Chapter 12
chapter
twelve
Evelyn
I’ve never been so turned on in my life. My panties are soaked, and I’m pretty sure I could etch glass with how hard my nipples are.
Is that how first kisses are supposed to go?
I mean, obviously, it wasn’t Mitchell’s first kiss. Still, he’d seemed as affected as I was. He’d quickly disappeared into the bathroom to take a shower.
I’d quickly changed into my pajamas and climbed into bed. My hand had slid into my panties a second later.
I just needed to be quick and quiet.
Heavens knew I could masturbate quietly. I’d had enough practice since it seemed like someone was always listening or watching at the palace.
I found my clit and set a quick rhythm, circling the little nub. With my other hand, I reached up my shirt and pinched at first one nipple and then the other.
Desire coiled and tightened in my belly. The sound of that deep growl in his throat. The swipe of his tongue. The way his fingers had dug into my waist. I could replay every moment of the kiss.
But now in my mind, he took things further. He reached up and fondled my breasts. Then it was his hand bringing me pleasure, his fingers working my clit.
My orgasm crashed over me, and I bit my lip to keep from crying out his name.
I lay there doing my best to regulate my breathing before he came back out of the bathroom.
I rolled over, hugging a pillow to my chest.
Until I met Mitchell, I’d never imagined myself with a man. Harold certainly hadn’t inspired any desire or fantasies.
Mitchell Sinclaire changed that. Changed me. Not just with his kiss. But his kindness and generosity. His sense of humor. The way his butt filled out his jeans. Everything about him mesmerized me. And I couldn’t imagine a scenario in which he was in my life, but not mine.
I can’t marry his brother. Even if it were in name only. If I’m going to be a Sinclaire, I want to do it with Mitchell, not with Mike.
I hope Birdie won’t be disappointed in me. And I hope I can delay my parents retrieving me if I’m still unmarried come Monday morning.
Now, the question is: do I discuss this with Mitchell, or just wait until we reach Las Vegas?
The following day passes in a blur of desert highways and distant mountains, the landscape stretching wide and endless. I do not enjoy the part of the drive over the Hoover Dam, entirely too high up for my comfort.
We don’t talk much—not because there’s nothing to say, but because everything feels too close to the surface. I watch Mitchell drive, steady and focused, and think about how these past few days have been the best of my life in ways I never could have imagined.
Flip-flops in the sand. Showers taken alone. Laughter without consequence. Choice without permission.
I know what waits for me at the end of this road, and the knowledge settles over me like a quiet mourning.
I’m not ready to say goodbye to him—to the safety of his presence, to the way he looks at me like I matter simply because I exist. So I hold the moment as long as I can, pressing it into my memory, knowing that once we reach Vegas, everything will change.