Chapter 20 Sweet Talk
Sweet Talk
SADIE
For about ninety seconds, Jonah Rhodes is the most dedicated piano student who ever lived.
Walker reaches past me to guide his son’s little fingers. I feel the shift of his chest against my back as he does it. Walker says each note aloud as Jonah plays. C, then E, then G.
Another chord progression. Another simple song.
But not one of Walker’s.
“That’s so cool, Dad,” Jonah exclaims. “It’s like magic.”
“It is,” Walker agrees.
Then there's a shout from outside. Daryl, calling his grandson’s name.
Jonah is off the bench and out the door before the note even finishes ringing.
The door bangs shut behind him.
Neither of us moves.
There’s silence except for the distant sounds of his family outside. The two of us are still at the piano, exactly as Jonah left us.
I’m intensely aware of every point of contact between our bodies. The solid heat of his thighs beneath mine. The breadth of his chest at my back. His forearms bracketing me on either side, hands still resting on the keys, easy and unhurried.
A few nights ago Walker had me wrapped around him in that pool. His hands on my waist, my thighs, his mouth dragging up my throat, telling me exactly what he'd do to me if he let himself.
And then he’d put distance between us.
Not because he doesn’t want me, I know that. I felt every inch of how much he wanted me, pressed up against his body.
He put that distance there because he's a good man. Because he's trying to do the right thing.
And I should respect that, but I just wish he'd be a little less honorable about it all.
Turns out the hottest thing a man can do is have an ethical dilemma about wanting to fuck you.
And I really, really want Walker Rhodes to make good on every single thing he murmured into my ear in that pool.
I shift slightly, like I'm maybe about to stand.
Walker’s hands leave the keys and come around me instead. One arm wraps around me, hand settling at my waist. Holding me to him like he's been wanting to do it all night.
“Jonah lasted longer than I expected,” I say. Not moving, not even making the pretense of it. “At the piano.”
Walker makes a low sound. Almost a laugh. “He's got about thirty seconds of patience on a good day. You know.”
His thumb moves. The smallest possible arc, back and forth, just above my hip.
And I feel it like a match strike.
He's not even trying yet. That's the thing that's making it hard to breathe. This is Walker barely trying. One hand, one thumb, one unhurried stroke. And my entire nervous system has gone haywire.
The words he said in the pool replay in my head. About taking his time. About learning me. About his hands on me. His mouth. All the things he’d do to me if he let himself.
I think about the fact that he's been holding all of that back.
All of it, this whole summer, keeping himself tightly reined.
“We should probably go back outside,” he says. His voice has dropped.
“Probably,” I agree.
But he doesn’t get up. Instead, his palm lands on my bare thigh and I forget how to breathe.
His hand is so warm. All those callouses, all those years of guitar strings and handling rope and hard physical work.
Yet the way he's touching me right now is so gentle.
As if I'm precious. As if he's afraid of breaking me.
I lean back against his chest.
“Sadie.” His fingers flex on my thigh. “I’m trying to be good here.”
“I know,” I say. “I wish you'd stop.”
He exhales against the back of my neck. Long and a little unsteady. His thumb traces one slow stroke along the inside of my knee and my thighs part a little, of their own accord.
Standing up would be the safe move.
But I've played it safe my whole life. Safe enough that I'm twenty four years old and still a virgin and that's never felt like something I was in a hurry to change.
Not until this man.
Not until this summer, wanting him more every single day, the pull of it getting stronger instead of weaker, like current dragging me under the harder I swim against it.
I turn my head.
Enough that if he turned his head the same amount, our lips would touch.
We stay like that, a breath apart, the whole world reduced to this. The heat of his hand on my thigh, the sound of our breathing, the inch of charged air between our lips that neither of us is closing and neither of us is walking away from.
His nose skims my cheek. Barely. Like he's allowing himself that much and no more.
I can feel him fighting it. Feel the tension running through every muscle of the body wrapped around mine. This man who is so determined to do the right thing.
And losing the battle.
“You always smell so good,” he murmurs against my skin.
His lips brush the curve of my neck.
Not a kiss. Just a graze of his mouth against my skin, so light it could almost be accidental.
I feel it travel the length of my entire body. Down my spine, all the way to my toes that curl inside my boots.
He does it again. Slower this time. His nose skimming up toward my ear, his mouth following, and I have goosebumps everywhere. Arms, thighs, the back of my neck. Despite the fact that it's a warm night and a warm room and he’s very, very warm.
“Tell me to stop,” he rasps against my skin.
My head tips back against his shoulder, baring my throat, giving him more.
“I won’t,” I say simply.
His fingertips stroke along me in a slow caress. His hand is suntanned and rough against the soft skin of my inner thigh. I’ve spent years watching those hands on a guitar and now they’re on me.
“Thought you were a little viper when we first met.” His voice is so low I feel it as much as hear it, a vibration moving through me. “All feisty. Hissing at me.”
His breath is warm and a little uneven. His stubble drags against my skin with every movement and the delicious burn of it is making it very difficult to think about anything at all.
“You were insufferable,” I manage.
“Mm.” His lips curve against my skin. I can feel his smile. “Still am.”
His thumb dips to the inside of my thigh. Back and forth. Unhurried.
“But you’re just a kitten,” he says. “Aren’t you. Those sharp little claws and underneath…” His mouth finds the sensitive spot just below my ear. “Just soft.”
His hand is still caressing my thigh, up and down, each time taking the hem of my dress a little higher.
He’s hard beneath me. I can feel the ridge of his cock pushing against my ass. His fingers dip, now skimming across the inside of my legs. Each pass gets him closer to the apex of my thighs.
I can barely breathe.
“Calling me a kitten,” I whisper. “That’s very condescending.”
If I speak any louder he’ll hear the tremble in my voice, and he might stop what he’s doing.
I might die if he stops.
“Yeah?” His lips drag across my skin again. Still not quite a kiss. Still that maddening almost. Warm lips, the rub of his stubble, the heat of his breath. “Should I stop condescending to you, darlin’?”
“No,” I breathe.
“Didn’t think so. I think you need a little sweet talk in your life. I think you like it. Should we check?”
His fingers slide up the inside of my thighs. Achingly slow, until he reaches my panties.
Slowly, he traces along the edge of the fabric. Just that thin border of lace, back and forth, while his mouth works against my throat and his other hand spreads warm and possessive against my stomach.
His fingers slip beneath the fabric. Touching my pussy. Sliding along my entrance.
He makes a sound somewhere between a sigh and groan when he discovers how wet I am.
“Oh darlin’,” he murmurs. “You love a little sweet talk.”
I bite back a gasp as he slowly circles my clit. My hips jerk forward involuntarily and my teeth come down hard on my lower lip to keep the sound in.
I grip the edge of the piano with both hands. His mouth is still at my throat. His hand is still moving, fingers sliding along my pussy lips, my clit. The keys catch my fingertips and a soft discordant note rings out into the room.
My breath is coming short and shallow.
“Anybody could walk in,” I say weakly.
“They’re all out by the stables now. It’s just you and me.” He trails his mouth down my neck, his stubble adding delicious friction. “You spend all day taking care of everyone else. Let me take care of you.”
I lean back against him, practically whimpering. “Walker…”
“You want this, sweetheart? You want me to take care of you?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
The low rumble in his chest tells me he approves of that answer.
And I’m rewarded for my yes when he pushes a finger inside me, giving a little relief to the aching emptiness I feel.
He's so careful about it, so slow, giving me time to adjust, and the combination of that patience and the heel of his palm pressing against my clit is making my vision blur at the edges.
My fingers find his forearm and grip it.
“Have you guessed it, yet, baby?” he murmurs against my hair. “How I can’t stop thinking about you. How fucking obsessed you’ve got me.”
I can feel the muscle shifting beneath my hands as he moves. All that restrained strength, focused entirely on making me feel good. It's overwhelming and not enough all at once.
“So beautiful,” he whispers against my hair. “Sweet, gorgeous girl.” His lips drag to my temple, my cheek, the corner of my jaw. “Driving me fucking crazy from the second I laid eyes on you.”
His finger moves in and out of my pussy slowly. And then he pushes in another one, making me press my lips together to keep from moaning.
He’s got me quivering like violin strings. Playing me exactly the way he said he could. I can't keep quiet, little sounds escaping me with every careful stroke.
“You've been driving me crazy too,” I manage to say.
“Yeah?” He shifts his hand, his thumb finding my clit, and the direct pressure makes my hips roll forward helplessly. “In a good way, right?”
“Occasionally,” I breathe.
He laughs. Low and warm vibrating through his chest and into my back.