Chapter 4 #2
I rest my left hand on the wall next to her head, cupping my right around her throat.
I can feel the steady thrum of her pulse pressed against my palm.
She swallows once, her neck muscles contracting quickly.
Her expression is shadowed by my head, and I suddenly wish I’d left the lamp on.
I can’t tell if she’s anxious I’ll hurt her or aroused by the possessive grip.
I doubt the one percent spends their summer parties whispering about townie scandals—I never told her my last name, even if they do—but it’s possible she’s heard the rumors about my father. If she has, she’d be afraid.
My grip relaxes. My hand slides lower, cupping her left breast. I was right—the curve fits my palm perfectly.
“Fast and hard, huh?”
I nearly smile, hiding it with a scowl as I drop my hand to the hem of her dress. I fist the fabric roughly, shoving it up to her hip before moving my hand to the heat between her legs. She’s soaking wet, the strip of lace clinging to her pussy.
She’s as affected by me as I am by her. Reassuring. Also loosens my grip on control.
“Impatient?” I taunt back. “Those rich boys really can’t do anything right. Do you always have to fake it?”
“You’re an—”
She gasps when I locate her clit, pinching the swell of swollen nerves.
“Call me an asshole one more time, Wren.”
“You started it,” she mutters.
It’s bad for both of us that I find her impertinence so intriguing.
I finger her through the lace for a minute, conflicted between teasing her longer and ending the torture I’m inflicting on myself.
Once a breathy moan slips out, the decision is made for me.
All the blood in my body must be in my dick by now.
I was planning to just tug her underwear to one side, but I yank the lace down to her knees for better access. Gravity pulls them lower.
“Move,” Wren says, planting her hands on my chest and giving me a light shove.
I’m surprised enough to step back because I’m always the one issuing orders in these situations.
She bends down, lifting one foot and then the other, freeing her thong. I’m unreasonably relieved she hasn’t changed her mind about this. Ridiculously aroused by the sight of her blonde head bobbing so close to my crotch.
When she straightens, I kiss her roughly, breaking my own rule.
This is the only time we’ll do this—might as well indulge more.
She’s already kissed me twice. Initiating it once is just about evening the score.
Her tongue twines around mine, and I imagine it caressing the crown of my cock.
If I wasn’t already painfully hard, I would be now.
Wren bites my bottom lip, hard enough to sting, but not rough enough to draw blood, and my dick jerks.
I reach between us, guiding my erection between her legs. She feels it, rubs against it, and the room suddenly smells like sex.
“Wrap your legs around my waist,” I urge. “Like—yeah.”
When she wants to be, Wren’s compliant.
I palm her ass with one hand, guiding my cock to her entrance with the other, scowling when I realize I’m showing off. That I’m more focused on this being memorable for her than on getting off.
“Motherfucker,” she hisses.
I still, a Herculean task, considering Wren has the tightest pussy I’ve ever felt and I’m only a couple of inches in.
“You okay?” I manage to ask between deep breaths.
I could come from the warm clench of her cunt around the tip of my cock, but I don’t want to. I want to be buried inside her when it happens, and I want her to come too.
In answer, Wren winds an arm around my neck and pulls my mouth back to hers. The kiss is softer and slower this time, not nearly as desperate. Vulnerable almost.
“Keep going,” she whispers, then kisses me again.
I do, pressing deeper at the same leisurely pace we’re making out to. I’m bigger than the other guys she’s been with, I’m guessing, which inflates my chest with some primal pride. But I don’t want to hurt her. I’m not my father.
I thumb her clit a few times, feeling how tight she’s stretched around me, hoping the friction will help. She’s plenty wet, her arousal soaking my fingers as I rub them around.
I pull back enough to see her face, wishing again that I’d left a light on. I can’t do anything about that now though, so I ask, “Still good?”
Her fingers play with the short strands of hair at the base of my neck. It feels fucking incredible. I fight a groan, quite certain she can feel my dick jerk inside of her. I’m desperate to pump—to fuck.
“I have a theory,” Wren tells me, tilting her head. Some blonde strands brush my biceps. “I think the asshole thing is a front to cover the fact that you’re secretly a decent guy.”
This is why I don’t kiss girls or talk during sex. Because they start to see what they want, not what I’m showing them.
“Your theory is wrong,” I tell her. “I’m an asshole, pretending to be a decent guy for a few minutes since you’re used to tiny dicks and rose-petal sheets.”
Rather than appear insulted or annoyed, Wren laughs. I feel the vibrations against me. Around me. We’re so intimately connected. Joined in a way I’ve never experienced during sex before because I’m normally thrusting, not lingering.
“I won’t break,” she tells me. “Don’t treat me like crystal.”
I suppress the snort that wants to slip out. Crystal. She’s so goddamn rich. I grew up drinking out of plastic cups. Glass does break and is expensive to replace.
Her legs tighten around my waist, shifting the angle slightly.
I slip a little deeper, and Wren moans, nails sinking into my shoulders.
I take it as a signal to keep moving, pulling out and pushing in with only slightly less effort.
She’s still so tight. I move my thumb to her clit again, rubbing slow circles.
Her mouth lands on my neck, sucking gently.
Her teeth graze the skin, followed by the slick flick of her tongue.
My control is slipping, base instincts fighting to emerge.
“You feel good,” Wren murmurs.
I adjust my grip on her hips. My hold is firm enough that I’m probably leaving marks.
I want this to last, but it’s not going to be physically possible for much longer. Fire is licking up my spine, feeding the distinctive tightening in my balls.
Wren makes this sexy whimper, and I let go, flooding the condom with cum. The release is longer and fiercer than I’m used to, blurring the edges of my vision. Robbing my ability to breathe. To move even as it rips through me with unexpected intensity.
Breathing heavily, I pull out and set her on the floor. Wren’s face dips, hair falling forward as she grabs her underwear, then adjusts her dress around her thighs.
When her chin lifts, her expression is serene and unreadable in the moonlight. “I’d say see you around, but I probably won’t.”
“You probably won’t,” I agree, amused by her parroting my parting comment when we reached the shore the other night.
I like that she remembers what I said. Like that she tossed it back in my face even more. And I wish it weren’t true—that I would see her around again.
“Bye, Sawyer.”
She’s walking out of Wade’s bedroom before I can muster any reply.
I stare at the door she left ajar for a few seconds, inhaling floral-and-sex-scented air and enjoying the lingering endorphins, then walk over to Wade’s bedside table to grab a tissue.
When I can’t find one, I turn the lamp back on.
There’s a small stack of napkins from a local pizza place that will work.
I grab a couple, go to peel off the condom, and freeze, staring at the dark streaks on the latex.