Chapter 8 Just for Now
Bailey
I started the kiss, and I’m not backing down. My hands fist his shirt, pulling him closer, and when his lips part in surprise, I take advantage—deepening the kiss, biting his bottom lip just enough to make him gasp.
Then Silas takes over. He rises to his feet with a groan, slotting his hips between my knees, forcing my legs apart. His nose grazes my cheek before his lips capture mine. I suck in a big breath of air, rising up to press harder into him.
Our tongues and lips clash, and there’s an earthquake of excitement deep in my stomach. My hands grip his waist, feeling the firm, warm flesh beneath his shirt. One of his arms is behind me like a band, the other travels from my waist to my neck, his fingers splaying to cup my throat possessively.
Then he slows our kiss, leaning back and leaving sweet, tender kisses on my sensitive lips. His hand is still at my neck, his thumb rubbing against the soft skin, and my body pushes back against him with the racing of my heart.
“God, watching you all day today was torture. You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.”
The words hit me square in the chest. Most beautiful. Not “you look nice” or “you’re pretty.” The most beautiful woman he’s ever known.
I want to deflect, to make a joke, to protect myself from believing him. But his eyes are lust-stricken and earnest—no teasing, no exaggeration. He means it.
His thumb travels over my chin to press my bottom lip down. I flick at it with my tongue, still processing what he just said.
We’re quiet, raggedly breathing over the soft music from my phone. Silas’s other hand is at my waist gently rubbing back and forth over the lace of the teddy.
His hand leaves my face and is replaced by his mouth again. He tugs at the top, carefully pulling it up and over my head.
My breasts are barely contained by the material of the teddy. The cups are padded, and Silas runs a big hand over the left one, bending his head to mouth the edge of the lace. I moan as his hot breath meets my skin, which breaks out in goose bumps.
Then the warmth is gone. Silas straightens and tugs me gently off the stool. “Take your jeans off.”
I obey, stripping my jeans down. I try to bend down to peel them over my feet but there’s no room with me and Silas between the stools.
“Sit,” he commands. I hoist myself back up into the seat as Silas pushes his stool out of the way.
Then he’s on his knees, hands working the jeans the rest of the way off, taking my socks too.
I’m sitting sideways on the stool, one arm on the kitchen counter, one arm on the backrest. My tight jeans left marks on my hips under the high cut of the teddy—red indentations that stand out against my skin.
Silas’s fingers trace one of the marks, feather-light, reverent. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, and then his mouth follows where his fingers were, pressing kisses to the places my jeans marked me.
My breath catches. He’s not ignoring the imperfections—he’s worshipping them.
When my feet are free, Silas carefully takes his glasses off, putting them on the counter, and then he fits his shoulders between my knees and buries his face between my thighs.
“Oh god,” I say, rocking my hips up and leaning back. I’ve got a death grip on the back of the chair and Silas is taking big, deep inhales, his nose pressed against the fabric right over my clit.
“Fuuuuuuuccccckkkkkk,” he groans against my pussy. The vibrations make me jump, but then Silas is pressing his tongue against me and even through the lace and silk I feel the heat and the wetness.
I tilt my head back, and then panic as the barstool wobbles precariously underneath me. Silas grabs my waist, settling the legs of the stool solidly on the ground. I laugh and sit up. “Maybe we should move to the bedroom?”
Silas’s eyes twinkle. “I can’t wait to have you spread out on my bed again.” He pulls back and helps me off the stool, gesturing for me to go first. “Ladies first.”
I toss a saucy look over my shoulder as I walk toward the bedroom. “Being a gentleman?”
His returning grin is pure mischief. “Just want the view from behind.”
“So romantic.”
“Hey, I brought you pizza first.” His hand squeezes my ass before I even make it to the doorway. “That’s practically a marriage proposal in Here. And I’m just admiring my work.”
I laugh—actually laugh—as we tumble into his room together, his mouth hot on my shoulder, his other hand curling around to cup between my legs. “Your work?”
“Our collaborative masterpiece,” he murmurs against my neck, and I can feel him smiling.
I turn to kiss him and soon I’ve got the buttons of his shirt undone, peeling the material off his shoulders and down his back.
“Wait,” he says. I tug against the shirt. “Bailey—”
Damn it. The cuffs are still done up. Instead of dealing with them like a normal adult, I push Silas away and he topples against the bed, laughing—this full, delighted sound that makes my chest warm.
“Mmm, are we a little kinky?” he asks, a twinkle in his eyes and his arms caught beneath him. He sprawls lazily on the bed, legs spread and eyes on fire, looking like every fantasy I’ve ever had.
The tattoos. The dress shirt hanging off his shoulders. The way he’s looking at me like I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to him—even with his arms trapped and completely at my mercy.
That unshakable enthusiasm in a man who looks like sin.
“Maybe,” I say, climbing onto the bed. “You complaining?”
“Not even a little bit.” His grin is pure sunshine, even in this position. “I’m just excited to be included.”
I nudge him to flip over, and he does. I kneel over his thighs, and I notice a tattoo on his right shoulder blade, two lines of script.
“What is this?” I ask, tracing the words with my fingertip.
“Plath,” he answers, his voice slightly muffled against the bed.
“‘I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. I lift my lids and all is born again.’” I read it aloud, feeling the weight of it. “That’s . . . that’s about seeing, isn’t it? About how you choose to look at the world.”
Silas turns his head to look at me, and there’s something vulnerable in his expression. “About how what you see depends on how you choose to look at it. Yeah.”
Of course. Of course Silas Montgomery has poetry about seeing tattooed on his body. The photographer who made me see myself differently today.
I let my finger continue down the length of his spine to the top of his jeans, watching goose bumps rise in its wake.
“Bailey.” His voice is mildly reprimanding, and I return to his wrists to free them. I raise up so he can turn underneath me. “Next time I’ll get you some proper handcuffs,” he teases.
The joke dies as I straddle Silas’s thighs, lining us up so I can feel his erection against me.
I put my hand on his chin, the stubble rough like sandpaper.
My fingers slide down his throat, which he obediently bares for me.
Then over the hollow of his collarbone, the pec tattooed with the playing cards. Down, down, down . . .
Silas’s breath catches, his eyes dark and desperate as I undo the top button of his jeans and slide the zipper down. I wrap my fingers around his dick, which fits perfectly in my palm.
“Do you think you’re exempt from Hunter punching you now?” I tease.
Silas groans. “Don’t say your brother’s name while you’re holding my dick.”
“Hunter, Hunter, Hunter,” I chant and we’re laughing until I feel vibrations against my thigh where Silas’s phone is in his pocket.
Silas’s eyes widen. “Oh shit. It’s like Beetlejuice. We said his name too many times.”
I push off Silas’s chest to sit up and he follows me, abs flexing at the movement. Then he untangles himself from the shirt easily, proving he was never trapped, just playing my game.
Silas checks his phone. “Thank god. It’s just my mom. I’ll call her back later.”
He tugs me back down on top of him, but the moment his tongue is back in my mouth, his phone vibrates again.
I sit up. “It must be important.”
“More important than what we were doing?”
I twist my lips to the side, thinking. Silas claps his hands over his chest, wounded.
But his mom is older than my parents, and she lives alone out in Maine, and I know Hunter has mentioned Silas worrying about her a few times.
“Just in case,” I say. “You should answer. Maybe your mom punched someone.”
Silas chuckles. “Only ’cause you asked.” He taps the answer icon. “Hello?”
I haven’t talked to Silas’s mom in years since she left town.
His dad was never in the picture, and based on how quickly she left town, I think she was just hanging around waiting for her son to be independent.
Last I heard she was running a yoga bed-and-breakfast out in the woods somewhere.
Silas listens for a beat and then rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, I’ll look for it.”
He slumps over, glaring at me. Told you so, he mouths.
Silas lies back, running a hand through his hair. “Uh-huh,” he says to his mom.
His pants are still open, his cock out—though now it’s going soft. He’s not paying any attention, so I bend over and suck him into my mouth.
His body bows. “Jesus! Fu—” He bites his lip before the whole word gets out, and I keep sucking.
“No, sorry, Mom. Just stubbed my toe.” He glares at me, but then his eyes roll back in his head.
“Mom, I gotta go. Love you, bye!” The words come out fast and he hangs up, throwing his phone on the floor.
He groans, his head back and his eyes closed while I take him deep, my nose brushing against the trimmed hairs.
Silas lifts his head up. “You are evil.” Then he jackknifes, catching me under the arms and hoisting me up and flipping us. I end up beneath him, his mouth hot on mine.
We make out, Silas shoving his jeans down to get more comfortable. His dick is rock hard against me, and we grind together.
Silas’s lips trail down, teasing their way to the strap on my shoulder. “Show me how to make you come.”
“Show you?”