Chapter 19 #2
He increases the pressure on my clit suddenly, and the orgasm bolts through me with no warning.
I cry out, my spine arching, my hips bucking back into his mouth and his hand.
He works me through it, his tongue still working my asshole, his fingers curling slowly inside me until the last shudder washes through me.
My legs give out a second later. I sag against the wall, my forehead still pressed to my arm, as I let out a little whimper.
He’s on his feet behind me in an instant, his arm wrapping around my waist and holding me against him. He pulls my back flush against his chest, and I let my head fall against his shoulder, my blood humming. His hand slides up my stomach to splay flat there as we breathe together.
“You okay?”
“Mm-hm.”
I feel him smile against the side of my neck. He brushes my hair off my shoulder and presses a slow kiss to the curve where my neck meets my collarbone, his stubble scratching lightly against my skin.
“You’re so fucking beautiful when you come. Did you know that?”
I make a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. I’m too wrecked to come up with a response.
His cock, still hard inside his pants, pressing against the small of my back, and I feel it twitch at the sound. He’s grinding against me, just a little, his hand still flat against my stomach.
“Reed,” I murmur.
“Mm?”
“We have dinner with your family in an hour.”
His mouth pauses against my skin. He huffs out a quiet laugh, the warm gust of his breath making me shiver.
“They can wait.”
“Reed, we can’t—”
“Olivia.” His hand slides up my stomach, his thumb stroking against my ribs as his voice drops. “There’s nothing happening in that restaurant in an hour that’s more important than this. Nothing.”
My heart skips, then takes off at a gallop.
He’s choosing this. He’s choosing me, even knowing what his family is going to say about us being late, even knowing his father is going to make some pointed comment about it across the table.
And the easy way he says it, like there isn’t a single question in his mind about which he’d pick, makes a little rush of emotion burst in my chest.
I don’t trust myself to say anything. I just reach down and find his hand on my stomach, lacing my fingers through his for a second before he releases me.
He moves fast, shoving his pants down and pulling his shirt off over his head, then I hear the tear of a condom wrapper behind me. A groan reverberates in his chest as his hands come back to my hips, his bare skin warm against mine as he steps in close.
“Brace yourself on the wall, baby.”
I plant my palms against the wall again.
He drags the head of his cock slowly through the wetness between my legs, teasing once, twice, before he lines himself up and pushes into me in one long, slow stroke.
The angle of him standing behind me makes him feel impossibly deep.
I drop my head forward and let out a low, shaky moan, and he stills for a second, his forehead pressed against the back of my shoulder.
Then he starts to thrust.
He bends his knees slightly to get the angle he wants, one hand sliding up my body to cup my breast, his thumb dragging slowly across my nipple.
His other hand stays on my hip, gripping tight, his fingers digging in just enough to help me brace against his strokes.
He’s groaning against the back of my neck with every thrust, a primal sound, his lips brushing my skin.
“You feel so good. So fucking wet, baby. You take me so well.”
I can barely respond. If I thought my body was too tired to come again, I was obviously mistaken. My hips rock back to meet every thrust as, and I’m practically on my tiptoes as my fingers dig into the wall.
“Olivia,” Reed grunts. “Look at me.”
I turn my head, and his hand comes up to cup my jaw, tilting my face toward him. He kisses me deep, his tongue sliding into my mouth. I moan softly in response, and he groans back, his rhythm picking up.
His hand drops from my jaw and slides down between my legs. His fingers find my clit once more, and I fall apart almost instantly. The orgasm builds like a tsunami, and when it hits, I make a needy, desperate sound into his mouth.
“Fuck,” he hisses. “Jesus, you get so tight when you’re coming all over my cock.”
His rhythm breaks, his hand tightens on my hip hard enough to bruise, and he kisses me even harder, biting at my lower lip as his shaft pulses inside me, filling the condom.
When the last ripples of pleasure finally fade, he doesn’t let me go right away.
He rests his forehead against the side of my head, his arms still wrapped around me, his half hard cock inside me, and we stay like that for a long moment.
I can feel his heart pounding against my back, and my legs are shaking even harder now.
I’m pretty sure if he let go, I’d slide down the wall in a puddle.
“I have a feeling we’re going to be late,” he comments, amusement in his voice.
I let out a breathless laugh. “I have a feeling you don’t actually mind.”
“Not even a little.”
He kisses my shoulder one more time before he eases out of me and steps back. I’m wobbly on my feet, and I have to brace myself against the wall to stay upright. He heads to the bathroom to deal with the condom, and when he comes back, he chuckles at the way I’m walking like a baby deer.
“Come on,” he says, offering me his arm in a way that’s much more gentlemanly than the way he just ate my ass. “Let’s get cleaned up.”
I head straight for the shower. Now that the heat of the moment is fading, I really don’t want to be that late. Reed leans against the doorway and watches me with a lazy, satisfied smile for a while, then steps away to clean up and put himself back together too.
After I’ve showered, dried my hair, and slipped into a simple but polished outfit, I find Reed waiting in the foyer.
He’s dressed a few levels above casual, in a tidy sport coat that fits him perfectly.
I cross to him and reach up to straighten his lapels, then push up on my toes to smooth a cowlick at the back of his hair.
“There’s no need to be nervous,” he says gently.
“I’m not nervous,” I reply. “I just want to make a good impression.”
At that, a shadow seems to pass over his face. I try not to let that add to the tense knot in my stomach; maybe I am nervous, after all. Or, more likely, he is, and it’s rubbing off on me.
I remember Reed’s parents from our shared childhood. They were aloof from their children, their family disconnected. They were severe people, with different priorities than my own parents; they tended to ignore me, even more than they ignored their own sons.
I don’t know if they’ll even remember me. So I’m not sure what has Reed so worked up about this dinner.
His driver takes us to a restaurant in Midtown, a place with a line that snakes halfway down the block. Of course, as usual, Reed takes me by the hand and brings me straight to the front. As we pass by a group of people, I hear a few of them whispering to each other.
“Isn’t that Reed Eastwood?
“Like, the hotel chain?”
“From the magazines?”
I do my best to ignore the stares. Reed greets the host, who graciously invites us inside. The main dining room of this place—Reza’s, an upscale place I’ve never even heard of—looks to me like a vast ballroom, dotted with round tables.
As I suspected, Reed’s family is already here; we’re the last ones to arrive, which doesn’t bode well. They’re at a table in the center of the restaurant, directly beneath a crystal chandelier that glints in the low light.
Around the table, aged from the faces I remember, are Reed’s mother, Cecily; his father, Lionel; and his brother, Shane, who I wasn’t expecting to see. Lionel’s gaze slides over me, his eyes narrowed analytically.
“Hi,” I say nervously, lifting my hand to give a tiny wave.
Cecily sniffs, looking at Reed. “You’re late.”
“Sorry about that,” he says, taking the seat beside his brother. “We got held up. Hope we didn’t miss anything too exciting.”
It’s clearly a joke, meant to lighten the mood—a Reed Eastwood special. But it falls flat amidst the tension at this table. Both Cecily and Lionel ignore Reed, as if he didn’t even speak. Shane makes eye contact with his brother briefly, his handsome jaw taut.
I sit down beside Reed, already uncomfortable. When Reed pitched this to me as a “family dinner,” I pictured something way different. A cheerful, boisterous evening. I should’ve factored in the Eastwoods—then I would’ve known what to expect.
“So you’re the fiancé,” says Cecily, without looking at me—she’s busy perusing the menu instead, her sharp fingernails sliding between the pages.
“Um. Yes,” I reply. “That’s me. You might remember me—Reed and I actually knew each other when—”
Lionel cuts me off. “We know.” His voice is cold.
I feel Reed’s hand resting on my thigh under the table. He gives my leg a reassuring squeeze, like he’s trying to let me know I’m not alone.
Bolstered by his presence, I swallow and say, “That’s—that’s great.”
“So,” Reed says amicably, trying to get the conversation rolling, “how was everyone’s week?”
Cecily speaks first, cutting across Shane. “Abysmal,” she says, closing the menu with a snap. “I learned that Sasha Wainwright—you know, that car CEO’s wife—is throwing a party out in the Hamptons, and I wasn’t invited.”
“Mom, do you even know her?” Reed asks, exasperation tinging his voice. “Maybe she didn’t invite you because it was a private thing.”
“Oh, don’t be silly,” Cecily scoffs. “These things are never private. I suspect that I wasn’t invited because I wore that gown to that Brooklyn charity event—do you remember that, Lionel?”
“Yes,” says Lionel, who is clearly not paying attention. He alternates between glancing down at the menu and glaring up at me. I fidget in my seat, uncomfortable with his scrutiny.