Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Summer
I had asked for this.
So he didn’t take much persuading, but then Shelby Mae never had problems attracting boys. Or men. Now Hatch was kissing me like he had no choice. Like I had given him no other option because I was some sort of siren, drawing him to his doom on the rocks.
His mouth moved over mine with assurance, sweet and full of promise, and when his tongue touched mine, the kiss exploded into pure, sexy filth.
I pulled him down into the gutter with me. His weight was perfect, though the hood was hard on my back. I didn’t mind. It was summer, and Stevie Wonder’s “As” had just come on the radio.
I’ll be lovin’ you always.
He drew back an inch and looked down at me, his dark head framed by the starry night sky and soft moonlight.
“This is a terrible idea,” he murmured. It would be the epitaph on my gravestone.
“I’m sorry.” And then I kissed him again because I truly was sorry, but I was mostly angry.
With Dash. With myself. With Hatch for being so cold and stand-offish toward me this past year when it could have been this.
Not that anything would have happened, but he had acted like he hated me all this time and I don’t think I realized until now the toll that took on me.
That hasn’t changed, dummy. Hate has never stopped a man from wanting in a girl’s pants.
Shelby Mae, right again!
So we were both agreed it was terrible, but then the worst ideas tended to feel so good. Maybe it was the taboo, the forbidden, the danger. Or maybe this was simply a reaction to uncommon kindness. The man who had whisked me away to safety, my reluctant rescuer.
So far, it was just a kiss. It could remain there, a bumped line but no further. Unless we pushed the boundaries yet again.
Shelby Mae had ideas. She always did.
The minx slid a hand under his T-shirt and splayed it over his abs.
He inhaled on a hiss, expelled on a groan, and the kiss turned feverish, as did his hands.
They were suddenly everywhere, like my touching him had given permission to explore in ways he would never have dared.
One hand held my head still for the mouth-fucking of a lifetime.
The other wandered over my ass, my back, my ass again, then turned braver.
He cupped my breast through the thin fabric of the shirt I wore—his shirt—and plumped what little I had in the way of boobage.
Now it was my turn to groan. I would never have considered my breasts sensitive—Dash hadn’t paid much attention to them because they were, in his words, “no bigger than mosquito bites.” He had promised to get me a boob job as soon as we were married, not that I’d asked.
The idea of owning my tits was hilarious to him.
I had buried that one deep. People mix up love and possession, but they’re opposites. My former fiancé thought they were the same.
Hatch lifted his head. “Did I hurt you?”
“No, no, just—sorry you don’t have much to work with there.”
He remained silent.
“Meaning the itty bitty tittie committee,” I explained.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” He sounded annoyed. No surprise there.
“I don’t have a lot going on up there so—”
He squeezed my left tit again and I arched off the hood with pleasure.
“Does it feel good?”
“Y-yes.”
“You don’t sound so sure.” This time, he slipped a hand inside the shirt, which had become miraculously unbuttoned, and grazed his knuckles over the slight swell of my breasts, making me shiver.
“You’re beautiful.”
I took a breath, though it was harder to inhale than usual. Likely because of the man in front of me, looking like I was a golden vision in his dreams.
My lungs filled, my heart rate picked up, my eyes … watered. What was wrong with me?
His breath was hot on my neck, his hands warm on my waist. I closed my eyes as he moved his mouth softly over my collarbones, brushing them with a feather-light touch. The reverence in it undid me.
I shivered. So did he.
He returned to my neck and moved my hair aside. Neck kisses. I saw this gif once of a guy kissing his lover’s neck, which I’d thought the most romantic thing ever, and I played it over and over. Something like a sixties’ French movie. This wasn’t that.
This was better.
I sighed and our mouths met like it was meant to be.
We kissed for a while, exploring each other like we had all the time in the world.
Just two kids necking at the lake. But soon, I started to ache.
My breasts, my belly, my pussy. The kisses were perfect but not enough, yet Hatch was in no hurry.
It was as if he’d found a missing piece from his existence and was determined to make every moment count.
I loved that, but also not. I was starting to feel hot and desperate. I needed to feel his skin against mine, his hardness against my softness. I needed it all.
I pulled at the hem of his shirt—I had to do it a couple of times for him to get the message. He drew back, his eyes wild, his lips puffy from my ravaging. I was topless while he still had his T-shirt on, and that would not do.
I pushed the shirt up and he finally understood.
The headlights of the car gave off enough light for me to see the perfection before me.
“Wow,” I whispered. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen that killer body, and I didn’t think I would ever tire of it.
His mouth kicked up at the corner, then his gaze dipped to my breasts. “Wow, right back.”
And you know what? I believed him. This wonderful man thought I was beautiful with my tiny breasts and my skeleton-bride frame. I gripped his arms, barely able to get my hands curled around the biceps, they were so thick.
I ran my palms over his pecs, enjoying the tickle of his chest hair. He felt so solid, so present, and it was all enhanced by how he looked at me. Truly saw inside me.
I shivered again.
“You cold?”
Not physically, but my mind had yearned for a connection this vital. “Warm me up, Hatch.”
He covered my body with his, careful not to apply his entire weight.
Wrapped up in him, I let myself fall into pleasure.
His mouth on mine, my hands on his back, chest to chest with his roughness abrading my nipples.
His fingertips found my breast again, but now there was no barrier.
He played with the sensitive peaks, using his thumb to tease and stroke.
Merely the appetizer to his tongue.
When his mouth closed over my breast, I almost arched off the hood. I moved my own hand down past the waistband of his shorts and squeezed one hard butt cheek. Moved around so I could undo the top button.
Then the zip—
He left off from suckling my breast with a wet pop and met my gaze. “Nope.”
“But I want to.”
He smiled. “Not yet, Sunshine.”
But apparently those rules didn’t apply to him. Three seconds later, my zipper was down, and Hatch’s fingers were hovering over my panties. The ones he bought for me from his former fling.
As the kids might say, could we be any more complicated?
He stroked the lacy edge, then hooked a fingertip beneath the band. “Yes?”
“No,” I said grumpily.
“Because?”
“You won’t let me touch you!”
He smiled. “Is that the only reason?”
“Isn’t it enough?”
He lay his palm flat on my stomach. The heat of it seared me, sending shockwaves to my core. I wanted that hand moving down, down, down.
He cocked his head. “Have you ever heard of the phrase ‘cutting off your nose to spite your face’?”
“Have you heard of ‘you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours’?”
He licked my nipple and earned himself a throaty moan. “Or I’ll lick yours if you lick mine?”
“Yet you won’t even let me touch, never mind lick.”
“There’s timing to consider here, Summer. If I let you touch me, I’m going to explode before I can get you off. Is that what you want?”
It was what I was used to.
“Or would you like me to stroke your pretty little pussy with these fingers that are dying to get inside you?”
Jesus, that was hot. “Just do it.”
“What’s that?”
“Finger fuck me, Dino Boy!”
He started laughing and then I started laughing, but not for long. Because he slipped a talented finger inside my panties and delved between my folds.
“Push your shorts down,” he ordered.
“You mean, your great-grandmother’s shorts?” I didn’t know why I was messing with him, but I was enjoying this so much. The teasing made it sexier. Maybe the brain truly was the biggest sex organ.
“Shut up and drop ’em.”
Giggling, I pushed them down, along with my panties, and let him pull them off.
But the giggling died when he pushed my thighs apart and palmed me hard.
I was so close that all I could do was squirm as he moved the heel of his hand up and over my clit.
Needing leverage, I placed one foot on the hood and opened wide like the absolute hussy I was, giving him as much access as possible.
He continued to stroke, then reapplied his mouth to my nipple, sucking and nipping.
His head rose, and he moved closer to take my mouth.
Still with the stroking, this time, his fingers inside me, stretching and finding new points of pleasure.
His tongue mimicked the rhythm of his fingers, and I dug my own fingers into his arms, holding on as he drove me over the edge.
So good.
I thought that was it. It would have been fine—better than fine—if it was.
But then next I felt him move, slipping off the hood to stand between my legs.
Which he pulled toward him, his hands on my ankles.
Our gazes met, and his was—well, the word “feral” came to mind. He bent his head between my thighs and started to lap at my pussy.
That’s—oh my Lord. Soft at first, belying that beastly gaze I thought I saw a moment ago.
But soon hunger took over and his hands gripped my ass and lifted them so he could get even closer.
His tongue speared inside me, then the flat of it moved over my clit, and again, I broke apart, sobbing with the unbridled pleasure of it.
And he groaned, too, deep and heartfelt, like my taste was better than anything that had ever passed his lips. A moment later, he was back on the hood and had taken me in his arms, settling me into a post-coital cuddle.
As the haze of the orgasms wore off, I shot up to a sitting position. “What about you?”
He was lying back, his arm behind his head. “Don’t worry about me.”
I moved to touch him where all the action was. He grasped my wrist.
“I said don’t worry.”
I blinked, as a chilling realization dawned. “Is this your way of staying loyal to a teammate? If you don’t get off, then you can say nothing happened?”
He narrowed his eyes. “I’m fairly certain something happened.”
“Too right it did! But apparently if I don’t touch your dick, you’re absolved of all blame here. Only Summer gets an orgasm—”
“Multiple orgasms,” he interjected.
“Multiple orgasms! So she’s the big old cheater.”
I slid off the hood in a move that would have made one of those no-good Duke boys proud.
Then I was forced to hunker down to search for my underwear, in a move that wasn’t quite as cool.
The bikini top had landed a ways away, while the shorts were at the back tire.
No sign of the panties, which I didn’t care about because they were tainted by the seller.
“What are you talking about?” Hatch slid to a stand and faced me, bare-chested. The top button of his shorts was open in a very fetching manner, revealing a V-cut and a hint of pubic hair that should not have been attractive, but of course was.
“Maybe you get to hold this over me, huh? Punish me for being so weak?”
I made do with the shirt, which was thankfully long enough to cover my assets.
“You seem to think that me giving you an orgasm—”
“Multiple!”
“Multiple orgasms, is punishing you for being … what are we arguing about here?”
I stabbed one leg into the shorts, realized it was the wrong leg, and tried again.
“You won’t let me give you a hand job. And maybe it’s because you feel bad about Dash, so this is your way of dealing with that. If you don’t take any pleasure out of it, you don’t have to feel you’ve betrayed him.”
He grasped my arms before I had a chance to poke a second leg into his great-grandmother’s shorts. Like I said: complicated.
“You think I didn’t take any pleasure in what we just did?”
“I think I got off and you get to be St. Hatch of the Blue Balls!”
He pulled me close and kissed my forehead. Such a sweet gesture that I almost lost my fury. Almost. I obviously felt guilty at what we’d done, and I was resolved to take it out on him under the guise of any excuse imaginable.
If only I’d enjoyed this level of self-awareness while I was engaged to another man.
“Summer, I would happily let you give me a hand job but there’s not much point.”
I peered up at him. Oh! “Because you … can’t perform?”
He had said if I touched him, he would explode, but that could have been standard sex rhetoric.
“I can perform just fine. In fact, I already did—without your hands-on assistance.”
“No!” I clamped a hand to my mouth.
His grin was rueful and this side of cheeky. “Congrats, Sunshine. The taste of you was enough to make this grown man come in his pants.”