Fifteen #3
A good thing too, or else he might notice how hard my nipples suddenly get. ‘You’ve looked at them before.’
As he loves to point out, they’ve been in his fucking mouth.
‘Oh, constantly,’ he finds such little shame in admitting, I can’t help but laugh. ‘Think of all the times you’ve caught me and times that by, like, ten.’
‘Pervert,’ I accuse.
‘Man,’ he corrects.
I cock my head. ‘Difference?’
‘Ha ha.’
A thick forearm swishes through the water, creating a veritable tidal wave that half-drowns me.
I’m spluttering a curse and swiping chlorine from my eyes, when the air .
. . shifts. Warms. I warm, from the tips of my ears right down to my toes, and especially the curve of my hips where submerged hands suddenly hover.
Even before I open my eyes, I know how close I’m going to find Heath – not quite inescapable, but unavoidable all the same.
‘Is this how you normally pick up women?’
Wide eyes blink in a poor attempt at innocence. ‘Other women exist?’
God, I hate how hard that makes me smile. ‘Cute.’
Beneath the water, short fingernails graze the underside of my ribcage. Barely a touch, yet my back arches. ‘I prefer ruggedly handsome, but thank you.’
‘You take everything as a compliment, don’t you?’
‘I take what I can get from you.’
That is not dirty, I chide what must be my faulty hypothalamus. You cannot make that dirty.
‘You’re doing it again.’
I can barely swallow. ‘Doing what?’
A thumb swipes beneath my eye. He doesn’t say it, but I hear it nonetheless – you look like you want to kiss me.
My lips part, but a denial does not come out.
Gentle pressure urges me through the water until my back meets the pool wall. While Heath braces a hand against the edge, I brace mine against his chest. Fingers curled, nails pinching skin. ‘Daniela.’
‘Heath.’
‘I’m gonna kiss you now.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I really, really want to.’
I repeat, ‘Why?’
He groans, his forehead falling to my collarbone, and I swear I feel his tongue dart out to taste my skin. ‘I take it because I do is not an acceptable answer?’
‘It’s too complicated.’
‘It’s just a kiss, honey.’
‘No, it isn’t.’
He doesn’t disagree – he doesn’t back off either. ‘Ten seconds, Daniela. Brace yourself or get out.’
I do neither. I don’t move. I cling to the pool’s edge like a limpet, tense and barely breathing and so utterly unprepared for something I know damn well is going to happen, for something I let happen. Willingly.
More than.
Later, when I look back on this moment, if I even dare to, I might just admit that I’m the one who obliterates that last inch of space between us, and kisses him.
It’s the same as always – always. Like this is a regular occurrence, as if I’m used to it already.
It’s messy and a little frantic, like neither of us are entirely sure it’ll happen again, like neither of us want that to be the case.
We kiss each other like we’re each equally sure that the other might realize this is a monumentally terrible idea and change their mind at any minute.
We’re desperate, and it’s so fucking good.
As his teeth sink into my lower lip, Heath cops a greedy handful of my ass. He cradles the curve of my neck while lapping wet kisses on the opposite slope. I don’t fight him, I fucking encourage him, my damn legs lock around his waist, yet still, I pant, ‘This is not very friendly.’
‘Who says?’
So true. So. True. Plus, how would I know?
I don’t have friends. I’m not friendly. Maybe friends kiss each other’s necks all the time.
Maybe heavy petting is just a prerequisite of friendship.
Maybe this is how you’re supposed to feel when wrapped around your friend – maybe you’re supposed to wrap yourself around your friend in the first place.
‘Oh, God.’ He laps at a particularly sensitive spot and I shiver. My legs tighten, drag him a little closer, and, God, he’s hard. He’s so fucking hard. Hard and perfectly slotted between my thighs at just the right angle, nudging just the right place. ‘Fuck, Heath.’
With a groan that makes me tremble, he takes my mouth again, our tongues a rough tangle. While my fingernails gouge marks in his shoulders, his fingertips leave bruises on my asscheeks as he guides my hips into maddening rolls that he meets with eager thrusts of his own.
I need to stop. I need to still. My entire body is throbbing, my skin hurts, and if he keeps grinding on me like that . . .
An orgasm hits me before I even recognize that’s the sensation I’m rapidly hurtling toward. A choked moan ripping out of my throat, I lose the ability to do anything but writhe and pant and come.
It’s not until my body goes slack that I realize Heath has gone completely still. Not until the pleasured fog clears do I clock the slack-jawed, deer-in-fucking-headlights look on his face. ‘Did you just—’
‘No.’ Flushed so hot I’m surprised the water around me doesn’t start bubbling, I scramble for a grip on the wall behind me, clumsily hoisting myself up and out. ‘Nothing happened.’
Heath says my name, and nothing else. He makes no move to follow me. Every part of him is frozen, except his eyes; they track me as I use his t-shirt to roughly dry myself off. Carefully. Intently. Tangible and too much.
I snap, ‘What?’
‘Nothing,’ he lies, taking pity on me. Or maybe he senses that if he even thinks about making a single joke, God, I actually might drown him.
Fuck, I might drown myself. This is . . . fuck, me and humiliation have developed quite the repertoire after the past few months, but this has to take the cake. Coming all over the guy I begged to pretend to be my boyfriend after only a few minutes of barely third base activity.
I would laugh at the universe’s cruel sense of humor, if I wasn’t on the brink of fucking tears.
Dropping to a crouch next to our stuff, my hand shakes as I pluck my bra from the pile. ‘Then get out and get dressed.’
‘I, uh, can’t right now.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’m one wrong move away from coming in my boxers like a fucking teenager.’
I still. My clothes flutter to the ground as my grip goes slack, my entire body does. He . . .
I swallow. Lick incredibly dry lips. Slowly turn toward him and quietly rasp, ‘Really?’
Face contorted in a wince, he nods.
The muscles in my lower stomach constrict. ‘Did you . . .’ Don’t ask, Dani. Do not ask. ‘Did you want to?’
Without hesitation, he nods.
Don’t, I command myself again, but it’s not my mouth I’m talking to this time. It’s my brain. My silly, hormonal brain thinking silly, hormonal things. Entertaining silly, hormonal fanatics. Conjuring up silly, hormonal ideas.