Chapter Whit
Whit
I insisted on walking Jonas over to my parents’ for his sleepover.
Not because he isn’t capable of walking there on his own, but because I’m terrified of being alone with Colt.
Had Jonas headed out that door alone, leaving Colt and me standing in the kitchen, pinkies secretly linked at our sides, I’m not sure he would’ve made it to the end of the driveway before I was succumbing to my desires.
With the house empty, and a full hour before I need to leave, I slip out of my work clothes and draw the bedroom curtains.
I need to work through the lust pooling between my legs before I go out tonight.
Before I spend time dangerously close to Colt in a child-free environment with alcohol involved.
The way his callused fingers felt hooked on mine, and the pressure of his hip against my side, plays on repeat in my mind as I move through the bedroom.
I’ve worked so hard to undo the damage my teenage self did to my reputation, building wall upon wall until the person I presented to the public became something so alien to who I actually am.
Not that I know who I am anymore.
But Colt knows. When our eyes meet, his playful expression becomes meaningfully searching, like he’s found my real self tucked away in the shadows of my irises.
My bed’s warm from the sun that was previously cascading over my dark comforter, and I wrap myself around my body pillow until my heart beats deep and slow.
Using my heels, I tug the pillow tighter between my legs to straddle it.
In the dark, eyes shut, I can recall Colt’s scent, and it’s like he’s right here—between my thighs, his muscular body applying friction where I need it most. I feel myself becoming wet.
Wetter with every second of Colt on my mind.
I rock against the pillow, using one hand to hold it steady, waiting for the moment when it—
“Fuck,” I moan into the bunched fabric.
My hips grind in a steady rhythm, climbing in tempo, as the seam rubs along my slit and presses deliciously onto my needy, throbbing clit.
For years, I pictured celebrities or relied on my imagination to drum up images of book boyfriends.
But since meeting Colt, I’m a little ashamed to say I’ve been using him for my fantasies.
I can vividly imagine the feeling of his thick, brown hair tangling around my fingers, the heavenly scratch of facial hair on my inner thighs, and the pressure of his fingernails dug into my hips while I ride his face.
Those rough, steady hands of his squeezing and gripping and studying every inch of my skin.
His body’s not manly in the way of broad shoulders and sharp features.
He’s long and lean, with a perfectly square jaw and shoulders the ideal size to balance my thighs on.
An Adonis belt that makes me want to drop to my knees and beg to lick the deep grooves of every well-defined muscle on his stomach.
And I won’t stop there. There’s no doubt in my mind his dick is huge.
I squeeze my eyes tight, grinding frenetically, letting my mind drift until it’s his cock sliding up and down my wet pussy.
It’s the soft skin of his back I’m digging my nails into.
That’s it, Mama. Come for me. The fantasy of his voice enraptures me.
My feverish pace brings me so close to orgasm, the muscles in my legs are too shaky to hold the pillow still.
So I roll on top of it, pinching my nipples between my fingertips and riding harder than ever before.
The smooth drag of my underwear over my clit has the world spinning wildly, and I throw my head forward to bite at my sheets as an explosion sends heat surging up my belly and down my trembling legs.
I flop down, fingers still locked around the wrinkled pillowcase.
When I’ve had to suppress the urge to call Alex, this has always done the trick.
Yet when I lie spread-eagle on my back, staring blissfully up at the ceiling fan, I find myself wanting Colt more than ever before.
I’m positively greedy for the feel of his weight on top of me.
To have him so embedded in me, nothing can get us apart.
I’m fiercely uncertain and recklessly sure of one thing: I want him as badly as I want my next breath. I can’t have him…. But, fuck, do I want him.