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“Really?” I ask, stepping closer to him again. “What’s she like?”
Wes laughs. “Are you fishing for compliments, Stevens?”
“Yes.”
His expression softens. “Well, she’s a wicked climber, and she’s feisty, and thoughtful, and she throws a mean spiral.”
“Not sure anyone else would call me feisty,” I inform him. “Probably more like easy-going.”
“Lucky me, then.”
“I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic right now.”
He laughs. “I’m not. I love how stubborn you can be.”
“I feel like I don’t have to be perfect around you,” I admit.
“Uh, thanks?”
“It’s a good thing,” I assure him. And it is. Wes makes me feel bolder. Braver.
Like I’m my own person, not the collection of assumptions people make about me by extension of my family.
“Anything you’d like to tell me in return?” Wes asks, grinning shamelessly.
“Uh, you’re hot?” I respond, smirking.
“Wow. I’m touched,” Wes replies. “But I’m glad you think so.” His voice deepens. “Especially since you know I can’t keep my fucking hands off you.” He ghosts his lips across my cheek, and I pull in a shaky breath.
“I wouldn’t mind a reminder,” I whisper.
Wes chuckles.
I kiss him with just as much fervor as before, and he stumbles back, opening the back door of his car and sliding me across the leather seat in what’s become a familiar maneuver.
I slip my hands along his abdomen and back down to his waist again.
“Maeve. We don’t have to do anything,” Wes whispers to me.
Despite some very heated make-out sessions, he’s never pushed for anything more, and I’ve been too nervous to initiate it myself. I’m assuming his hesitation is because he’s correctly surmised he’s much more experienced than I am.
“I know. I want to.” I tell him.
It’s true. After the conversation we just had, I’m not worried Wes is going to look elsewhere if we don’t escalate our physical relationship. But I want to take advantage of the fact I’m the one able to touch him this way. The one he wants to touch him this way.
He lets me slide my hand down and inside the loose material, and sucks in a sharp breath when I stroke the long length I encounter. He’s already hard.
“Tell me what to do,” I whisper in his ear as I pull his sweatpants down.
Wes groans. “Harder.” I increase the pressure of my hand as I glide along his shaft. “Fuck, Maeve,” Wes kisses along my neck again, and it’s my turn to groan as I stroke him faster and faster.
He flexes in my hold, and I feel powerful. Desired. I would never admit this to anyone, but I’ve spent a lot of time fantasizing about this very moment. What it would feel like to have Weston Cole at my mercy. Throbbing pulses of heat fill my own body as the sound of Wes finding his release fills the car.
He cleans himself up and then rolls so he’s on top of me. “You’re so fucking sexy, Maeve.” His voice is rough and husky, and it sends shivers along my skin.
Wes dips his hands underneath the hem of my sweatshirt and lets them drift upwards, taking the soft material with them as he kisses along the exposed skin. Goosebumps trail in their wake. He tugs my jeans down.
I’m wearing the same pink thong as the night we went swimming a few hundred feet from where we are now, and I can tell Wes remembers by the way his eyes flare with additional heat.
