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He chuckles, but not enough. “That was my mom. Willulf means ‘wolf,’ and she’s weird like that.”
“No. Weird is a woman who writes about kinky alien sex and then gets her college frenemy to fuck her with a giant blue cock that she’s now going to display like a trophy on her bookshelf with her weird books, too.”
Like he was being bound by dental floss, he breaks my hold. Fisting my hair at the nape of my neck with the perfect pressure, right between “ouch” and “Oh yes, Daddy,” he turns the faucet on between my legs.
“You’re not weird, Blair.” He practically snarls it. “It’s hot. It’s a love story. It’s romantic what you wrote. Beings who are forbidden to love and fuck; it’s honest and brave, and it entertains people. Hell, maybe it inspires them to be brave about the ones they want, to say who they love, and to feel no shame about it and…”
He trails off. The hard swallow of his whiskered throat is visible. The confession in his eyes is obvious.
“Who do you love, Beau?”
It’s not a jealous question. He’s hurting. I can see it in his gorgeous eyes; he’s hiding something, and I’m not mad about it.
How can I be?
Beau was never mine.
He wasn’t mine in college when I fell for him. When I was reading a book on a Saturday night, curled up in my bed while everyone else was partying. I was content in my Hello Kitty PJs and glasses. Me and my books had a happy life until a bang on my dorm door.
When I opened it, there was Beau with Reese passed out in his arms. She got black-out drunk at a party, and he saved her because we all know what could’ve happened to her. I knew then that a man like Beau is rare, he’s worth keeping but from that moment on, he wasn’t mine.
And he isn’t mine now. He’s made that clear.
We have only one night because his life is as complicated as his heart. It’s a heart he let me see. It’s a heart I’ve loved from the sidelines, and that’s where I’ll stay — silently cheering from the sidelines of his life.
I can’t get hurt here.
You can’t lose a game you’re not willing to play.
He hauls my mouth to his. Probably to shut me up, to not answer my question, and now that he’s using kisses and not insults to do it, it works. I can resist his passion like a wet noodle. And when he grabs my hip with a ferocity that will leave bruises, wet turns into a flood.
I don’t need him to confess. I don’t need to upset him. I don’t need to win.
I just need him to take my cunt to church one more time so I can praise God for how he makes me come.
“We need a shower,” I huff into his hungry lips.
“You need to shut up and let me fuck you again.”
Why I have muscles, I don’t know. They’re useless to fight him when he flips us over, so he’s on top, hooking his arm under my knee. I’m splayed open for him and want him, too, but then I remember the other toys in my bag. I remember what I brought for him, but I have to do this carefully.
I want to freak him, not freak him out.
“Then fuck me in the shower,” I insist, smiling up at him, batting my lashes for extra measure.
He suddenly halts right before thrusting inside me and narrows his eyes. “What are you up to?”
“Nothing.”
How the fuck can he read my twisted mind?
“You’re up to something, Blair. You only look sweet like that right before you sin,” he says. “Like right before you poured Kraft Mac & Cheese powder in my Sunny D and served it to me with a smile and did that thing with your long-ass lashes like you’re doing now.”
I giggle. “Why did you keep trusting me?”
“Because you played the long game that week. You were all sweet to me and shit, and I was the dumbass who believed we were in a truce.”
“Well, you got me back.” I flick my finger down his nose. “You waited a month and baited me, leaving eclairs filled with mayonnaise in a pastry box for me to gag on.”
