Chapter 25 Blake
BLAKE
“YOU STILL HAVEN’T HAD SEX.” Annaliese sounds dubious.
“Nope,” I confirm.
“Why are you stalling?”
“Oh, you sweet, naive girl. I’m not the one who’s stalling.”
Laughing, I reach for my Diet Coke and bat away the persistent wasp that’s been buzzing around, determined to land on my straw. We’re having lunch at an outdoor patio in town today.
Her jaw drops. “Bullshit. Wyatt Graham, the guy who’s fucked half the lake, refuses to have sex with you?”
“Jeez, when you say it like that, it’s terrible for my ego.”
“Oh, shut up. He undresses you with his eyes any time you’re within a hundred feet of him. That’s why I’m so mystified.”
I’m not. I’m starting to understand Wyatt’s modus operandi: distance. He always maintains just the right amount of distance to prevent you from getting too close to him.
Unless it’s in bed. Then? He’s all in.
He lamented about women always falling for him. Claimed his dick is so good that they inevitably want more. And there’s no denying his penis is downright enchanting. It hasn’t even been inside me, yet I would already sign a statement declaring it the world’s greatest dick.
But his dick isn’t the reason women fall.
They fall because he makes them believe he loves them.
Not with words but with his actions. He’s attuned to every breath, every soft noise, while his eyes devour you, burning into your soul.
The first time he went down on me, he spent an eternity tracing his lips over every inch of flesh.
Listening to every microscopic bodily response, every whimper.
Taking the time to learn and memorize what I liked, what made me shiver.
In the moment, Wyatt Graham makes you feel like you’re the only woman in the world. Like you’re his oxygen. His one true love.
It’s no wonder women are left bereft when he moves on. Who wouldn’t want that intoxicating feeling back?
“I think he’s afraid of breaking my heart,” I tell Annaliese, sipping my soda.
“I mean, he has the track record for it. Remember what he did to Rosie Tipper? Girl was so devastated she forced her parents to sell their house.”
“I don’t actually believe that. Yes, she was upset and showed up at our dock crying and begging, but there’s no way that’s why they sold their house.”
Annaliese is smug. “Logan, my mother is the Tahoe Realtor. And that is literally what happened. Mom’s the one who sold their house.”
Wow. I’m legit shocked that the rumor is true. Enchanting penis indeed.
“Anyway, he thinks he’s going to hurt me,” I say with a shrug. “He makes comments about it sometimes when we’re fooling around. He’s probably terrified that full-on sex will make me fall in love with him.”
“Well, joke’s on him, right? Because you’re already in love with him.”
I glare at her. “I am not.”
She snorts. “You’ve been in love with him since you were a kid.”
“That wasn’t real love,” I protest. “It was puppy love. It was a crush.”
“Okay, so what is it now?”
I bite my lip. What is it now? It’s…
It’s magic.
Ugh. I hate even thinking that, because it only demonstrates I’m probably way more into him than he is into me.
But something happens when Wyatt and I are together.
Something magical and emotional and infuriating.
He stirs all my emotions, not just one or two, and it’s terrifying to feel everything, all at once.
I’m so tempted to ask him if he feels it too, that magic.
I want to ask him what it means that he texts me all the time, even when we’re in the same room.
It’s cute. And sweet. And I want so badly to know if I’m misreading it.
Because I behave the same way, and I know what it means when I do it. He’s always on my mind.
Fuck.
Maybe I am falling, just a tiny bit. But I’d never admit it to Annaliese, because she’ll tease me mercilessly.
We’re interrupted by an incoming message on my phone. I check it and chuckle at the screen.
“Is that him?” Annaliese grins.
“No, it’s my ghost-hunting buddies. Little Spencer claims he heard Darlie at the lighthouse yesterday. His hypothesis is that she takes a break from lake haunting sometimes to indulge in some lighthouse haunting as revenge for her sister meeting Raymond there.”
“Girl, you need to stop associating with crazies.”
“The Spencers aren’t crazy. They’re hilarious.”
“Crazy people can be funny. There’s no rule that says they can’t be.”
“Nah, I like them. And I’m enjoying the research. Oh! And guess what!” I brighten at the reminder. “The county sent me Darlie’s death certificate. We’ve got official confirmation that she’s dead.”
“Oh, thank God,” she mocks. “We needed that confirmation so badly. I was suffering sleepless nights because of it.”
“We both know you’re invested now. Stop pretending you aren’t.”
“Didn’t you say you were going to be looking at possible jobs this summer? What happened to that?”
“Ugh, yeah,” I say with a sigh. “I’m doing that research too, but this is way more fun. Oooh, and now that I know she’s actually dead, I can hit up all the local cemeteries and look for her tombstone.”
“Wow.” Annaliese stares at me for a moment. “Maybe that can be what you do after graduation. Cemetery stalker.”
I flip up my middle finger, then reach for the bill that our waiter just dropped off. “On me,” I say. “Since you drove.”
“Are you still coming to the fireworks show tonight?” she asks as we leave the restaurant.
“Me, yes. Not sure about Wyatt yet. If he comes, we can meet you at Commons. Otherwise, pick me up?”
“You got it.”
After she drives me home, I head to the dock in search of Wyatt. His guitar and notebook are on a lounger, but he’s not with them. He’s lying down on the swim platform fifty feet out. Sunglasses on, black swim trunks hugging his muscular thighs. A golden feast on display for my hungry eyes.
“Hey, Graham!” I shout toward the water.
He rises on one elbow and props a hand on his forehead to shield his eyes, peering in my direction. Then he gets up and dives off the platform, barely leaving a splash in the water. I admire his long, graceful strokes as he swims back to the dock.
A moment later, he climbs the ladder, his muscular torso glistening and water dripping from his wet hair.
A devilish smile forms at the sight of me. “Hey, freckles.”
Forget the sun beating down on my head. His words are what make me melt. I’m a fucking goner every time he smiles at me like that. Every time he drawls that endearment. For the first time in my life, the word freckles doesn’t feel like a slur.
He strides toward his lounger and grabs a towel, drying himself off. Then he flops down and stretches his legs out. “When’d you get back?”
I wander toward him. “Just now. I came down to see if you want to go to the fireworks tonight with me and Annaliese and her brother.”
I don’t think Wyatt is listening. He’s too busy staring at me.
Or, as Annaliese would call it, undressing me with his eyes.
That hot gaze starts its journey at my feet in my red flip-flops, traveling up my bare legs, resting on the hem of my short, flouncy skirt.
He focuses only briefly on my thin tank top before those hungry green eyes lower again.
“Lift up the skirt,” he says.
I gulp. “Why?”
“Because I want to see your pussy.”
My breath stutters in my chest. I’m standing in the middle of a dock, not exactly a discreet spot, yet a thrill shoots through me at the prospect of giving him what he wants.
Biting my lip, I gather the white fabric between my fingers and ease my skirt up, flashing him just a hint of my striped panties.
He curses softly. “Move the panties aside. Let me see.”
Oh my God.
I nudge the narrow scrap of fabric aside, baring myself to him.
His eyes blaze as they settle between my legs. He swipes his tongue over his bottom lip.
“Goddamn. I want to go down on you right here.”
Do it, I almost beg, but the bold request dies on my tongue when I hear loud laughter behind me. A boat speeds by, and I instantly shove my skirt down, heat scorching my cheeks.
“Aw, look at that. My good girl is blushing,” he says, which only makes me blush harder.
“Stop calling me that in public,” I chide.
“We’re not in public. We’re alone on our dock, and you almost let me eat you out.”
“Nope,” I insist. “I was just playing around. I never would’ve let you.”
“Liar. You were seconds away from riding my tongue.”
“Fireworks,” I say, jabbing a finger in the air. “Yay or nay?”
He shrugs. “What the hell. Yay.”
Commons Beach hosts a fireworks show every Fourth of July, but although we’ve been coming to Tahoe my whole life, this is only my third time attending.
My family doesn’t usually show up till August, so we’re always a month too late.
Wyatt and I meet Annaliese and the others an hour before the show so we can procure a good spot on the grassy area directly facing the lake, where the fireworks will be launched from a barge on the water.
We haul our gear to our chosen spot, laying out blankets and setting down a cooler.
Annaliese’s brother brought two lawn chairs that he calls dibs on for him and his girlfriend, Shaye.
Annaliese brought a date too, though I use that term loosely.
She met the guy on a hookup app only a couple hours ago.
They literally met for the first time just now on the grass.
Since alcohol is strictly prohibited on all the county beaches, we’re drinking sodas and nonalcoholic wine coolers.
“Also known as fizzy juice,” Eddie scornfully says, then reveals he snuck in some vodka disguised as mineral water.
To be honest, I’m not even angry about it.
There’s a chill in the air tonight, so I’m grateful as Eddie passes the bottle around and we all take secretive sips to warm up.
Wyatt and I brought an extra blanket, and I nestle beside him as he spreads the thick fleece over our laps. He tucks it at my side, his expression earnest as he murmurs, “You warm enough?”