Our gazes lock through my phone, and he gives me this panty-melting grin right back before one of his fingers brushes against my wet clit.
Groaning because apparently my brain has gone into shutdown mode and my body is answering to all his calls, Bronte delivers circles to my sensitive bundle of nerves and shows zero remorse for it.
“You may not see it yet,” he recites. “But I see everything when you’re with me. How everything was supposed to be. How you’d thrive with me because I want to be your best friend and biggest fan. I want to be the one you come home to and tell all your dreams to. I want to take you home…to my family. The one who raised and made me abetter man.”
To my family.
He thought the Hardings were so bad that he moved on and away from the negativity.
I’m captivated to know more about them and how easily he’d bring me around his safe space. I haven’t given him an inkling as to what I’m going to do with mine because I don’t know.
I don’t know anything when he’s rubbing my clit in an ancient library filled with famous authors’ words. Where millions of people have walked through this same space, not getting their bodies played like an instrument, and again, once in a lifetime opportunity here.
“We’re going to get caught,” I warn, though it does nothing to help my case because it’s a blend between a pant and a breathless moan. “This has to be against some kind of rules or regulations.”
“Getting your pretty little clit rubbed inside a historic building?” he asks innocently. “I think this place could use some excitement.”
I suddenly grasp his forearm when his middle finger brushes lazily against my entrance. “You’re going to get us in trouble. And if you get us kicked out of Prague, I’mreallygoing to kill you.”
“Daydream,” he muses, looking every part the hellion that he is. “We’re already in trouble.”
Then he demonstrates that when he shoves two thick fingers inside me and pumps.
I tense in shock as my arm begins to drop, but Bronte is in his starring role when he says, “Hold your phone up. Watch every facial expression you make and how I fell in love with you in the first place.”
He stares at me through my screen, but steals a kiss to my temple and closes his eyes while he does.
He may not know it, but he’s telling when he’s with me like this. The subtle drops and hints his body does. The way his green eyes gloss over with hunger and confidence.
The small things he does that Bobby would quickly do, Bronte takes his time with.
I gasp when his thumb grazes my throbbing clit, and my body weight presses against Bronte’s. He’s built like a wall, acts like one for me in the moment because I’m barely standing on two feet and just want him to fuck me at the nearest one available.
However, due to clothing and time restraints, I know this is the nearest I can get to an orgasm and the pleasure he’s always giving to break me.
To break my barriers.
To break my doubt.
To question the last two years of my life and how big a role he played in my relationship with Bobby.
He’s the reason I ended up with Bobby.
“Now,” Bronte says matter-of-factly along the shell of my ear. “After you’re done coming, we’re going to dinner. Then you’re going to force me to eat a bite of all those desserts. And then, we’ll watch whatever Christmas movie you want. I know you’re big on?—”
“Deeper,” I moan because, goddamn it, if he says one more thing to make this whole damn day perfect, I’m going to scream and summon security.
Bronte doesn’t goad me to expand on that needy response, there to give me exactly what I need as he somehow moves like his big hand isn’t tightly inside my jeans.
He makes it work, however, and I’m not in the headspace to evaluate his skillset, how he’s able to do it, nor do I care.
I can’t stop watching him watch me through my screen as he wedges his fingers deeper, forcing me to study us together. How I react to how he strokes and finger fucks me.
The pink blush along my cheeks and the way his light green eyes drop to my lips.
You’d think it’d be a duplicate of Bobby and me inpictures. Of all the random snapshots I’d take to savor moments for later when we were older.
But, there’s a difference between Bronte and Bobby that I never noticed before until now, since I’ve been staring at him for the last two or so minutes.
