“You can’t kiss me like that and then take off because you don’t like something I’ve said!” I shout.
He doesn’t look back at me. His feet hit the rocky sand at the shore, and then he’s reaching for his shirt, hastily working the sleeves up his arms. I get close enough to watch the dark fabric grow damp from his skin. The rocks are uncomfortable as I stomp over them, but I’m too focused on Rowe to pay them much attention.
The fingers that were just in my hair pinch his shirt as he starts to button it. He doesn’t make it past the first one before I’m grabbing his hands and bringing them back where I want them. They glide over my head, and I press them deeper in the strands, tangling them in place. His mouth is flat, his scowl obvious despite the way he’s not letting go of my hair once I drop my hands.
“If you want to punish me for getting married, then explain to me why,” I demand, my voice breathy in a way that has nothing to do with how fast I raced out of the water. “Why did it matter to you? Why are you so fucking pissed at me for it?”
His nostrils blow wide. “I don’t know.”
“That’s a cop-out.”
“It’s not. I don’t fucking know why it made me so mad. It shouldn’t have upset me as badly as it did. You didn’t tell me, and that hurt, but it should have worn off by now,” he snaps.
“Yes, it should have. But it hasn’t.”
The muscles beside his eyes twitch, and I move without thinking. The tiny rocks along the beach cut into my knees when I fall onto them and crane my head back, staring up at him. A sharp exhale slips from his mouth, and he flexes his fingers in my hair.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
“Don’t play with me,” he warns, voice dipping into a growl.
It’s far too enthralling being on my knees in front of him right now, with his work shirt soaked and moulding to the thick ridges of his biceps as he holds me and the singular button keeping it from falling completely open. Abs glisten in the shadows of the fabric, and his briefs are soaking wet, acting more like a second skin.
I reach out and press a hand to his hip, my eyes latching onto the bulge in his underwear. He’s hard inside them. Rigid, long, and fuckingpulsing. I release a breath and curl my fingers into the waistband, pulling it back just enough for the tip to pop out.
“You had so many questions, Rowe. Where are they now?” I murmur, wetting my lips.
“Is this how you want to earn my forgiveness, hellcat? With your lips around my cock?”
I hum, guiding his briefs down another inch. My pussy flutters, the cold fabric pressed against it not seeming to matter anymore. I’m too hot to feel it.
“I don’t need your forgiveness. My decision to get married wasn’t about you.”
He tugs at my hair, and I laugh, leaning into his hold. “So what is this, then?”
“This is me being tired of pretending that I don’t want you. I’ve wondered what you taste like for the last seventeen years.”
It feels eerily personal saying that out loud, especially to him. Maybe that’s why I’m doing it right now, when he doesn’t have a chance to tell me to take it back.
I yank his underwear to his knees and grip his shaft. His groan tears through the night, hiding my small whimper of need that I can’t trap. The heat of him in my palm is electrifying, andfuck—the giant vein running along the underside of his shaft is scorching hot. He’s already leaking precum, and I tease him with the pad of my thumb, smearing it.
“Tilly. I haven’t?—”
My interest flares at the desperation in his tone. I give him a long, tight stroke and gaze upward. “Haven’t what?”
“Haven’t had a mouth around me. Not for a long goddamn time.”
“Good.”
I drag my tongue over his tip, and his taste hits my tongue instantly. Letting my eyes fall shut, I lean forward on my knees and suck around his shaft, trying to remember how to do this. If he knew that I was just as out of practice as he was, I’d lose my advantage. I like him being at my mercy too much to let it go yet.
“Ohshit,” he grits out, his fingers spasming in my hair. “Go slow. Fuck! Slow?—”
Annoyed with his demands, I do the opposite. I tighten my hold on the lower half of his cock and fit more of him between my lips. It’s a tight fit, and I’ve always had the worst gag reflex. I make the most of what I can take and roll my tongue around him.
He yanks on me harder, and white spots flicker behind my eyelids. My moan is instant, low and greedy. It vibrates down the endless inches of him, and his hips jerk forward. His tip slides too deep, and I gag, tears clinging to my lashes.
