19. Nineteen
Nineteen
Cassidy
As soon as I’m in the truck, changed into an oversized concert t-shirt and a pair of cut-off denim shorts, my body is in overdrive.
The air between us feels charged and static, like a storm approaching on the horizon.
Wes grips the wheel of his truck with one hand, his other moving to rest on my thigh. I can feel the weight of it in my bones. My breath comes out heavy, and I squeeze my eyes shut when my head tips to the back of the seat.
I might just jump out of my skin if we don’t get there any faster.
“Thanks for the date,” I say, watching the trees fly by as Wes spirals down the back roads toward the farm.
His hand rises a few inches, creeping closer to where I desperately want him. “Not over yet.”
I grip the door, staring as he rises higher, the movement so slow, I start to wriggle in the seat, trying to encourage him.
“Impatient,” he scolds, and I can’t bring myself to care.
He grips the wheel harder, his finger dipping under the cut-off part of my shorts, teasing in slow circles. Out, in, out.
I take a shuddering breath. “I’m clean, by the way.” I catch his gaze, hot and hungry—wholly black in the evening light. “And I have an IUD.”
“I’m clean, too,” he says, his grip tightening on my thigh.
My fingers wrap around his, holding him against my heated flesh. “Great,” I say, voice breathless. “So we can get right to it.”
“Shit, Cass.” He rolls his tongue along his cheek, glancing out the side window. I swear he hits the gas harder.
When he pulls onto the gravel driveway, passing my house at thirty miles an hour, I point to the sign. “That says five miles an hour,” I tease. “Don’t you think—”
“Hung that sign, myself,” he mutters. “It’s within my rights to ignore it.”
When he parks, Wes leaps out of the truck, rounding to my side to pull my door open.
His hand finds mine, and I’m forced to remember the first time I felt his fingers thread through mine. We’d been at Lennon’s party—pretending. There’s no pretending here.
Mud runs his way up from the barn, tongue lolling out of his mouth. He runs up to Wes, his tail wagging. “Later,” Wes promises before bending down to grab a stick from the grass. He tosses it down the hill, and Mud takes off after it.
“Get inside, Miss Summers,” he says, his tone dark. I swallow, nodding on my way up the steps.
When the screen door slams behind us, I hear the lock click into place.
Wes grabs my waist, spinning me until my back is against the door, his hands on my face, my waist, in my hair. His mouth devours mine, and I arch up into him.
Electricity skitters across my skin, my nerves lighting up like the fourth of July.
“I thought about pulling the damn strings on your bikini when we were behind the dock,” Wes confesses, and I squeeze my thighs together. His lips trail down my neck, and I fist my hands in his shirt, pulling him closer.
“Did you?” I say, encouraging him.
Wes pulls back, catching my eyes with his. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “But I wouldn’t have been able to do this.”
Slowly—so slowly—Wes lowers to his knees, staring up at me like I’m something to worship.
His hands find their way to the waistband of my shorts, gripping firmly. “This okay?” he asks, and I nod.
With deft fingers, he unhooks the buttons on my shorts. Flames follow his touch all the way down as he slides my shorts off. I grab the doorknob, desperate for anything to hang on to when he holds my hips, tipping back to sit on his heels.
“Fuck,” he whispers. His lashes kiss his cheeks once, twice, before he’s pulling my underwear down, too, leaving me bare before him.
Wes kisses up my thigh, kisses my stomach, my hip bones. He trails his fingers up the sides of my torso under my shirt, his thumb brushing beneath my breast.
I whine when his touch moves lower—until his hand is on my knee, lifting until one leg is propped on his shoulder.
With two fingers, Wes parts me, staring as if I’m a piece of art in a museum. “It’s your turn, Miss Summers.”
“My turn?” I question.
Wes’s pupils are blown out when he looks at me, black swallowing the gold. “It’s your turn to come.”
He tips forward, his tongue a slow drag up my slick center. My hand finds his hair, tugging gently as he swirls around my clit.
My legs are already shaking, breaths coming faster when his finger presses at my entrance. Another lick, another.
I can feel my orgasm building, my body pulsing with need.
“So soon?” he questions, and when I look down, Wes stares up at me, mouth glistening with one brow raised.
I shake my head, refusing to come this quickly. “No,” I whisper. “Not yet.”
“Mmm.” His head moves between my thighs again as he adds a second finger, flicking his tongue over my swollen clit until I’m so close to the peak, one more and I’m—
“Wes,” I breathe out, and he stops. My body is wound so tight, I’m scared it might just snap. I can feel all that energy trapped inside and waiting for release.
“Your legs are shaking, Miss Summers.” One big hand slides up the outside of my thigh as the fingers of his other hand glide in deeper, stretching me around him.
I groan.
“Did I work you too hard today?” he asks, another pump in and a long slide out.
The pressure is too much—I’m so close, I’ll be done as soon as his mouth is on me again.
“No,” I say, my head falling back against the door.
“Hm,” he murmurs, inching closer. I can feel his breath there—hot and gentle. I wriggle my hips. I just need more pressure, more friction. “I should work you harder then?” he asks, pressing a wet kiss to the inside of my thigh.
“Yes,” I breathe—no—moan. I’m rewarded when Wes curves his fingers inside of me, pulling them out slowly as he presses on my inner walls. “Yes, harder,” I say.
“Harder?” he asks, and I’m done playing games.
“Harder,” I plead. “I’m so close, Wes. I need you to—”
His tongue is on me, my back arching as I cry out. The wave of ecstasy crashes over me, my entire body lighting up with pleasure as he softens his tongue, riding out the wave with me.
When it’s over, I slouch against the door.
Wes stands, his presence larger than life as he looms over me. With hands on either side of my head, he leans in until our noses brush. “Let’s go upstairs,” he whispers. “I need to be inside of you.”
I nod, a soft sound escaping my lips when he kisses me and reaches down, hauling me up until my legs are wrapped around him.
He carries me up the farmhouse steps, planting soft kisses on my neck, down to my collarbones.
When we’re finally in his room, he sets me down gently on the bed. That hunger is still there, but it’s softer now—gentler as he stares down at me.
“Take off your shirt, Cassidy.”
I obey, my fingers clutching the hem of my t-shirt, dragging it up until I toss it to the side. I don’t wait for him to ask. I reach back and unclasp my bra, throwing that over the side of the bed, too.
Wes’s shirt is the next to go, followed by his boots, socks, and jeans.
I stare at his briefs, his need evident and swollen beneath.
When I sit up, I scoot to the edge of the bed, pulling the briefs down his legs until his thick length is free. My fingers wrap around him, and he hisses.
“Cass,” he whispers, my name like a prayer as it falls from his lips.
My thumb trails up the underside of his cock, swirling around the tip.
“Sit back on the bed,” he says.
I watch as his chest heaves and slowly scoot backward until my head hits the soft pillow. He crawls above me, hands braced on either side of me.
“You are really sure?” he asks again, his gaze soft.
I place my hand on the side of his face, watching as he closes his eyes and leans against it. I press a kiss to his nose, his cheeks, his mouth. “I’m really, really sure,” I say.
Slowly—so slowly—Wes moves closer. When his hips are nestled between my legs, I can feel him there.
I grab his biceps with my hands, feeling the strong muscle as I arch off the bed, encouraging him. My nails dig into his flesh as if I need something to hold onto.
With a steady glide, Wes presses inside of me, stretching me until I’m full of him. Full of his begrudging laughter and stolen smiles. I’m full of the quiet way he hums when he’s listening intently—full of his soft touches and longing gaze.
He holds my eyes as he does it, pulling out just as slowly as he entered. I can feel another orgasm starting, but this one starts deep in my belly—pulled from somewhere I can’t quite identify.
“Good?” he asks, his breath shaking.
I nod.
“It’s so,” he lets out a shuddering breath, pressing in—stretching—and then sliding out. Again. Again. “It’s so good. You feel so good.”
My fingers thread through his hair, pulling him closer until our lips touch, and we’re kissing. The movements are as languid as his thrusts.
He groans, I breathe, and Wes brings one hand up to cup my breast, his thumb flicking over my hardened nipple.
I whimper at the touch, moving my hips to match his pace.
We’re lost to sensation. When the orgasm finally takes me, his kiss deepens, his thrusts strong and steady until he’s pulsing and spilling into me.
Wes places another kiss on my forehead. “Don’t leave,” he whispers.
The sun has set, darkness coating his room.
“Okay,” I whisper.
He tucks me into the crook of his arm, and I nestle there, comforted by the steady rise and fall of his chest—by the beat of his heart.
And there, in the dark quiet of Wes’s room, I close my eyes and fall into him—wholly.