Miles, I?—”
“The neighbors aren’t here either. I’m here every day. I would notice if they were.” He looks up at me through wet eyelashes. I could drown in those dark brown eyes.
“So whatever noises you make, they don’t count,” he says, and it feels like a promise.
My mind goes blank and a slight up and down movement of my head is truly all I can manage.
“Now tell me, gorgeous, what else doesn’t count?”
He lowers his head to my nipple, and I arch against him as he takes it in his mouth. My need for him is growing, an ache intensifying between my legs that I try to satisfy by grinding my hips against his torso, but it’s not enough relief.
“It doesn’t count if you…” I lose my words in each breath. How am I supposed to make sentences when he’s winding me up like this? I can’t focus on anything but the pleasure zipping through me.
He stops abruptly, glancing up at me. Waiting.
“Do I need to say it?” I ask, impatient for him to continue.
“I like to hear it,” he says, sliding a hand up my chest, his fingertips brushing over my lips. When he drags his hand back down, he continues the path past my chest, down my stomach, to the top of my shorts.
My heart races as his fingers flirt with the button, his mouth curved into a wicked grin.
“It doesn’t count if you unbutton my shorts,” I murmur.
He wastes no time popping the button. My breath catches in my chest. I manage the next words though my throat is thick with desire.
“It doesn’t count if you unzip them.”
He holds my gaze as he unzips them.
“It doesn’t count if you take them off,” I say, nearly panting.
My own words send a throb of desire between my legs. I’m desperate for his touch, already so wet and about ready to beg him to just please, for the love of god,touchme.
He walks us to a shallower end of the pool and pins me against the side.
“Hold on to the edge,” he instructs, and I obey, propping my arms on the warm stone. He removes my legs from around his waist and then removes my shorts, setting them on the side of the pool. My legs dangle in the water, and he moves into my space again, his soaking wet shirt against my bare chest a satisfying sensation. He hooks his thumb in the strings of my thong, waiting for me with hungry eyes, his teeth sunk into his bottom lip.
“It doesn’t count if you take my panties off,” I say, dragging my lips over his and kissing him deeply as he does what I’ve asked him to.
“Tell me. Tell me what else doesn’t count, Abby.” His voice is husky, his own desperation thick in his words.
“It doesn’t count if you use your hands to pleasure me,” I say. It’s vague, but he doesn’t make me say any more. He yanks one of my legs up to his hip and angles himself so he can slide a hand between us, finding the aching core of me and brushing two fingers over it.
I cry out, the relief is so instant. My fingers bruise his shoulders as he strokes, putting me out of my mind. I feel feral as we kiss, biting his bottom lip, groaning and grinding my hips for more.
“And if I make you come? Does that count?”
“No.”
“Say it, Abby. Say you want me to make you come.”
“I want you to make me come.”
Our words overlap, the exchanged conversation punctuated by our labored breathing and our mouths meeting in heated, hurried kisses.
