Chapter 13
T he golf carts rolled slowly back toward Lemondrop Lane, headlights casting lazy beams onto the sand-covered path ahead.
Jazz navigated one cart carefully, the most logical choice to drive since she didn’t over-drink.
Jazz always seemed happily buzzed, but that was her default personality.
Jack, on the other hand, was sprawled beside her, happily wasted.
I drove the other cart, one hand loosely steering, the other resting on my thigh as Sloane sat beside me, straight-backed and elegantly detached. Behind me, Charlie laughed softly at something Thatcher said, her voice tugging irritatingly at my attention.
Jack twisted around suddenly, leaning precariously toward our cart. “Hey Fitz,” he called, voice carrying too loudly through the quiet night, words thick and sloppy. “After Jazz and I tie the knot, you’re up next, right?”
The silence that followed was immediate, palpable, a heavy pause like the moment when a teacher asks a question and every student suddenly finds something fascinating on the floor
“Wait,” Jack said, realizing his misstep. “Shit. You’re not even engaged yet.” He laughed, oblivious to the hole he was digging. “Dude, what’s the holdup? You’ve been together forever—well, twoish threeish years—but still. You gonna propose sometime this century?”
Heat burned along my neck, awkwardness twisting sharply in my gut. Sloane remained painfully silent, gaze fixed straight ahead, unmoving as stone. “Jack, maybe we just focus on getting home,” Jazz gently intervened.
But Jack barreled ahead, tequila stripping away his common sense. “No, really. What’s the plan? You gonna wait till you’re both forty, or just get married quietly and pretend none of us notice?”
My jaw tightened, fingers gripping the wheel.
Sloane’s cool composure faltered slightly, her hands folded too tightly in her lap.
Then Charlie spoke up, her voice breezy but laced with reprimand.
“Jack, maybe ease up before you fall out of the cart and we leave your ass to sleep it off in the sand.”
Jack snorted, momentarily distracted, and Jazz laughed in relief. Charlie’s eyes met mine in the rearview mirror, a subtle flicker of solidarity that surprised me.
“I’m just asking,” Jack muttered, slightly cowed. “Can’t blame me for being curious.”
Charlie looked to the golf cart riding next to ours and pointedly directed her words at her brother. “Not everyone’s driving straight toward the altar at full speed like you. Some people take the scenic route—a few wrong turns, maybe a flat tire or two—before they even know where they’re headed.”
Jack waved her off with a sloppy salute. “Fine, point taken, little sister.”
Gratitude surged unexpectedly in my chest. I shot Charlie another glance, noticing her slight nod, her soft smile aimed my way.
S loane sat on the edge of the bed, brushing out her long dark hair with graceful, rhythmic strokes.
The silk nightgown she wore—short, delicate, lacy—clung to her slim body, accentuating the endless stretch of her legs.
Legs that always made the sheets feel softer, the room classier—and me hotter, usually.
But attraction to Sloane wasn’t on the forefront of my private musings tonight. I stood at the dresser, stripping down to my briefs, avoiding eye contact. I felt her gaze on my back—patient, pointed, waiting.
“Are we going to talk about it, Fitz?” she finally asked, setting the brush aside, keeping her voice perfectly neutral.
I sighed, closing my eyes briefly. “Can we not? Not tonight. Let’s deal with it fresh and sober tomorrow.”
Her expression didn’t change, still beautifully aloof. “Fine.”
We slipped beneath the covers, all the unspoken words lying there too, curled up in the gap neither of us dared to close.
Sloane lay quietly, her shoulder barely brushing mine.
The bed felt narrower than usual, the sheets heavier, the air too warm.
Just as I was about to close my eyes, a muffled thump against the adjoining wall made me tense.
Then another—the unmistakable creak and knock of a headboard rhythmically bumping drywall. I froze, jaw clenching.
Charlie and Thatcher.
Sloane lifted an eyebrow slightly, glancing toward the wall with mild amusement. “Well, at least someone is enjoying their vacation.”
A surge of irritation—sharp, acidic, entirely irrational—curled inside my chest. My mind raced with vivid images: Charlie’s golden hair tangled across a pillow, her flushed cheeks, thighs parted, lips moaning softly as Thatcher fucked her. Anger and jealousy twisted together, snarling in my veins.
“We’re not going to be able to sleep through that racket, so we might as well have sex too.” I rolled over to face Sloane, eyebrows raised in question as my hands slid under the hem of her silk nightgown.
She sighed softly in agreement, clearly thinking this was comfort sex.
Easy sex. Something tidy, gentle—her usual preference.
Her kind of sex was quiet. Slippery and polite.
A studied choreography we repeated often, like a soft-focus photograph framed in matte gold.
She didn’t make messes. She didn’t make noise.
But tonight I didn’t want silk; I didn’t want softness. I wanted to fuck.
Still, I started how I always did. She didn’t say anything when I pressed up behind her and pulled her slender body against me—just exhaled softly as I slid into the usual shape we made together.
Spoon-fit. Clean lines. I pushed the silk of her nightgown higher and slipped her delicate lace panties down her smooth thighs.
Her thighs parted slightly—an unspoken invitation.
I peeled down her lace panties, slow, mechanical, like undressing a doll.
She helped by lifting one leg, delicate and graceful.
I freed my dick from my briefs—quickly swelling more from the noises through the wall than excitement for sex with Sloane.
Eight and a half inches of sharp frustration and denied instinct, the base was thick where I gripped it to guide myself in.
I pressed into her without ceremony, desperate for distraction.
Her tight heat surrounded me, familiar, comforting.
She arched slightly beneath me, but even as her body responded, I knew this wasn’t about her pleasure, or mine.
It was about drowning out the ache, the jealousy, the unbearable thought of Charlie fucking Thatcher just feet away.
Then, a sound from the other room spiked. I heard Charlie cry out ‘Thatcher’—and something inside me snapped.
Tonight, comfort wasn’t going to work. I needed something harder, rawer—something that would drown out the rhythmic noises coming from the other side of that goddamn wall. I closed my eyes and tried to stay in it. Stay with her. But behind my lids there was only one image.
Charlie. Her ass in the air. Her mouth open.
Her thighs flushed with heat and friction.
Her hair wild around her shoulders, fisting the sheets.
She’d scream, wouldn’t she? She wouldn’t sigh.
She’d beg. She’d bite the pillow and cry out when I slammed into her, when I spread her wide and didn’t stop.
And that thought broke me. No more spooning. No more choreography.
I pulled out, too fast. Sloane made a startled sound, her head tilting slightly as I rose onto my knees behind her. Then I gripped her hips and hauled her back—rough, no warning, no softness this time. Her breath caught.
“Fitz—”
I didn’t answer. Just shoved her forward with one hand between her shoulder blades until her chest hit the pillows, her spine arching into the bed, her ass high in the air. She was exposed now—back curved, legs parted. Mine to take.
And I did.
My cock was hard—thick, veined, and rigid. It jutted out from my hips, flushed deep with blood, angry with denial. I gripped myself, guided the head between her slick folds and drove in with a brutal thrust that knocked a yelp out of her mouth.
“Fitz!” she gasped, both hands flying forward to grip the bed frame.
Too late.
I set a punishing rhythm, hips snapping forward, cock plunging into her over and over, harder than I ever had.
My balls slapped against her ass with every stroke, the obscene sound of it echoing off the walls, louder than I meant it to be.
I didn’t care. I wanted Charlie to hear it.
I wanted her to know. My grip tightened around Sloane’s hip as I dragged her back into me with each thrust, burying my cock to the hilt—long, thick, pulsing—every inch driving home with ruthless precision.
She clung to the bed frame, fingers white-knuckled, shoulders trembling as I fucked her into the pillows. Her breath stuttered. The headboard rattled.
Her cunt gripped me tight, wetter than I expected, the warm friction of her inner walls sucking me in greedily. She gasped and held on as I fucked her into oblivion.
Not the way Fitz fucked. The way he never let himself fuck.
My cock was coated in her now, gliding in and out of her in long strokes that ended in sharp, upward snaps of my hips that made her cry out.
She moaned into the pillows—high and breathless. “Fitz—Jesus?—”
I didn’t answer. My hand tangled in her hair and yanked just enough to make her arch harder, exposing the deep line of her back.
Her silk slip had ridden up completely, bare skin glowing in the moonlight that spilled through the window.
My other hand slapped down hard across her ass, a single strike to punctuate the next thrust. She gasped—then bit the pillow.
And I imagined Charlie.
Not Sloane’s narrow back, but Charlie’s hips in my grip. Charlie’s messy curls tangled in my fingers. Charlie’s tight, greedy cunt sucking me in, dripping down my thighs as I split her open over and over until she screamed for me. Until she forgot anyone had ever touched her before.
My cock jerked. Throbbed. I fucked her harder, faster, tilting my hips with brutal intent, knowing the slap of my skin against hers echoed like vengeance in this quiet little house.
Let her hear this. Let Charlie hear me fucking someone else with every ounce of fury she left me with.
Sloane was panting now, her fingers curled in the headboard, the wood creaking violently as I drove into her again and again.
I felt the tremble start in her legs, her body beginning to shake.
She let out a yelp as I drove into her with a brutal thrust that bottomed me out, my cock buried to the hilt.
I imagined Charlie’s voice on the other side of that wall, pleading, my name on her lips.
Fitz...fuck...Fitz, please…
That did it.
I shoved deep, balls tight, and came with a low, vicious groan.
My cock pulsed, thick jets spilling into her with each twitching surge.
I stayed buried for a moment, my hips flush to her ass, every muscle trembling from the exertion, sweat dampening my back.
As I pulled out, my cum spilled down between her thighs as I finally collapsed forward, breath ragged.
But even as she shuddered softly beneath me, I knew the truth: tonight, she wasn’t the woman I was fucking. Not really. All I saw was blonde hair. A bitten lip. And a pair of furious blue eyes on the other side of the wall.