Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Crane Cove, Oregon
“I was there in December,” Peter explained. “When we said ‘let’s meet in five years,’ I started counting from the day you left. You started counting from the day we met.” A dreamy, but definitely smug, smile graced his lovely face. “That’s rather romantic of you.”
Sybil sniffled. She couldn’t shake the feeling that snot was leaking out of her nose.
“I am not romantic,” she protested flatly, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “I clearly said ‘from the beginning.’ We began in October. I don’t see what’s so complicated about that.”
Except she could see what had been so complicated. They’d lost seven years because she’d been too emotional to be sensible and make sure they were on the same page about when and where they were supposed to meet.
“Okay,” Peter conceded, scooting forward so his knee was wedged between hers and his lips brushed over hers when he spoke. “You’re right. I should’ve hedged my bets and gone in October too. Now that we’ve cleared that up, will you let me love you? ”
Her heart was so light she worried she’d float away like a balloon in a breeze.
“You’re impossible,” she told him with faux exasperation, and she absorbed his smile as he kissed her.
Peter cradled the back of her head as he kissed her, leaning into her until his weight gradually lowered her to the floor.
Something hard and unyielding dug into her back.
“Ow,” Sybil said against his mouth, and reached behind her. She held up a can of refried beans. “Maybe not on the kitchen floor.”
He hid his face in her neck and his shoulders shook with silent laughter.
“Maybe you’re right,” he agreed and got to his feet. He held out a hand to help her up. She took it, and he hauled her to her feet.
“My bed is more comfortable,” she promised, intertwining their fingers and guiding him out of the minefield of cans.
“The couch is closer,” he pointed out as she mounted the first step.
Sybil stopped and looked over her shoulder. “Peter. Do you really want the first time we have sex again to be on the couch ?”
He looked at the living room. “It’s a nice couch…”
“Peter.”
“But the bed is better,” he agreed and hurried up the stairs after her.
If she’d known that morning that Peter was going to be in her room again, Sybil would’ve bothered cleaning up. Or changing the sheets. But by the way he wrapped her up in his arms and kissed the living daylights out of her as soon as they crossed the threshold, Sybil guessed he didn’t really mind the mess.
Stumbling steps took them to the bed because navigation was secondary to the need to not separate their bodies more than absolutely necessary. Sybil’s legs folded involuntarily when they collided with her mattress, and they tumbled onto the bed. Fumbling fingers tried to remove clothing with little success because they kept getting in each other’s way, until Sybil finally put a hand on his chest and pushed him back.
“I remove my clothes,” she panted, “and you remove yours. Otherwise this is never going to work.”
Peter scrambled into a position more conducive to stripping and then his shirt was off his body and flung across the room before she could marshal her limbs to twitch.
She stared.
Time hadn’t been cruel to her, but it had been generous as fuck to Peter. Twelve years ago, he’d been rangy, still growing into his body as he exited adolescence. As a full-grown man, he was breathtaking. Well-defined muscles hid just under his skin, so she could see them bunch and flex as he moved, but he remained long and slender. As he shucked his pants, she noticed the faintest hint of definition from his hip to his groin, and she wanted to lick that subtle line. Absolutely mouthwatering.
“I think I’m going to have to turn out the lights before I take my clothes off.”
The words that were supposed to be inside thoughts slipped out of her mouth, and Peter paused taking off his socks.
“Why?”
Too late to take it back now.
“Because.” She gestured at his body with a sweep of her hand. “You look like that . And I can’t say I’ve necessarily improved since you last saw me naked.”
“Bodies change,” Peter said. “I’ve been dying to see how yours has.”
“Okay, but can you temper your expectations because my body doesn’t look like it did when I was twenty.”
“I know. Your boobs are bigger.” When she stared at him, wide-eyed, he added, “I noticed at the wedding. You looked really amazing.”
It took a lot of effort not to preen. She had looked amazing. God bless Eloise for having impeccable, timeless taste that made her look like an Old Hollywood movie starlet. Too bad he’d missed the wedding rehearsal, because she’d thought the best revenge would be to look good and she’d looked fantastic.
“Are you going to leave your socks on?” Sybil asked, and Peter grinned, then nearly fell over taking them off.
She reclined, propping herself on her elbows, and watched him. No, life wasn’t fair but she was certainly reaping the benefits. She was so caught up in studying the muscles on his back that she didn’t notice he was watching her too.
“You’re still dressed.”
“Technically, so are you,” she said and pointed to his underwear. Black boxer briefs. Some things never changed.
“These are my insurance policy,” he told her, curling an arm around her waist and lowering her to the mattress. “You can’t see my goods if I can’t see yours.”
Peter kissed her again in the slow, deep, thorough way that made her toes curl and her pussy clench in eager anticipation. Most of her reluctance melted away and she was about to tell him to get off so she could get undressed when he pulled back, his expression soft yet serious.
“If you want me to tell you that you haven’t changed a bit since we were twenty, I can’t do that. Because you have changed. I wish I’d been around to see it, because it would be a privilege to watch you grow older. But”—he interlaced their fingers and then brought her hand between them to assess the hard, hot length of his cock through straining cotton—“clearly I’m a big fan of you at every stage of life.”
“Showing me this would’ve saved you a speech.” Sybil squeezed him through the fabric, and his eyes rolled back into his head while a shudder traveled the length of his body. “But I like your sweet-talking. Now get off so I can get naked.”
He moved quickly, rolling off her and scooting up to the head of her bed, where he reclined against her pillows. Nervousness rose in her like smoke, wispy but unavoidable. Did she start with her shirt or her pants?
Peter hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear and pushed them off his hips, down his thighs, and once his legs were free, he tossed them aside. Then he wrapped a hand around the thick base of his cock and stroked it with long, slow motions, watching her expectantly.
Suddenly the order of removal didn’t matter so much as long as her clothes came off.
She shed her pants, then her Cranberry Festival T-shirt, then her bra, then her underwear. All of it gone in under thirty seconds. Peter moaned his appreciation.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he said.
“No, that would be you,” she countered, slinking up the bed and feeling like a cat about to pounce. She licked her lips as she spread his knees to give herself more room. This close she could see a bead of precum leak from the tip of his cock and slide down to pool against his fingers. “God, I want that.”
“As much as I want you to have it, I’m afraid if you touch it, I’ll explode.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Sybil lightly raked her nails down his inner thighs, satisfaction and desire surging within her when his knees and balls drew up at the same time. “Is there a condom in your wallet? Because I’m going to be way too tempted to make stupid choices if we don’t get it out and ready.”
His hand paused mid-stroke, his gorgeous, cinematic face broadcasting distress.
“I forgot to bring one.” His head fell back against her headboard with a painful sounding thunk . “Fuck. Do you have one?”
Sybil stretched her body across his as she reached her nightstand drawer. The insistent head of his cock prodded her belly, making her body ache with anticipation. Remembering the stretch and the fullness of him inside of her, hitting spots that made her lose her mind and beg for more, made her nipples tingle as they became harder.
She pulled open the drawer and dug around. When was the last time she’d even needed a condom? If she found one, would it have expired?
“Oh, fuck,” she groaned, her eyelids fluttering as Peter rubbed her clit. She lifted her hips to give him a better angle, and pressed her cunt against his hand.
“Did you find one?” he asked, sliding two fingers inside of her and then using the abundance of wetness to lubricate his ministrations on her clit.
“N-no,” she stuttered.
The horny part of her brain was getting louder and louder, daring her to make not-smart, and potentially unsafe, decisions, consequences be damned. Anything to end the perfect torture between her legs. It wouldn’t be hard to straddle his hips, fit the tip of his cock in her pussy, then slide down the bare length of him. She was so wet she could probably glide down in one motion. And he’d fill her up so good too. So good, so hard, so full.
Sybil rocked against his hand and moaned loudly.
Peter’s voice sounded tight when he asked, “Is there one in the bathroom?”
“If you want me to think, you have to stop touching me,” she said, and when he stopped, she immediately protested with a high-pitched, whiny “Nooo.”
“We need a condom,” he reminded her. Sybil pouted at him over her shoulder, and he relented a little by stroking her pussy, but he avoided her clit. “Is there one in your purse?”
“No. Men are aggravating, and one-night stands aren’t fun for me.” She wracked what little of her brain was still useful, trying to imagine where in the house there might possibly be a condom. “I’ll go check Mal’s room. She might have one.”
The sprint from her room to Mallory’s room was so impressive that if any nudists had spotted her, they’d have recruited her for the fifty-yard dash in the Naked Olympics. She tore through her sister’s half-unpacked luggage, hoping Mallory wouldn’t notice the difference between the original mess and her mess. Hope dwindled, and Sybil actually considered calling Eloise to see if she had any condoms left over from her years of baby prevention when she unzipped a small pink bag. Inside was a small vibrator and three condoms. Carefully, so as not to touch the vibrator, Sybil plucked a condom from the bag and raced back to her room, holding the packet above her head in triumph.
“I found one!”
Peter sagged against the pillows, slack with relief. She could relate. The idea of hunting down a condom in Crane Cove at any time was daunting, but when she had something at stake? Horrendous. She couldn’t have abandoned the condoms if the cashier was a gossip, or if she spotted someone apt to give a shit what she did behind closed doors. And it wasn’t like she could send Peter. Now that he’d released his cock, she didn’t think they’d be able to stuff it back into his pants until it deflated again.
“Get over here,” he beckoned. It was an invitation, not a command. Peter was a fantastic actor and could turn on bossy if she wanted him to, but at his core he was a considerate pleaser.
At some point during his stay, she would ask him to be bossy, if only because the illusion of barely bridled danger kept in check by steely control was thrilling. Or maybe it was thrilling because it was so out of character for him. She would need to experiment a lot to pinpoint exactly what about him got her motor going.
Sybil joined him on the bed and straddled his thighs, condom still held between her fingers. “How do you want me?”
If brains were like computers, Peter’s crashed, his face becoming the human equivalent of the blue screen of death.
“On my back? On my knees? On top, riding you for all I’m worth?”
He continued to stare, but he was finally able to coax out a hoarse “Yes.”
“There were options, Peter. Yes to what?”
“All of it,” he croaked, then cleared his throat. “I want you every way I can have you. Any way I can have you.”
She grinned. “What about right now?”
“Right now, I want to finish what I started yesterday and taste you while you come.”
Anticipation flooded her body, and if she hadn’t thought she’d need to wash her bedding before, she would after that.
“I think that can be arranged,” she said in a poor attempt at being coy. “Do you want me exactly like I was last night? Or I could sit on your face…”
Between them, his cock pulsed so hard it jumped. Peter groaned and squeezed her hips tightly, his fingertips digging into her flesh.
“That. I want you on my face. Please.”
Like she could—or would—deny him that . Sybil put a hand on top of his head and pushed down.
“Get to work.”
The way he slid under her reminded her of a mechanic rolling under a car. It was quick and fluid. One moment he was sitting up, the next she could feel his breath against her hypersensitive clit. And, bless him, he took “get to work” to heart. He licked and suckled her clit like it was his one mission on Earth, squeezing and kneading her hips and ass while he did so. Her core strength gave out and her hands smacked against the wall as she caught herself.
“Oh, fuck ,” she moaned. She left one palm plastered on the wall, and her other hand threaded through his thick blond hair, gripping it near its roots, and she hung on for dear life.
Pleasure rolled through her like the foreshocks of an earthquake, with the promise of something big on the horizon. She ground her pussy against his mouth, desperate to make something happen so she could find some relief. He somehow managed to redouble his efforts, and her eyes rolled back in her head. Her hand slipped down the wall, and she grabbed a hold of the headboard to steady herself.
“Peter,” she whined, her fist tightening around his hair. “Fuck, I wanna come so bad. Please. I wanna come so bad—oh, god, yes . That. Keep doing that. Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
His tongue moved rapidly across her clit and the pressure inside of her grew more intense, twisting and tightening until she broke, shattering with a breathless shriek. Her whole body convulsed in unison with her pussy, which was constricting around nothing.
As the aftershocks passed, Sybil loosened her grip on his hair, then let go. She slumped forward, letting the headboard hold her up so she didn’t smother Peter.
Heavy contentment settled over her body, leaving her feeling fuzzy around the edges. Moving to a different position seemed impossible, so if Peter wanted to fuck her, he was going to have to get behind her and do all the work.
“Fuck, that was amazing.” Even speaking took a lot of effort. “You’re?—”
A firm swipe of his tongue stole the words from her mouth. She tried to say “Oh, god,” but no sound came out. Another swipe, a swirl, and his determined tongue went to work on her again. With every touch heightened, it took no time at all for another, smaller orgasm to pass through her body.
Sybil barely found the strength to tap the side of his head to get his attention.
“Stop, stop, stop,” she begged. “It’s too much.”
With a final kiss, Peter wiggled back up onto the pillows and Sybil collapsed on top of him, her bones melted like chocolate on a hot summer day.
His hair was a wreck and his nose, lips, and chin were so wet they glistened.
“Did I do good?” he asked, stroking her back, his fingers bumping over each vertebrae in her spine.
“I might chain you to the bed so you can never leave,” she told him, her voice so languid that she sounded drunk to her own ears.
“I don’t have any objections to that, except that the chains aren’t necessary.”
She chuckled weakly. “You might have done too good. I don’t know if I can move.”
“Does that mean you want a raincheck on the sex?”
“If you don’t fuck me with that huge cock, we’re going to have a problem.”
His laugh rumbled against her cheek, and she smiled. This was what she’d missed. Life-altering orgasms and the comfortable afterglow camaraderie.
Peter curled an arm around her and rolled them so she was on her back under him.
“Great view,” she commented. He grabbed the condom and sat back on his heels to roll the latex sheath down his length. Sybil pushed herself up on her elbows to watch, and added, “Really great view.”
An adorable blush colored Peter’s cheeks. The rosy glow looked good on him, but everything looked good on him. Sybil knew she shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, but she would never stop being baffled as to why he’d chosen her of all people to become hyperfixated on. She wasn’t anything special.
But when Peter lowered himself so he could kiss her again, the tangy taste of her body still heavy on his tongue, she felt special.
She gasped, inhaling sharply like she was trying to steal the breath from his lungs, as he pushed into her, his girth stretching her open. It felt so good to be filled that she wanted to weep from relief.
“Oh, god,” she moaned.