Chapter 40
MADDIE
These past few weeks have been like my own personal hell.
I’m constantly reminded of the fact that Daddy’s gone.
I haven’t been able to face going to work, to sit in the office that was once his and act like I’m okay, when that couldn’t be further from the truth.
So, I’ve isolated myself as much as I can, spending hours in bed, beating myself up for not saving his life, even though I know there’s nothing I could have done.
I take Wyatt’s hand and lead him toward the stairs. The last thing I wanted to do was push Wyatt away, but I needed to. I couldn’t let him see me like this; the ugly truth of my grief. I don’t think I’d have survived if he did.
He asked me out on a date. One that never happened. He didn’t sign up for this version of me. So, I’ve missed him like crazy and now that he’s here, I want nothing more than to lose myself in him. To have something to remember him by.
This—the sex—is how we work when we’re not fighting.
I wish I could call him mine, could seek comfort in his arms like I’m someone he loves, but the truth is, we’re nothing more than two grown adults who fuck occasionally.
He doesn’t owe me a thing. Certainly not his love, or care.
So, for now, I’ll take what I can get and lose myself in him.
We move through the house in silence; the only sound is the gentle creak of the floorboards as we go. I hear my pulse pounding in my ears and feel the sharp, endless ache of the headache that’s been plaguing me for days, still lingering in the back of my mind.
When we come to a stop in the middle of my bedroom, I turn to face him, finding the hem of my T-shirt almost instantly.
I pull the cotton material over my head before dropping it to the floor, where it lands with a soft thud.
Next to go are my jeans; they’re a little looser than they were the last time I wore them. All my clothes are.
When I’m left in nothing but my cotton bra and G-string, I can’t help but wish I was wearing something sexier.
“Come here,” I whisper, afraid that if I talk too loudly, he’ll leave.
A muted thrill runs down my spine when he moves, each step excruciatingly slow until he’s within touching distance. I reach for him, the tips of my fingers brushing against the material of his T-shirt before he pulls it over his head with one hand and drops it to the floor with mine.
He watches me, and although goosebumps feather across my skin, it’s the look in his eyes that makes me want to cry. I’ve seen a lot of that look—sympathy—since my dad died. It started with the EMTs when they arrived, and I couldn’t stop trembling as they tried to save Daddy’s life.
I don’t want to see it on Wyatt’s face. I want to pretend that these past few weeks haven’t happened, that we’re the same two people we were when we first slept together. That I’m who I was back then.
God, I hate who I am now. I’m so broken.
What’s more, I hate that I don’t know how to put myself back together again.
I press my body against Wyatt’s, determined to replace the sympathy with something I can handle. He doesn’t stop me and I lift onto the tips of my toes, and cup the back of his head, applying a light pressure, and drawing him toward me.
He meets my mouth halfway. His kiss is tentative and I hate it. I hate that he’s holding back, that he’s treating me like I might shatter.
I pull away, breathing against his lips as I say, “Come on, Wilde. Fuck me.”
He tenses under my touch. After a beat, he dives a hand into my hair, tugs my head back with a gentleness that contradicts the ticking in his jaw. He steps in even closer. “Don’t ever call me that again, Mad.” His chest heaves. “Got it?”
Fear should skate down my spine, but I’m too numb to feel much of anything.
When I don’t reply, he adds, “You call me Wyatt, or I don’t fucking touch you.”
A whimper slips free from my lips before I press them together and jerk my head in some semblance of a nod.
The hand in my hair loosens its grip and he massages the spot, silently apologizing for having hurt me. He didn’t. If anything, I can see how much I hurt him by calling him that when so much has changed between us.
Wyatt dips to kiss me, and this time I let him set the pace before wrapping my arms around his neck and sinking into him.
He lifts me into his arms as his tongue sweeps into my mouth.
His pace is slow and languid, like he’s savoring every second.
It feels different to all the other times, but I don’t know if it’s just me or if he actually cares.
When we reach the bed, he sets me down gently, forcing me to release him as he straightens.
Wyatt stands over me, looking like a god with the daylight streaming in from the open curtains behind him.
His eyes hold mine, and he reaches for his belt, finishing the job I started downstairs.
The leather whooshes through the loops of his jeans, the sound filling the room and mingling with our breathing.
There’s an intensity swirling in his gaze that I’m not sure I can handle right now.
It’s soft and makes me want to hold on to him as if he might belong to me.
I lift onto my elbows as he drops the belt to the floor and starts working on his jeans. Shaking my head, I remind myself that this is just sex, and that I’m probably imagining the look in his eyes.
When he’s left in only his black boxer briefs, I crawl across the bed, coming to a stop in front of him.
My pulse stutters at the base of my throat.
I want to press myself to him and cry, but I know I can’t.
Instead, I sit back on my heels and stare up at him as I run a finger over the bulge of his hardening cock. He doesn’t stop me.
It’s just sex.
I don’t get to have him outside of this.
Without breaking eye contact, I reach into his boxer briefs and wrap my hand around his hard length. Wyatt hisses through gritted teeth, and out the corner of my eye, I notice his clenched fists.
“Maddie,” he warns.
I stroke him. The first few times I’m testing his restraint, and memorizing the way he feels in my hand. If this is the last time, then I want to remember him forever.
Needing more, I push his underwear down his legs until I can’t reach anymore. His cock juts out, hard, hot and heavy in my hand. There’s a light sheen on the tip and I lean forward to flick my tongue over it, the taste of his pre-cum salty and addictive.
He groans, and when I stare up at him, he’s got his eyes closed and his head tilted forward. This is how I’ll remember him. His features tensed even as his strong body is relaxed under my touch.
I circle the tip of his cock with my tongue before taking him into my mouth, watching his face for signs that he’s enjoying this.
The head of his cock hits the back of my throat, and I gag before recovering and bobbing my head a couple of times.
I lose myself in him, the action quieting my mind until all I can focus on is the taste of him.
My hand moves like it knows what he likes, gently squeezing his length as saliva pools in my mouth and runs down my chin.
All too soon, Wyatt gathers up my hair before pulling me back and off his dick.
His voice comes out in a low grumble when he says, “If you want me to last, Mad, you’re going to have to stop that.”
I wipe my mouth and chin with the back of my hand and pout but ultimately release him. My need to have him filling me is greater than my desire to bring him to completion with my mouth.
When I move up the bed, there’s a heaviness in my chest as he follows me. I don’t want this to be the last time, but I know that Wyatt doesn’t deserve to be saddled with my sadness.
He dusts kisses over my legs until he reaches the apex of my thighs. Instinctively, I widen my legs for him, collapsing against the bed when he runs his thumb over my panty-covered clit. For the first time in weeks, I feel something and I’m not sure how to handle it.
“Wyatt,” I breathe.
His response is to cover my pussy with his mouth, sucking on my clit through the material. I cry out and claw at the sheets beneath me as I thrash around trying to get away from the overwhelming sensations exploding inside me.
“That’s it, baby. Be a good girl and come for me,” he soothes, the words barely penetrating the fog his mouth has created in my mind.
My fingers and toes tingle, warning me of my impending orgasm before the fluttering sensation intensifies in my stomach. I push my head into the mattress, desperate for more and for him to stop at the same time.
Wyatt slips a finger under my panty line, sliding it into my pussy before my walls spasm around it, sucking him into me.
“You’re so fucking wet for me, Mad.” There’s a hint of awe in his tone.
When he returns his mouth to my clit, I explode, crying out so loud that I wouldn’t be surprised if they could hear me up at the main house.
Holy shit, I’ve never come that fast in my life.
Tremors wrack through my body as I gasp for breath and collapse against the mattress. I’m vaguely aware of Wyatt removing my underwear and the sound of foil being ripped open. He appears above me, brushing back a strand of hair on my cheek.
The air becomes charged, like something is changing between us, but it’s not tangible.
It’s as if this thing between us is turning into something bigger.
More than what either of us ever expected.
I try to distract myself from it, running my hands over his bare shoulders and through the hair at the nape of his neck, but it seeps into my body, until all I can do is sink into the feeling.
Does he feel it too?
I’d like to think that he does, that I’m not the only one that’s falling.
Wyatt hovers between my legs, lifting one onto his hip as his cock settles heavily against the slit of my pussy.
“We can stop if you’ve changed your mind.
” His voice is so soft, I wonder if I’ve imagined it, but as I stare up at him, he looks at me expectantly, like he won’t make a move until I give the go-ahead.
I shake my head, emotion clawing at my throat because he’s being so nice and attentive and I don’t know that I deserve that from him. Not after the way I pushed him away. He’s not mine.
He enters me, slowly and almost torturously. I close my eyes and a tear slips free, running down and into my hairline. I’m crying for what could have been, for the future that I felt like I was so close to grasping.
Wyatt freezes, wiping away the trail the tear leaves behind, and I force my eyes to open because he needs to know that I want this. That I’m not crying because of what we’re doing. I want him more than my next breath.
“Mad.” It’s said with an aching yearning of hopelessness that I feel down to my bones, and I have to convince myself that I’m just projecting my own feelings onto him.
“Please, don’t stop,” I plead, pulling him against my body and burying my nose in the space between his collarbone and jaw.
I feel his hesitation before he moves, pulling out slowly and then sliding back into me.
It’s with slow, gentle thrusts that Wyatt gives me my next orgasm.
It hits me out of nowhere, an ache in the base of my spine as black dots appear on my vision and the familiar tingling starts in my fingertips.
There are flashes of light on my eyelids as I squeeze them shut and arch my back, pressing my chest closer to his.
He follows me into oblivion, burying his face in my neck as he grunts out his release.
It’s the most intense thing I’ve ever felt, and in the moments after, I wish we’d never done it because how do I ever let this man go?
How do I ignore the way I want to call him mine when he was never going to be?