Page 77

“Fuck, Sam,” he breathed, his voice strained, nose buried in my hair as he inhaled deeply, the musky scent of my arousal filling the air between us, tangy and heady. “You’re drenched. Your cunt’s gripping my fingers like it never wants them to leave.”

I couldn’t respond because his hand was still clamped over my mouth, his fingers splayed wide to stifle any sound, and his other hand was buried deep in my jeans, those two fingers curling inside me with devastating precision, hooking against that spongy spot on my inner wall that made my eyes roll back in my head. The angle was perfect, his palm grinding against my clit with every thrust, the rough texture rubbing circles that sent sparks exploding behind my eyelids, while his fingers worked deeper, scissoring slightly to stretch me wider. The wet, obscene squelch of my juices echoed softly in the silence of his childhood bedroom.

The room smelled faintly of old books and teenage cologne, the twin bed with its faded posters on the walls a stark contrast to the filthy act unfolding against the door, my back scraping wood as I bucked into his hand.

I grabbed his wrist to anchor myself as my legs trembled, nails digging into his skin hard enough to leave crescent marks. His thumb joined the assault now, pressing directly on my clit, slick with my own cream, rubbing in tight, firm circles that had my hips jerking erratically, chasing the building pressure. The denim of my jeans chafed against my thighs, the waistband digging into my hips, but it only heightened the sensation, making every plunge of his fingers feel more illicit, more desperate.

“Want to bend you over my old desk,” he murmured, his lips brushing my ear, hot breath fanning over my skin as his fingers set a devastating pace, thrusting in and out with sloppy, rhythmic pumps that made my arousal drip down his knuckles, soaking into the fabric of my jeans. “Want to fuck you in every room of this house, pound your tight pussy on the living room, make you ride my cock in the guest bathroom. Want to come home for Christmas and remember what you sound like when you come apart in this exact spot, your cum staining my childhood sheets, and do this all over again.”

His words painted vivid, taboo pictures in my mind, the possessiveness in his voice pushing me closer to the edge, my clit throbbing under his thumb, pussy fluttering around his invading fingers. The coil in my belly wound tighter, heat spreading like wildfire through my limbs, my breasts aching as they pressed against his chest, nipples dragging over the cotton of his shirt with every heaving breath.

I came so hard I saw white, a muffled scream vibrating against his palm as my teeth sank deeper into the meat of his hand, the sharp tang of his skin mixing with the salt of my sweat.

My whole body locked up, inner walls clenching rhythmically around his fingers like a vice as waves of pleasure crashed through me, my juices gushing out in a hot flood that slicked his wrist and trickled down my thighs. My thighs shook violently, knees buckling until he pinned me harder against the door with his body, his hard cock grinding against my hip through his jeans, the rigid length unmistakable even through the layers.

He held me through every aftershock, his fingers slowing to gentle strokes inside my spasming cunt, thumb easing the pressure on my oversensitive clit, whispering filthy praise against my temple. “That’s it, good girl, fuck you’re gorgeous when you come on my fingers, squeezing me so tight, such a perfect good girl.” His voice a low, soothing rumble until my vision cleared and I could breathe again, chest heaving, body limp and buzzing.

“We should go back,” I whispered when my heartbeat resembled something human, my voice hoarse and small, lips brushing his palm before he finally pulled it away, leaving the imprint of my teeth red on his skin.

“In a minute.” He adjusted himself through his jeans with a wince, his cock straining visibly against the denim, a dark wet spot blooming at the tip where pre-cum had leaked through. “Maybe two. Definitely need to think about something deeply unsexy first, like baseball stats or my grandma’s knitting, to keep from dragging you to that bed and fucking you senseless right now.”

“Baseball statistics?”

“Tax law. Baseball isn’t boring enough for what you just did to me.”

I chuckled. And ten minutes later, we came downstairs looking absolutely wrecked. Delia’s expression was criminally knowing. Wes didn’t look up from his book. Rose bit her lip to hide a smile. Patrick raised one eyebrow. Finn opened his mouth and got shut down by both brothers before he could speak.

“Can I sleep at Grandma’s?” Noa asked from the couch, where she was staring deeply at the TV, oblivious to the tension.

“I already made up the guest room,” Delia said smoothly, not missing a beat.

The setup hit me all at once. I turned slowly to stare at her. “You planned this.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Her innocence was Oscar-worthy. She was already steering Noa toward the stairs, one hand between her granddaughter’s shoulder blades, the other waving us toward the door like we were guests overstaying our welcome. “Tyson, drive safe. The roads are dark this time of night.”

“Mom.”

“Go on, honey. Noa and I are going to paint our nails and watch something with princesses.”

“PRINCESSES,” Noa echoed, already abandoning the TV for the promise of a sleepover she hadn’t known was coming.

Tyson opened his mouth to protest on principle, then closed it again. He wasn’t stupid. His mother had handed us the rest of the night on a silver platter, and arguing with her was going to get us exactly nowhere except later to the door.

“Thanks, Mom,” he said instead, kissing her cheek.

“Mmhm.” She patted his jaw. “Drive safe.”

She was still smiling that criminally knowing smile when the door closed behind us.

The cool night air did absolutely nothing to settle the heat still crawling under my skin from what had happened upstairs. Tyson walked me to the passenger side of the truck, one hand at the small of my back, and I was suddenly, acutely aware of how many hours stretched between this moment and the next time we’d have to behave like functional adults.

Neither of us spoke as he pulled out of the driveway.

The silence wasn’t awkward. It was loaded. Every streetlight we passed illuminated his hands on the wheel, and I couldn’t stop staring at them. The hands that had just taken me apart in his childhood bedroom. The hands that had pressed over my mouth to keep me quiet while his family ate pie downstairs. The hands that were currently gripping the steering wheel at ten and two because apparently he was a responsible driver tonight of all nights.

He glanced at me once. Caught me watching him, his jaw worked.

Neither of us said anything.