I stare at her for a minute, wondering if it’s worth my time to let her down easy or lecture her on approaching a guy that is clearly not interested in her—that’s too old, too everything, but I decide it’s not my problem. Instead I ignore her, spotting Bobby talking to Richard, and wave him over. “Hey man, can you watch the door for me? I need to run to the back for a minute.”
“Sure man.” He takes my spot and looks over at Isabel, who’s watching me with watery eyes. “Sweetheart,” he says to Isabel, “give me that beer before both you and I get in trouble.”
“Whatever,” she mumbles and flounces off.
“Be back in a second,” I say, going the other direction. I’d seen Summer’s blond hair near the back hall and head her way. She’s standing near the edge of the signing table when I walk next to her, link my fingers with hers and lead her into her mother’s dark office.
“You look like you needed a break,” I say, sitting on the couch and pulling her onto my lap. I want to tell her everything. About school. About how much I want her. About how I want her to know all of this before we take this further. It only seems fair but now that she’s sitting on top of me and we’re away from the chaos outside, I just want to feel her.
“Whit,” she says, her voice a little strained.
I brush her hair back. “You okay?”
“I’m not sure,” she says close to my mouth, “But you may be right. I need a break. I need you.”
The office is pitch-black other than the light from under the door. I reach out and fumble with the lock, securing us in this tiny space. The last time we were in here I tasted her, made her come, because I wasn’t sure how to balance my feelings for her. I’m always too raw—too on edge—tonight is no different, except for some reason it seems to be.
She tastes so good and feels even better, the skirt of her dress hiked over her hips. The top tugs down easily and she’s not wearing a bra and I curse the lack of light, but I don’t need to see her when I can feel her, with my hands, lips, and tongue.
“When you were sick,” she says in a quiet, whispery voice, “you told me you wanted to do things to me, claim me, make love to me like an animal to a mate.”
I still. “I said that?”
“You were delirious.” She grinds against me. “But that doesn’t make it untrue.”
“No. It doesn’t.”
“Is that why you hold back? Because you think I can’t handle that?” Her mouth is near my ear, hot and warm. “Because I can. I want you to. Now. Make me feel what you’re feeling. Make me yours.”
Still kissing me, she fumbles with my buckle and I hook my thumbs in her panties, easing them down her legs to get them off. She uses the time pull down my jeans and I sigh in her mouth, relieved to have my cock freed from the tight confines of the denim.
She climbs back on top of me, hovering over my hips, grazing me with the hot, wet heat of her body. “It was stupid of me to resist you,” I tell her, “resist this.” I run a hand down her arm,pulling at the strap on her sundress. It falls below her shoulder, exposing her breasts, and I bend over to take her nipple into my mouth.
She arches back and moans softly, sending a jolt of arousal through me, making my cock harder than before. Her fingertips graze my shaft, I feel her lowering over me and then her shuddering exhale when she sinks down, taking me in. She rides me lazily, quietly, obviously afraid of making too much noise. I hold her hips, rising and lowering her, but she’s right, I don’t want to have sex with Summer, or even just make love to her. I want to claim her. Be with her. Consume her.
“Do you trust me?” I whisper into her mouth, brushing the hair out of her eyes.
“Yes.”
I kiss her deep and hard before showing her exactly what I mean.
47
Summer
“Do you trust me?”he asks, buried deep inside of me.
“Yes,” is my response, my body one exposed nerve. I feel the passion rumbling just beneath his skin. I feel my own desire for something safe, something sure, overriding everything else. I don’t want to think about the letters. The flowers. The threats. I want this. Whit. I want him.
He kisses me breathless and releases my hips, slowly easing me off his body. I miss the connection; confused and wanting, but he takes me in his arms, twisting me on the couch until I’m bent on my knees. I feel him behind me; big, ready, wet, still slick from being inside me, I feel his breath on my neck and my skirt bunched around my waist and when he asks me if this is okay, I nod and say, “hurry,” not liking the distance.
He doesn’t hurry, but slides himself back and forth between my legs, rubbing my underside with the heat and warmth of his cock. I feel his slippery tip graze my clit and I bite my lip, backing into him.
He enters me slowly, confidently, and although this is the first time I’ve done this, I’m not scared. I’m eager. I knew being with Whit would be different, bold, and I should’ve expected the unexpected. What I didn’t anticipate was how good it would feel having his weight behind me, having his cock in me, feeling his breath on my neck, his hands on my body.
We fall into a rhythm, our breath the only sound other than the noises of the party outside. The fact people are nearby only makes it more exciting—sparking my rebellious, adventurous side. Whit’s fingers curve between my legs, rubbing circles that make my brain short circuit, my limbs limp. His jagged breaths and low grunts as he slams into me over and over. I feel the wave catching up to me, my knees wobbling, his arm wrapping tight around my stomach and soon I’m falling, body quaking, holding myself up until he comes hard inside me, with a low, stifled groan.
He holds my hips tight, twitching inside with release.
