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We finished in a panting, sweating mess, and lay there on the lounger on the porch of a very religious man who would kill us if he knew we’d just fucked anywhere near his house.
“Did you mean it when you said you’ve been fantasizing about me?” she asked, sounding almost naive.
I laughed and kissed her shoulder. “Absolutely,” I said. “Did you?”
“Yes.” I wished I could see her face. I knew she’d be blushing. “But I don’t usually admit to that sort of thing.”
“I won’t tell anyone.”
“Good.” She turned to face me. “What do we do now?”
“Well, we can stay here for a while,” I said, holding her against me, enjoying the feel of her skin, warm and soft against mine. “And then in the morning, we’ll try and convince Modesto that he should stop being such a fucking prick.”
She laughed and kissed me. “I can do that.”
“Or, we can stay like this, and I can fuck you again until you scream, and maybe he’ll hear, come down, and murder us both.” I shrugged a little, kissed her neck. “That’s always an option.”
“Let’s go with the first thing,” she said, kissed me, and pulled away.
I watched her go with pure regret. I wanted her back as soon as she stood, but god damn, what a sight. She got dressed slowly, then stretched, and walked over to grab the whisky bottle. She handed it to me, and I took a sip—there was a little left.
“You sure you don’t want to stay?” I asked.
“I’m sure,” she said. “Got what I wanted.” She grinned at me and I laughed, stretching my legs.
“I can’t complain,” I said, finishing the whisky.
She walked to the sliding door and looked at me for a second, lingering there, before slipping inside and leaving me in the dark and the quiet.
I wondered what it meant, what had just happened—sleeping with her on this porch, on this night, when it felt like everything was about to fall apart.
But maybe it meant nothing. It was only what we both needed—and the question became whether we’d keep needing it.
Though I knew the answer for me. The moment her skin stopped touching mine, I wanted it back, and knew I’d keep on wanting it.
17
Millie
Modesto didn’t show for breakfast, and I started to worry that he’d heard something last night.
I hadn’t been quiet. I didn’t think I could be quiet—not with Rees inside of me, massive Rees. Every time I thought of him, of his hands and lips and cock between my legs, my cheeks turned pink. I kept wondering if he knew what was running through my mind, and he must have, or at least he assumed—that arrogant bastard.
We spent the afternoon out by the pool. Rees talked to me about the early days of his business—about his relationship with Desmond and Alvin, how they’d been friends at first. “It was good until it wasn’t,” he said. “Money complicates everything, and soon the fighting began.” He talked about the falling out, and how much it had hurt him—and how after that, he’d pushed everyone away, and promised to rely on only himself going forward.
“That must be lonely,” I said, tilting my head toward him. The water in the pool lapped in the gentle breeze. “I mean, keeping everyone at a distance.”
“It worked,” he said, but he sounded bitter about it. “Jack’s the closest thing I have to a friend at work, and even still, we keep things professional mostly.”
“I know what you mean,” I said, staring at the water. I told him about law school: about the rich boys and their rich families, and how I was always an outsider, a poor girl with nothing. I worked ten times harder than all of them, and while I graduated at the top of my class, it never felt like I belonged. “No matter how many tests I aced, or how many professors gushed about my future, I still felt like it was their club, their world.”
“You’re wrong, you know,” he said, shaking his head. “I know all those guys, even if I don’t actually know them. They don’t know what they’re doing, and half of them are idiots.”
“Even still,” I said, letting out a breath. “It’s a fact of birth. They were born into privilege and I had to work to attained even the faintest whiff of it.”
“We have that in common then then,” he said, and it made me laugh—because he was right in a lot of ways. Although I wasn’t ultra wealthy, and he hadn’t been as poor growing up as I was, we still rose above our stations in life, and would forever be seen as outsiders. Maybe that was why I felt a pull toward him that I couldn’t really explain.
Maybe that, or the handsome face and the chiseled body. Those didn’t hurt.
