by King, Asha
“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about doing this since Friday night,” he whispered in a low, rasping voice. His hands came up to grasp her breasts, the pressure of his fingers intense but pleasurable. He looked down between them and she followed his gaze, at his hands rubbing her nipples, her legs wantonly open and fucking him as his cock slid in and out of her pussy.
“Me too. It made me wet just thinking about it. Your cock feels so perfect inside me.”
“God, you keep talking like that, I’m gonna come.” He eased back, a small line of concentration forming between his brows like he was struggling to contain himself. His gaze narrowed, lowering between their bodies to see where they were connected, then lifted to meet hers again. “Rub your clit for me, baby. Get yourself off.”
She gasped at his words but didn’t hesitate, reaching down with her right hand to drive her finger over her slick, sensitive clit. His eyes locked onto her hand, watching her every movement as she flicked the sensitive bundle of nerves, swirled her fingertip around her own juices. She enjoyed his attention on her, loved knowing it made him hot as she pushed herself closer and closer to orgasm.
His hips punched harder at her, cock pistoning steadily down. She knew he was close and pushed herself toward the end as well, rubbing her middle finger in small tight circles around her clit. She was crying out now, unable to stop herself, hoping like hell no one walked by the building because she swore they’d hear her, even if part of her didn’t give a damn. The pleasure was wild, beyond anything she’d imagined, and she fucked both him and her own hand with total abandon. The pressure built and burst, sending rapture radiating in all directions from her lower body outward, through her limbs, up to her sweat-soaked breasts. Wave after wave of orgasm gripped her and she rode them until she slumped back.
Her elbows hit the counter and she panted hard, blinking to clear her vision.
Sawyer cursed, his own thrusts growing erratic and fingers biting into her hips. Moments later he joined her, throwing his head back and shouting his climax, and then he collapsed against her body.
She managed to get one arm around him, enjoying his damp, hot body against hers even after being sated. The counter was awkward to lie on and just as she shifted to get more comfortable, he scooped her up easily and slid to his knees, depositing both of them on the cool floor.
“That was...really fucking good,” she managed between panting breaths.
“I’m glad you brought your purse.”
“Me too. Best decision I’ve made in recent memory.”
He held her tight, trailed kisses up and down her bare arm, her shoulder, her neck. “Can I see you tomorrow?” The last word wavered, like maybe he hadn’t intended to ask her.
She wasn’t sure how to respond if that was the case—yes? No? If he didn’t mean it, he wouldn’t ask, would he?
“I guess like a date,” he continued. “It just...sounds weird to me, to suggest a date like it’s a normal thing. It wouldn’t end up being normal, Bryar.”
“I listen to records. Normal is overrated. But I have another afternoon shift. Maybe in the evening?”
“Sure. It’ll seem less like I’m a serial killer trying to lure you now that you know the truth, so maybe somewhere private instead of in town?”
“I can bring dinner. Picnic on the beach?”
“Even better, we can take a boat. Explore the lake.”
She grinned. “Sounds good.”
Sawyer held her tight in his arms. “Then it’s a date. A bound-to-be-abnormal date. Drive you home tonight?”
“Yeah...” Her gaze moved up and trailed over the counter they’d just been against. “Just as soon as we clean up.”
Chapter Seven
Bryar had Sawyer park down the road from her place to let her out—there was no sense having the aunts get all panicked. Not that she hadn’t had guys drop her off before, but she was already gone for hours with the job and the last thing she wanted was for them to catch a glimpse at Sawyer. They’d have questions, and she wouldn’t want to answer, and then they’d fight, and she was still feeling tingly and good after their encounter in the kitchen. No sense in ruining the post-coital bliss.
So she walked down the dark road swiftly before the chill could get her, resisting the urge to look back as his taillights cut over the gravel and the sound of the engine faded.
Jesus, was all of this really happening?
She wasn’t star-struck. Far from it—she frequently had to remind herself that he was famous and stuff. She just liked him. Really, really liked him—found him warm and sweet and sexy as hell. Of course, he had a troubled past. She hadn’t asked him about that girl, the one from the articles. The scandal he was supposedly hiding from. He’d been in the business since he was a young teen—he likely knew how to lie, how to put on another persona. Which he could very well be doing with her.
But why? Why bother? That was what stopped her from doubting him too much—it just made no sense.
She shoved thoughts of it from her mind and turned onto the long stone path that wove through the now-dead front garden to the cottage. The porch light was on. She’d missed dinner, hadn’t called. She’d be in for a lecture but she couldn’t fight the grin on her face. No way was she letting anything darken her mood.
Surprisingly her aunts said nothing about her being late, just kept supper warm and waiting for her, and managed to talk about nothing important until they retired for bed.
****
The picnic beach/boat date the following day was exactly what Bryar needed and never expected.
It was...normal.
He might as well have just been a regular guy. A regular guy she couldn’t stop staring at, couldn’t stop picturing without his clothes on, and couldn’t stop kissing the moment she got her lips on him. But a regular guy nonetheless. They talked music—not so much the industry but the music he loved growing up, his desire to eventually write his own songs. They discussed Midsummer and Bryar’s wild youth, the trouble she used to get into and the stories she had from Catholic school As dusk fell, they stopped the motorboat on a small island across the lake and ate bread and cookies leftover from the bakery that day with ham and cheese Bryar had picked up from the corner store and wine Sawyer napped from the beach house.
She could almost forget he was famous, at least until she went to work the next day.
By staying out by the beach, they managed to miss the nosy people in town. Of course, they were waiting for Bryar at the shop the next day and she lost track of how many times she said “no comment”. Even the driver delivering wholesale baking supplies seemed to recognize her and asked her to pose for a selfie with him, which she grudgingly obliged. The day moved fast with so much to do and she was exhausted by the end of it, her feet and back both aching. Brennen offered to drive her but she was looking forward to the time to herself to clear her head, and left the shop through the backdoor after cleaning up at the end of her shift, eager to get home so she could soak in a hot bath and relax.
She made it to the cottage without anyone bothering her—a few cars slowed but no one stopped. Maybe they snapped a few photos. Maybe they didn’t. Either way, she was glad for the peace and quiet. The cottage glowed with light and she walked through the dead front garden for the door.
Three feet from the front step, the door flew open and there was Aunt Donna standing sternly, angrily, her lips set in a straight line and her eyes severe. The look she gave her was enough to stop Bryar in her tracks.
“Late again. Where the hell have you been?” Donna bit out sharply.
“Um...working. I got a job.”
“Oh yes. We’ve seen.”
Oh, hell.
“We’ve had calls all day—”
Light flashed suddenly and Bryar swung around, eyes wide. Figures popped out from around the side of the house, snapping photos. Jesus, where the hell had they come from?
“Bryar!” one of them shouted—it was too dark by the garden, she couldn’
t make out anything, but these weren’t just cell phones. Professional cameras snapped more photos.
Her lips parted in an “o” of surprise and she was about to bark out an expletive when fingers locked on her forearm and hauled her into the house.
The door slammed shut and Donna locked it, drew closed the curtains, and swung around to face Bryar. “What in the hell are you doing, girl?”
“I didn’t do anything!” Bryar’s gaze scanned the room—Lora and Merry were both seated on the nearby loveseat, pensive and silent. She looked back at Aunt Donna again. “Okay, so you all know: I met a guy. He’s nice. Turns out he’s famous. I didn’t know that, but now I do. And I got a part time job. But I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“There are photos of you all over the internet,” Lora said carefully.
Well, it wasn’t like she could keep it a secret forever—someone in town was bound to tell them. “So? There are photos of everyone all over the internet. Everyone but me, normally. It’s how things work now. Who cares?”
“They’ve been calling our house, Bryar,” Donna continued. “Reporters. Bloggers. People in town. Wanting gossip, wanting to know about you.”
“And I repeat: who the hell cares.” Anger rose in Bryar and she couldn’t stuff it down again. “I’m not a kid. I’m not even a teen. I’m an adult woman—I think I can handle a few days of notoriety.”
“An adult woman wouldn’t put herself in a position of ‘a few days of notoriety’,” Donna said back.
Bryar could only blink at her aunt—she knew the woman was strict, always had been, but this was completely bizarre. “Excuse me, but it was my privacy violated. I did nothing wrong—other people did. If anything, I’m a goddamn victim here.”
“And now our privacy is being violated!” Donna thrust her index finger at the door, arm stretched out. “On our lawn, Bryar! Strangers snapping photos. Of me, of your aunts, of our house!”
“So it’s okay if my privacy is violated as long as I don’t spill it all over you, is that it?”
“Bryar,” Lora started as she rose, her voice gentle but cautious.
For a moment Bryar turned, prepared to head out the door again. And then she remembered the cameras, the people loitering. She’d have to walk through that. And be followed. All to go where? Sleep at the shop overnight? See if she could crash on someone’s couch? Lead them back to Sawyer’s beach house?
Trapped. Always fucking trapped in this house.
Instead she stomped through the living room, past her aunts, and to her bedroom where she slammed the door behind her. Frustrated tears rose in her eyes and fell no matter how she swiped at them. How did this always happen so easily? How could Aunt Donna chew her down to nothing in seconds? She felt like a child again, a stupid child who did everything wrong.
And she was right this time, damn it. She knew she was. She hadn’t done anything wrong. People her age hooked up all the time. Her escapades likely paled in comparison to what the girls at the local college did on a weekend. The town busybodies could go to hell with all their whining.
At last she stripped off her jacket and shoes, then sat on her bed and drew her knees up to her chest, hugging them. She had to get out of this house. Maybe there was a room for rent somewhere downtown. She had a bit of savings, money tucked away here and there. Not enough for an apartment that required first and last month’s rent, but maybe just a room in someone’s basement. She didn’t want to impose on Gina more than she already had, but maybe she could ask Brennen if he knew of anyone. Or post an ad for a roommate.
The timing couldn’t be worse, though—sure, she’d get offers for a roommate, all from people who wanted to get a glimpse at Sean Philip Sawyer. She’d have even less privacy.
She wasn’t sure how long she sat there alone in the dark, upset and stewing, tossing problems with no obvious solution around in her head. Eventually the light under her door dimmed—her aunts must’ve shut off the living room lamps. So it was likely getting late, the three of them heading off to bed.
Her stomach growled—she hadn’t eaten since lunch. If she’d known what awaited her at home, she would’ve had Sawyer stay at the shop for coffee and a snack, and have Gina take it out of her pay. But at least no one was in the kitchen now—she could sneak out and grab a sandwich.
Bryar rose and cracked the bedroom door open. The main part of the cottage was dark and silent. The other bedroom doors were closed, light shining beneath them. She crept down the hall, watching where she stepped as to not hit any of the creaky spots on the old floorboards.
“You were too hard on her.”
Bryar paused at the sound of her aunt’s semi-muffled voice—that was Merry.
“You know what this means.” That one was Donna, louder and sharper than Merry’s, despite her voice being lowered.
“It’ll blow over.” Merry again. Reassuring. Bryar rolled her eyes at the sound—Merry could try but eventually she’d back down and let Donna walk all over everyone. She always did.
“Donna may be right,” Lora whispered, low enough that Bryar had to strain to hear. “I don’t like this.”
Jesus, all three of them talking? A nice little family meeting, once again about but not including her. Nice.
“What’s to like?” Merry said. “But I think you’re both overreacting. Just give it a few days—”
“She is our responsibility,” Donna cut in.
“It’s been over twenty years—”
“That doesn’t matter. She’s exposed all of us to...”
“We know,” Lora said. “We know. Let’s give it a few days, though.”
Bryar shook her head and tuned them out, continuing her way to the kitchen. A few days. A few days in the house, this tense, was going to drive her mad. When she wasn’t working, she’d have to find somewhere else to spend her time.
Hell, maybe in a few days she’d find somewhere else to live, and save all of them some trouble.
By the time she got back to her room with the sandwich, she found Merry sitting on her bed waiting for her.
Bryar looked away from her, walked across the room, and set her plate on the dresser. “This is still my room. And I’d like to be left alone.”
“I’m sorry for the way—”
“Why are you always defending her?” Bryar snapped her mouth closed and took a breath, trying to calm her anger. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I know you didn’t, sweetheart,” Merry said gently. “We’re just worried about you. We want you to be safe.”
“I’d get it if I was some child suddenly appearing everywhere on the internet. I hear the stories, I know all about that crap. But I’m not. I don’t see what the big deal is.”
“There’s just...just a lot you don’t understand.”
“All right.” Bryar turned, crossed her arms, and cocked her brow. “Explain.”
She knew immediately her aunt wouldn’t. It was everywhere in her expression, how her eyes seemed to close off and her mouth twitched, the sad resolved look to her.
“This has been a great heart to heart, but please get out of my room,” Bryar said.
With a heavy sigh, Merry rose and did just that.
Bryar turned back to her sandwich, her appetite once again gone and tears hot in her eyes.
Screw all of them. She tugged her coat and shoes back on, then stormed out the back door. Let them know she was heading out, let them call the cops in a panic—whatever.
****
Sawyer looked up from his book as someone knocked on his bedroom door. A moment later Val looked in.
“Um, there’s a girl at the gate.”
He frowned and checked the time on his phone. Ten-thirty. Dread sank in his gut. “Girl with a camera?”
“No. Just a girl. She buzzed the intercom and asked for you.”
That dread shifted into a sudden flare of hope, one he tried to quash again because it seemed absurd that Bryar would be standing out there at this hour. Still he rose and padded
barefoot past his sister, down the hall and stairs to the foyer. A monitor sat by the front door next to the intercom, the image on it cycling from one camera to another. He hit the button to the side, increasing the speed of the cycle until it hit the one aimed at the gate.
Yep, that was Bryar.
She was fidgeting, both shifting from foot to foot and worrying her hands together in front of her, looking ready to bolt. His finger hesitated on the intercom for a moment, then instead he punched in the gate code.
Bryar started as the gate swung open and paused there, peering up the long driveway.
Sawyer opened the door, heading out without shoes or a coat and shivering in the cold fall air. The stones underfoot were icy and the wind brisk. He moved swiftly down the wide interlock steps to the driveway.
Bryar’s gaze shifted from the gate to him, wind stirring her long curly hair over her face. She still hesitated while he headed toward her, then at last took a few steps forward.
“I’m sorry,” she said immediately. “To just, like, barge in and stuff. I can go—”
“Come on inside.” He reached out and after a moment of staring at his hand, she accepted it. Her fingers were cold—he knew there were shortcuts through the woods from her place to the beach, but it was enough that she must’ve been freezing. He tugged her along toward the house and soon her hesitation seemed to evaporate, some of the tension leaving her as she kept up with him.
Soon they were in the warmth of the beach house. He keyed in the code for the gate and door, and turned to Bryar to study her face.
She’d been crying. No obvious sign of tears now but the redness around her eyes couldn’t just be from the wind. And a foreign sense of protectiveness rose up in him—all he wanted was to reassure her everything would be okay, to save her from whatever had her so upset.
