by Bromberg, K
His jaw pulses. His dick is hard against my hip. His waning control reflected in the tightening of his fingers in my hair.
My lips part. Yes. Yes.
Because it’s us.
But I can’t give the answers because I’m silenced by the moment and by the bright burn of arousal coursing through my body. By the need to want and the want to need this connection with him.
By acknowledging that I love him. Probably always have.
“I’ve never been able to resist you. Not then. Not now.”
Not ever.
Our past and present collide in one sweeping moment of time. Our mouths meet again in a savage union of lips and tongue and want and desire and greed and hunger. Our hands slide and grab and feel and possess each other’s flesh.
We’re a frenzy of movements. Of not being able to touch each other quickly enough, and yet wanting to slow down and take our time with this reunion that has been years in the making.
His mouth is on the underside of my neck. His hands are pulling down the straps of my swimsuit, then palming my breasts. Thumbs run over the tips of my nipples sending a tsunami of sensation through my body.
His lips lace hungry kisses against the sensitive skin to my ear. I fumble with his shorts while he pushes down my bikini bottoms. My cool hands slide beneath the waistband to find him hot and hard and ready. My mouth falls open from his teeth scraping over my nipple while his hands are everywhere and not enough places all at the same time. The evidence of what I do to him stiff in my hand.
His hands are on my waist. My feet leave the floor, and the hard granite of the countertop is cold beneath my ass. There’s a clatter of utensils. A thud of something falling over. A plume of flour in the air. But Hayes doesn’t miss a beat. He steps between my thighs and pulls my ass to the edge so I’m perched there, needing his body to ensure I don’t fall. And then he claims my mouth again in a kiss that promises possession and surrender.
My hands are on his shoulders. His fingers feather over the entrance of my sex, part it, then slide up and back through my arousal. My head falls back. My thighs spread wider, my body instantly giving him access to every single part of me without a word.
I moan when he slips his fingers into me. A teasing inch at first. A suggestion of what’s to come. And then his mouth is on mine, pulling me under once again. And just when I’m drugged enough, he slips his fingers all the way in, circles them to ignite the nerves within, and rubs his thumb with a hint of touch over my clit.
My hips buck at the onslaught of sensation. Tongue. Fingers. Thumb. His groan. My plea for more. Then it starts all over again. A slow build up. A soft seduction of my nerves. A murmur of praise. An assault of pleasure.
The orgasm surprises me. It sounds stupid but it feels so very different from what I’m used to. A slow surge of warmth. A tensing of muscles. Hayes’s name on my lips as the wave rises and pulls me in its unexpected undertow. Drowns me in the surge of pleasure and a wash of desire. My muscles pulse around his fingers as his thumb continues to circle over my clit. My fingernails dig into his biceps and hips twist in pleasurable pain.
I’m still lost in the orgasmic fog, still on the high from it when he withdraws his fingers from me and brings them to my parted lips. His eyes are on mine—locked and intense—when he coats my lips with my own arousal. I draw in a shaky breath as he slowly leans forward and runs his tongue over the path his fingers left. The moan he emits is sex personified.
It’s unexpectedly arousing.
It’s entirely consuming.
It’s intoxicatingly erotic.
His lips follow. A brush against mine. When I lick my tongue against my lips to ask for more, his chuckle rumbles through the room.
“My pace, Saylor. Not yours. I’m in control now. You may own pieces of me you never even knew, but right now, I’m going to own you. Every single part of you.”
My blood fires at the words. Libido ignites, and yet I’m stunned into silence. Shocked by his confession. Body rocked by his touch.
“Hayes.” One word. A plea. A question. A sigh.
He kisses me again, but this time with more demand. More greed. He’s tongue and lips and little nips of teeth, all the while my body is still vibrating from the remnants of the orgasm.
His hand is on my neck, holding my head still as he seduces my lips and relights the fire that he left smoldering. My hands reach down and circle his length to stroke the hardness of him. I feel the drop of pre-cum on his head. Smear it around with my thumb before deliberately leaning back and sucking on my thumb.
I close my eyes and taste him on my skin. Moan softly. When I open them back up, his eyes are ablaze with a hunger that’s new to me.
“I want you, Say.” His voice is guttural. Desperate. Empowering.
I slide my hands to my breasts and rub my nipples between my thumbs and forefingers. The flour he knocked over coats my hands. Adds a difference of sensation. My lips part in a soft gasp.
He swallows visibly and darts his tongue to his lips. “Right here. Right now.” He steps into me. Slides a hand up my torso, over my hands on my breasts, and replaces my fingers with his own. The sensation is heavenly. My back arches and my head falls back but not enough to lose eye contact with him.
And just when I want to close my eyes he dips forward and circles my nipple with his tongue. Then sucks. It’s like an electric current has been sent straight to every nerve in my body. Shocking them aware. Making them feel every singular sensation: the heat of his tongue, the scrape of his stubble, and the vibration of his groan against my skin.
“No one’s watching now.” He looks up to me from beneath lids heavy with desire. “It’s just you. And me.”
His words are like an aphrodisiac. A stimulant. An eraser to the errant thoughts I had before he walked in.
I was wrong. He did want to kiss me.
“And fuck how much I want you right now.”
Wanting to test the control he claims to want, I bring a hand to the back of his neck and pull him to me. My mouth is against his. A taunt of a kiss. A nip to his lip. His name a moan. I show him I want him just as fiercely. Running my tongue over the coarseness of his jaw to his ear, I say, “I’ve always wanted you.”
The words are out before I can stop them. The transparency of the moment taking over and speaking truths I can’t take back. A confession I don’t think I even wanted to admit to myself.
There’s a falter in motion. A second where our eyes meet and our emotional guard is lowered. And then the moment takes over.
A growl deep in his throat as he slides his hand back up my midline between my breasts before pushing me to lie back onto the flour-coated granite slab behind me. His hands hook around my thighs and pull me toward him.
A moment of separation. A curse as his feet pad from the room before coming back. The telltale rip of foil.
Anticipation builds. His fingers part me and cool air touches my heated skin. The thick curve of his head as he presses it against my wet center. I widen my thighs. Close my eyes. And revel in that soft, sweet, all-consuming burn as he slowly pushes his way into me.
Good. God. Yes.
My back arches. My hands press flat against the cool counter. My breath catches. The ache builds, inch by agonizingly slow inch until he’s sheathed root to tip.
His soft groan of, “Jesus Fucking Christ, Saylor,” is enough of a response to tell me he feels the same way I do.
His fingers tighten on my hips and desire is reflected in the touch. My muscles tremble. My eyes are closed, mind lost to the thought of how, after all this time, only one person has ever made me feel like this: full, complete, wanted, desired, loved.
And then he moves. Dragging my mind from thoughts that will just complicate matters and flooding me with the slow and steady rhythm he pulls us into. I’m swamped with pleasure immediately. The warmth is so intense. The manipulation of every part of me overwhelming. It’s been so long.
He pushes all the way into me and g
rinds his hips so the base of his shaft adds a touch of friction against my clit. On his withdrawal, the crest of his cock rubs against the pleasure point of nerves inside. Then he eases almost all the way out, teases me with just the tip and then begins the slow slide back in.
I’m drugged by his adept skill. His insatiable finesse.
My eyes flutter open to take in the sight of him before me. Muscles tense, teeth biting into his bottom lip, head angled down to watch where we’re joined.
He looks up and meets my eyes. A dare and a warning flash in his expression. His nonverbal advice to hold on as he begins to pick up the pace.
The unmistakable sound of our bodies connecting, uniting, separating, and then starting the process all over again fill the kitchen. My body glides on the flour beneath me. Backward with each push in, then toward him, as his hands on my hips pull my ass over the edge of the counter again. He uses the unbalanced weight of my hips off the edge to push into me until he bottoms out.
His guttural sounds. The unrelenting pace. My name groaned on his lips. The grip of his hands on my flesh. The harshness of the granite beneath me, and his hardness within me.
Our words are as frenzied as our movements. Like we can’t get them out fast enough and at the same time want to draw this out as long as possible.
Right there.
More.
Oh God.
So tight.
Deeper.
So good.
Oh God.
Saylor.
My body chills and heats. An ache like I’ve never experienced before tears through me making my want turn desperate. Makes my moans become demands. And without warning, I tumble over the edge into that delirious free fall of ecstasy. My mind shuts down. My body takes over. An explosion of heat. A desperate gulp of air. A cry of his name. My muscles contracting around him so that even the slightest movement from him brings me such intense pleasure that I want him to stop and not stop simultaneously.
I’m swamped in the bliss of the orgasm. Lost to its euphoric haze.
And then Hayes can’t hold back anymore. He starts to move again. To pump and thrust. To worship and take. To own and possess. Then it’s my name on his lips followed by a ragged cry of release. A few more pumps of his hips before the room falls silent save for the ragged draw of his breath.
Without a word, he slips out and leans forward to press his forehead against my chest, lips against my belly, and just stills there for a moment.
I thread my fingers through his hair and revel in the warmth of the moment. In the difference of making love to the man now versus the teenagers fumbling in the dark that we used to be.
And the line we rehearsed earlier today comes back to my mind: It’s only ever been you.
Hayes
I wake with a start. The room is darkened. My arm is numb from where Saylor’s head rests on it.
Saylor.
The goddamn drug I forgot about. The yardstick I’ve measured all against. The one woman I’ve always wondered what-if about.
Well, now you know, Whitley. Ten times better than you remembered. Richter-scale sex. But how does knowing help the situation?
Fuck if I know, but holy shit was that incredible sex.
And then it hits me. Is she the real reason I stayed away from Tessa in the weeks before coming here? We weren’t dating. I’d even told Say that. But spending that small amount of time with Saylor, our one hour of fun in our old stomping ground—the tree house—was clearly enough.
I hadn’t ever been interested in Tessa. A good lay? Sure. Available? Yes. Emotionally connected? Not a chance in hell.
Tessa could never hold a candle to everything Saylor Rodgers is.
I shift on the chaise and turn so I can see her face and watch her sleep. Take in the soft lips and long lashes. The freckles I used to tease her about, and that stubborn chin she’s lifted more times to me during our lifetime than I can count.
And I know my hunch is right. Tessa—perhaps any woman—pales in comparison to Saylor.
How in the hell did this happen? And why the fuck do I want to lean forward, taste those lips, and do it all over again?
Because it’s Saylor.
My afternoon run was supposed to cure this want. The exertion should have staunched the unexpected need and calmed the ache in my gut I’ve had since we walked down the path together last night. And yet it did the complete opposite. Each step of my jog was a pounding reminder how much I wanted her and an affirmation that the ball-tightening kiss we’d had was more than just for show.
I kissed her because I wanted to. Had to. Couldn’t resist not knowing if she still kissed the same. Tasted the same. Made that same little sound that used to get me hard in a split second (but in all fairness, for a teenage boy, a cool breeze could do that).
And selfishly my ego wanted the fucker, Mitch, to see she was with me. Call it a dickish move, tell me it doesn’t matter because he’s getting married and didn’t fight hard enough to keep her, but I know it does. I’ll make him wonder what I have that he doesn’t. A bigger dick? A larger bank account? A better personality?
Yes, to all three.
So fuck, the kiss might have been a combination of all the above, but the sex? That was all me. All want. All greed. Everything I need. And fuck yes, it was against my better judgment. But sure as shit, my better judgment is not communicating with my dick.
And now I’m screwed. Because all I want is more.
I scrub my free hand over my face to try and figure out how that’s possible, and I’m greeted with the scent of her pussy on my fingers. I’m hard instantly. I want to take her like this with flour smeared on her cheek and some still peppered in her hair. With a pan of cupcake batter on the counter still not baked. A mess all over the floor. And the bastard she was supposed to be marrying having his rehearsal dinner somewhere nearby.
I need to mark her in some way. Own her the same damn way she’s owned me in one way or another since that first day I knocked on her screen door, told her I was the new kid on the street, and asked if her brother could come out and play.
She was all sweet and soft, and straight lines and innocent in every way imaginable. That’s how I remembered her. And since I walked in the cupcake shop I’ve found out she’s still sweet but also a helluva lot of feisty. Her innocence is matched with unwavering confidence and those straight lines of hers have turned into gorgeous curves.
Curves currently warm against my body and calling me to run my hands over them. I fight the urge. Need to wrap my head around the words she said during sex—I’ve always wanted you—and how they made me feel. Still make me feel. Possessive. Alive. Scared. Relieved. Protective.
You’re never supposed to believe the words someone says during sex. You know they’re jaded by the act. And yet, deep in my gut, I know she meant them.
She moves in her sleep. Brings her knee up to rest against my dick and fists her hand over my heart.
There’s an ache in my chest. A feeling I choose to ignore. The longer I stare at her, watching her chest rise and fall, I realize the ache is more of a twinge and the twinge is jealousy. Of Mitch. Because he’s had a million moments like this that I never did. He wasted them. Took them for granted.
And anger. Because he didn’t think enough of her to fight for her. She’s worth the goddamn fight. Especially when her temper’s raging, and her stubbornness reigns.
And relief. That she knew better and walked away from him. That Ryder called me to cash in the IOU and that when I walked in the villa tonight she looked at me with those wild eyes of hers that told me so much more than her lips ever would.
The irony’s not lost on me. How can I be pissed at Mitch when I should direct it all at myself since I’m the asshole who walked away from her and left the door wide open?
But it’s easier to blame him. To despise him. Because if I do then I don’t have to look too closely at myself and wonder what this all means. How this will play out. How the weekend’s going to end when
we return to our respective worlds.
Then what?
Walk back into the lives we lead knowing this is still here between us? Resolved and unresolved?
Shut the fuck up. Live in the moment. Enjoy the killer sex and having her around. Sex doesn’t mean commitment. Doesn’t mean love.
Love?
Where the fuck did that thought come from?
She murmurs something I can’t make out. Pulls my attention when it’s never left her. Then moves again. I can’t help but smile when she brings her hand up to her earlobe and rubs it between her thumb and forefinger.
And fuck if a feeling doesn’t surge through me—warms me when it shouldn’t—at seeing her do that. At knowing she still does it. That ache is back in my chest but this time it’s not from jealousy.
Not hardly.
She murmurs again. Snuggles closer against me.
Haven’t I always loved her in some way, shape, or form?
It’s just the shared history. The reconnection with someone who has known me since way back when. A person who can still finish my sentences even after all this time.
Keep telling yourself that, dude. Maybe you’ll believe it hasn’t always been her.
She mumbles something. A soft laugh follows. And that fucking tinge is back with a vengeance when she mumbles again, but this time, the word is clear as day. Mitch.
Saylor
I wake slowly. I’m nestled in the satisfaction of sex and the unmistakable warmth of Hayes’s strong body against mine. Groggy but content, my eyes flutter open to find him staring intently at me. His bicep flexes beneath my neck.
The lazy smile on my lips is as automatic as the post-sex stiffness I feel in my muscles when I stretch my legs out. “You’re not plotting a way to put mustard on my cheek and tickle me to smear it, are you?”
The solemn lines of his face transform instantly with the laugh that falls from his lips. His eyes warm, and his hand moves to the side of my face where he rubs his thumb back and forth over my bottom lip. The action makes every single part of me sag in contentment.
