Chapter 35
thirty-five
. . .
RORY
The moment we walk inside the house, Summer steps out of her heels and rushes toward the bedroom. After dropping my keys on the counter, I pull at my tie and follow her down the hallway.
The car ride home had been quiet, but she hadn’t seemed upset. More distant, like she’s in her head. The same way I’ve been in mine.
After seeing my parents at the auction, I’d needed to head straight to a media panel with Connor.
The panel was fine. Connor had been professional, which was better than I expected. But while I answered questions about team chemistry and upcoming meets, all I could think about was Summer.
For me, I’d been holding it together all damn night.
Touching Summer, having her hands on me. Kissing her in front of everyone and pretending like it didn’t wreck me every time our lips touch had become too much. My plan to show Summer how much this chemistry between us isn’t just for show only resulted in whittling away what little restraint I have left.
When I walk into our bedroom, I expect Summer to have already changed. But I find her in the closet, standing there in the ocean blue gown that’s been slowly killing me all night, staring at her reflection in the full-length mirror. It feels like she’s been in her head since the auction. For some reason the Covey painting rattled her. Maybe it’s an artist thing. But if my suspicions are correct, there’s more to it.
“Hey, Wildflower,” I say softy, reaching up to pull my tie off.
“Did I do okay tonight?” she asks, an unreadable expression on her face as her fingers reach up to start unzipping her dress.
“What do you mean?” I ask, tugging off my cufflinks.
“Do you think we were convincing? That people believed we’re a real couple?”
“Summer, you were great. Why are you?—"
“What about you?” she cuts in, unclasping her necklace and turning to set it on the closet island.
I let out a slow breath, unbuttoning my sleeves while trying to figure out what the hell is going on.
“What about me?”
“You looked at me like you meant it,” she says, her voice going quiet. “Like it was real. You touched me like you meant it. It felt—” She swallows, her eyes darting away before finding mine again. “It felt too easy.”
At Summer’s words, my chest tightens.
“That’s because I wasn’t pretending.”
I take another step toward her.
“Nothing was fake tonight, Summer. I don’t have to fake it with you.”
At my words, something in Summer’s expression shatters. I’ve seen it before. She’s overwhelmed and freaking out.
Because while she’d expected to play pretend tonight, she’d felt it just like I had.
“Wildflower—”
“I never—” she blurts, but quickly snaps her mouth shut. I watch as her hands curl into fists by her sides. “I’ve never—” she tries again, voice shaking with frustration. “A guy has never made me finish before.”
There’s silence as I take in Summer’s words. I think I might have stopped breathing.
“I don’t know why I said that.” Her palm presses to her forehead and a soft, nervous laugh bubbles up her throat.
“You’re serious?” I ask.
She nods.
“Not once?”
Summer slowly shakes her head in confirmation.
The anger and disbelief I had when she told me about her ex not wanting her returns. What the actual fuck is wrong with that guy?
When our eyes lock, I see her insecurity reflected to me, but I also see the desire.
“You keep looking at me like that, Wildflower,” I say, my voice low, “I’m going to do something about it.”
She swallows thickly, her eyes never leaving mine as her tongue peeks out to wet her bottom lip.
“I don’t even know if I can. It might take me a while. It’s only been me and Big Dill for years.”
That’s right. Big Dill the pickle vibrator. Lucky bastard.
“But in Charleston when you talked to me while I touched myself, it surprised me.” Her voice is softer now. More vulnerable. “You didn’t even lay a hand on me and I—” She breaks off, her breathing coming harder now. “I came so hard I saw stars.”
I step closer, hand itching to touch her but waiting. “I remember every second of that night.”
She nods. “I want to feel that again.”
“If this is what you want, Summer. If you’re asking me to make you come, then I’ll spend as long as it takes to get you off.”
My words are steady, but my head is spinning with her confession. No other man has had the pleasure of seeing my wife’s face when she comes? Fuck if this night didn’t take an unexpected turn.
My anger at her ex morphs into smugness, and I can’t stop smiling.
“Why are you smiling like that?” she asks.
“I’m going to be the only man to make my wife come.”
Her eyes widen, and I can see uncertainty seeping back in. “I don’t want you to be frustrated if I can’t. If it takes too long.”
I hate that she feels like she’s a burden. It makes me fucking livid.
“Stop acting like you’re a burden, Summer,” I growl. “Pleasuring you is going to be my goddamn privilege.”
But then I realize she never asked me. She never said the words.
“I need you to say it, Wildflower.” I brush her hair behind her shoulder, then drag my fingertips over her collarbone.
“Say what?” she asks.
“What you want me to do.”
She looks like a deer in headlights. Caught between the high beams of desire and self-doubt. My other hand reaches out to take hers, to softly run my thumb over her knuckles before giving it a squeeze. I’m reassuring her this isn’t a test but something I need from her so I can give her what she needs.
Her eyes drop to where our hands are joined, then she takes a step closer until our chests are brushing against each other, her eyes downcast for a moment before she turns to look up at me.
“Rory?” She sighs, her eyes fluttering closed before they blink open again.
“Yeah, Wildflower?”
“I want it to be you. Please make me come.”