by K. A. Tucker
“You mean, like this?” I nip at his flesh playfully but follow it up with a soothing lick.
Beneath my palm, Shane’s heart thumps harder and faster. “No, you can keep doing that,” he says in a husky voice.
We try to settle back into movie-watching positions. I’m definitely not paying attention as I covertly nip and lick and kiss his neck, his collarbone.
I’d be surprised if Shane is keeping up with the plot either. The hand that was settled on my hip has disappeared beneath the woven plaid blankets and has slowly, inch by inch, worked its way up the front slit of my dress, toward my panties. Sexy ones that I chose specifically for tonight, just in case.
Slick heat between my legs grows as I ache for his touch again. I shift my hips to give him better access—and the green light, which he takes with no hesitation. After a few teasing strokes across the silky material, his warm, strong fingers curl beneath. He lets out a soft curse as he slides his touch over my sensitive, wet flesh, dipping inside.
“Kissing you always does that to me.” I stroke my hand over his chest, memorizing its hard curves. That’s not entirely true. Just being around Shane gets me hot and bothered.
“It’s probably good you never let me in there, then. I don’t think you would have ever gotten me out.” His fingertip work against my clit in slow circles as he slides his hips down in the seat.
I don’t have to look to know that he has a raging hard-on. Back when we were seventeen, this was the point where my fingers would crawl beneath his shirt and trace a teasing line back and forth across taut abdomen, just above his belt. Sometimes I would cup his swollen length, give it attention. But I’d go no further, no matter how badly I wanted to unbuckle his pants and fill my hand with him. A lot of my restraint had to do with us never being alone. I was not going to pull a Dottie Reed and put on a show for anyone.
But we’re not seventeen anymore, and two minutes of his skilled strokes have evaporated my fears of being caught making out with my student’s father at the drive-in.
I slip my hand under the blankets to size up the hard ridge along the front of his jeans.
“Fuck, Scarlet.” He looks at me with bright, pleading eyes.
“Go back to watching the movie,” I command softly, resting my head in the crook of his neck as if I’m doing the same. But beneath the cover of the woven blankets, my dexterous fingers are unfastening his belt and working the top button and zipper down. I slide my hand beneath the waistband of his boxers and wrap my hand around his impressive length. I sigh with satisfaction at the hot, velvety-smooth skin finally in my palm. A bead of sticky moisture sits on the tip. I brush against it with the pad of my thumb.
He groans. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you to touch me like that.”
“Probably as long as I’ve wanted to do this.” I slide my hand out and take hold of his jeans, giving them a tug. He lifts his hips in answer, and I shimmy them off, lowering them to his muscular thighs, unintentionally pulling the blankets with them. I get my first up-close, unhindered look at Shane’s perfect dick, thick and long and resting heavy between his bare thighs.
My throat goes dry.
Seriously, Ms. Dixon’s bananas have nothing on Shane. Thank God we never went this far that summer because I doubt I would have been able to stop.
If we were in a more private situation, I wouldn’t hesitate to lean over and take him in my mouth. But if someone is watching us, that would be an obvious flag, and I will not become the second Reed woman to get caught giving a blow job in a public place in Polson Falls.
Easing the blankets back up over his lap for privacy—on the off chance someone happens to stroll by and peer in—I nestle my head against his chest, wrap my fist around him and begin stroking, letting my thumb sweep over the tip with each pass, wishing it was my tongue.
I didn’t think Shane’s erection could get any bigger and yet, it’s still swelling within my grip as I jack him off in a steady, calm rhythm, trying to keep our public indecency private. Shane has given up all hope of watching the movie, switching off the volume and closing his eyes.
“Kind of hard to watch a movie like that,” I tease.
“I can’t watch that while you’re doing this.”
His hand is still tucked into my panties but his fingers move lazily, without purpose, as I pleasure him. Still, moisture pools with just his touch as I anticipate hearing Shane come for the first time. I suspect that will be very soon, based on the subtle rocking of his hips.
“Faster,” he whispers on a sigh, his free hand bunching around the blankets.
I quicken my wrist action, squeezing his shaft as my hand glides from root to tip, the soft, erotic sound of skin rubbing against skin competing with Shane’s shallow, ragged breaths in the otherwise silent car.
At some point, he pulled the hem of his T-shirt up, exposing the pad of thick muscle across his stomach. I marvel at the carved beauty of those ridges as his body tenses with pleasure, as Shane gets ready to explode.
“I’m coming,” he hisses through gritted teeth. A moment later, he pulses within my palm and hot spurts run over my fingers as he unloads into the blanket. His jaw is taut as deep, guttural groans escape him, as if he’s trying to keep quiet when all he wants to do is yell.
A soft “fuck” slips out with a final shudder, his body relaxing beneath me.
We remain like that for a few moments, his chest heaving, me curled into his side, still gripping him. With a final, parting squeeze that makes him inhale sharply, I release him to hold my hand up in front of us. “You said you didn’t want me in your car with sticky hands,” I joke. While the red blanket took most of that mess in, my hand is still coated.
“Here.” He uses a corner to wipe my fingers and palm clean. When he’s done, he balls up the soiled material and tosses it to the floor, leaving us with the soft gray blanket.
“You weren’t kidding about planning ahead.”
“Aren’t you happy I did?” With a smirk, he tugs his boxers and jeans up but doesn’t bother fastening them yet. Turning toward me, he curls his arm around my body and pulls me in tight against him. Peering at me through heavy-lidded, satisfied eyes, his hand works its way beneath the blanket again, to the slit in my dress. “Take these off.” He toys with the elastic waistband on my panties.
I lift my hips and shimmy the silk material down my thighs as requested.
He guides them the rest of the way until they’re lost on the floor and then he slips his hand between my thighs.
I let out an embarrassing whimper as he teases my clit, his thumb drawing small circles.
“Go back to watching the movie,” he whispers with a smug smile, echoing my words from earlier.
I laugh. “I was never watching the movie.” The truth is anything could have been playing and my attention would have been lost on the man sharing the front seat with me. I close my eyes so I can avoid the gory scene on the screen and focus on Shane’s lips on my neck and his talented fingers as he brings me to a shuddering orgasm.
“I can’t tell you the last time I got a hand job on a date,” Shane says as we climb the steps to my front porch. The light shines bright this time, and I have no trouble sliding my key into the lock.
“From someone other than yourself?”
“I don’t do that on dates.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Not anymore,” he amends, grinning sheepishly.
I step across the threshold, expecting Shane to follow. But when I turn back, I find him leaning against the door frame, his feet still firmly planted outside. “You’re coming in, right?”
Into my house.
Into my bed.
Into me.
He shakes his head. “Not tonight.”
“Why not?” Worry ignites inside me. He’s not working until Thursday morning. Did he not enjoy himself? Has he changed his mind about us? Did he realize that what he found attractive about me at seventeen, he’s annoyed with now?
He must see the concern on my face because the smile he answers with is soft, reassuring. “Like I said, I want to take this slow.”
I toss my purse on the small entry table and wander back, letting my body brush against his. I tip my head back so I can peer up at those full, plump lips and stunning eyes. They’re molten. He wants to come in, I can see that much. If I palmed him, I’m sure I’d be treated to an impressive erection.
“I feel like we’re doing things backward.” Saturday, he would have fucked me had Cody not called. Tonight, he’s signing off for the night after some heavy petting.
Will I be relegated to hand-holding and cold showers by the weekend?
His gaze searches my face. “I had a great time tonight.”
“So did I.” And I’m not ready to say good night yet. “You should come in for at least a drink.”
“It won’t be just a drink and we both know that.”
“You can’t keep it in your pants for one glass of wine?” I taunt.
He inhales, as if he’s considering it, and I hold my breath.
When he sighs and shakes his head, my discontent flares.
But the ache in my body for him is deep enough that I’m not ready to give up yet. “I picked up cookies from that bakery in town. They’re really good with milk.”
His eyebrow arches. “You’re trying to lure me in for sex using milk and cookies? That’s a first for me.”
“That is not what I’m doing! I can’t believe you would suggest such a thing,” I scoff, feigning insult. “If I were trying to lure you in for sex, I’d mention that I also have a can of whipped cream that I’d enjoy licking off your—”
He seizes the back of my head and pulls my mouth into his in a kiss that is not sweet or soft or slow like earlier tonight. This one is hard and demanding, our lips smashing together, our tongues tangling, our teeth bumping, his fingers pushing through my hair to gather a grip. This is the Shane I remember from high school—unrestrained and vibrating with raw, male need.
My knees buckle with a deep, guttural moan as I mold my body to his, reveling in the hard ridge pressed against my stomach.
He pulls back abruptly and takes a moment to collect his ragged breaths. “We’ll spend an entire night licking things off each other’s bodies soon enough.” The promise is delivered in a coarse voice. It stirs a mental image of his face between my thighs, which sends a shiver skittering through my core. “But I need you to know I’m not the kind of guy you think I am. That we’re not all like your father, or Penelope’s father, or any of the other shitty men you’ve met who don’t know how to respect women.”
“I don’t think that about you,” I answer honestly. Not anymore.
“Even still.” He smooths my mussed hair back off my face. “You’re my neighbor and Cody’s teacher and …” His voice drifts, as if there’s more to the list of our complications but he doesn’t want to bring them up. “Sex tends to make things move faster. Given our situation and your job … we need to take things slow. I’m not letting anything or anyone screw this up with you again. Including me.” He leans in to steal a tender kiss that ends in his soft groan before he peels away. He moves down my porch steps, as if needing to put distance between us. “I’ve got Cody tomorrow night and then I’m working Thursday. I’ll call you on Friday?”
I stare pointedly at his jeans, at the noticeable bulge pressing against his zipper. It makes me smile. “I suppose.”
He shakes his head. “I’m good for more than just that, you know.”
I’d be worried that Shane might actually be offended about being objectified if he weren’t grinning proudly. “Well, of course. You can also fix things around my house.”
The grin grows wider. “We’ll get you a new fire extinguisher Friday night,” he promises as he walks away.
My chest aches as I watch him go. It’s not just my body that wants him to stay, and it’s certainly not just his body that I crave. I feel electrified whenever he’s in the room, flashing his dimpled smiles and making me laugh. It’s as if I’ve found something important that was lost to me. I suppose I have.
“How about a game of Jenga?” I holler, a pathetic, last-ditch effort to get Shane to come back, stop being so damn chivalrous, and fuck me. My, how our roles have reversed.
His laughter carries through the quiet night as I watch him disappear inside his house.
Twenty-Two
“So?” Becca pokes her head into my classroom minutes before the first bell rings, as I’m quickly scribbling the day’s agenda and reminders on the whiteboard. “How are things going with Shane?” She sounds giddy.
“Fine.”
“Just fine?”
I attempt a coy smile but it quickly morphs into a goofy grin, her excitement contagious. “It’s really good.” Shane’s work schedule, his time with Cody, and helping to coach the Panthers football team means we’ve only managed to see each other a handful of times since the night of the drive-in two weeks ago.
But every time has left me falling harder for the guy who once hurt me so badly.
She steps into my classroom and pushes my door closed. “Have you two”—she waggles her eyebrows—“you know, yet?”
I laugh at her subtlety. It’s a far cry from the daily “Fucked yet?” texts from Justine that I wake up to. “We’re taking things slow.” We’ve gone out for dinner and drinks at Route Sixty-Six, lingering beneath heaters on the patio until closing. We went for a jog one morning, but I’m too out of shape to keep pace with him and I hate that he has to slow his tempo for me. We replaced my fire extinguisher and purchased new electrical outlet covers; I’ve never enjoyed a trip to the hardware store like I do when he’s there.
But Shane wasn’t kidding about his firm resolve to take things physically slowly. I steal every opportunity to touch him—a leg brush beneath the table, a finger-skate across the arm, a warm palm against his chest—and he seems to welcome it. But he kisses me good night on my porch and doesn’t come inside. It’s like he knows that stepping across the threshold is an instant guarantee that his clothes will come off in under five minutes. He wouldn’t be wrong, if I have any choice in the matter.
That’s not to say we haven’t lost control. Last weekend, when he climbed down the ladder after checking my gutters for refuse, I cornered him beside my garden shed to thank him with a lip-lock that I hope our neighbors didn’t witness. And two nights ago, when he parked his truck in his driveway after we returned home from dinner, a single kiss escalated into me straddling his lap and grinding against him until we couldn’t hold out any longer. We both came within seconds of our hands getting involved.
I can’t remember the last time I dated a guy who held out sex, let alone this firmly. That it’s Shane Beckett of all guys—notorious for hookups and flings back in the day—is almost laughable. Is this how frustrated he was when we were seventeen and I staunchly held him at bay? Is this payback?
I wonder about that sometimes, late at night, while I’m thinking about him and touching myself.
A knuckle raps on the door, a moment before it creaks open and Wendy pokes her head in. She’s in her usual ensemble—black knee-length skirt, collared blouse—today’s is a powder pink. “Knock, knock—oh, Becca! I’m sorry to interrupt. I didn’t see you standing over here.”
“That’s okay. I should get back to my class. The bell is about to ring, anyway.” As if on cue, the loud buzz ricochets through the building. Soon, the kids corralled outside will be entering. Becca winks at me. “Talk to you later.”
“Enjoy your morning.”
Wendy smiles at me, but it’s not her usual wide beam. She hesitates, checking the doorway. “Listen, Scarlet, would you mind stopping by my office during first recess?”
Disquiet trickles down my spine. Her tone is telling me this isn’t a friendly “how has your first month been” check-in. I’m getting called into the principal’s office because there’s something wrong. “Sure.” I can’t hide the wariness from my voice. “
Can you tell me what this is about? Is there an issue with a student? Or a parent?”
“Just a little chat.” Again, that tight, uneasy smile. “See you then.”
On instinct, I poke my head out to watch Wendy stride toward the office, her worn heels clicking. Is this about Shane? Has she somehow heard about my relationship with him? Truthfully, I’ve been toying with the idea of telling her for the past few days. She’s my boss and she pulled strings to get me this job. But it’s still far too early. We’ve only been on a few dates. We’re not sleeping together.
My attention is drawn to the opposite entrance where kids plow through the door in what is supposed to be an orderly fashion but always makes me imagine a herd of squealing piglets, only with backpacks and attitude.
I tell myself that whatever Wendy wants to discuss is nothing to worry about, and I duck back into my classroom to receive my herd.
But I worry, all the same.
I knock once on the open door. “Is now a good time?”
Wendy pauses mid stroke on her keyboard to peer over her reading glasses at me. “Scarlet. Yes, come in. Please.” She waves me in toward one of two chairs across from her desk, normally reserved for delinquent students and irate parents. “Close the door, would you?”
I do as asked and settle into a seat, doing a quick cursory scan of the bookshelves behind her—lined with framed pictures of her three golden retrievers and her nieces. If you were to ask Wendy if she was married, she’d tell you: “yes, to my job.”
She clasps her weathered hands in front of her. “Well then, let’s get right to it, since we don’t have a lot of time. It has been brought to my attention that you are involved in a relationship with Cody Rhodes’s father.” She’s wearing her principal’s hat now. Her words are pronounced slowly and calmly. It’s how she begins when reprimanding students.
Fucking Bott. It had to be her. How else would Wendy hear so soon?
