She obeys. Lips part. Pink tongue just barely peeking out. I slide my finger between them. She closes around it, swirling her tongue around my digit slowly.
Holy fuck.
My cock jumps so hard I almost laugh.
Her lips tighten. Her cheeks hollow. She’s not just playing along—she’s fucking starving for it. For me. And she doesn’t even realize the noise she’s making until I slide my finger back out and lick the rest of the cream off, slow and filthy.
I lean in, just enough for her to feel my breath.
“You keep looking at me like that, I’ll bend you over this booth and show the whole goddamn town just how soft I’m not.”
She shivers. Perfect. A voice behind me cuts the moment short.
“Well damn, Sheriff. Didn’t know you had a sweet side.”
I turn, slow. It’s Hank Garber. Owns the auto yard off Old Mill Road. Loudmouth. Wears the same sweat-stained cap every day of the year. He’s grinning like this is some kind of joke. I look up just enough to meet his eye.
“Sweet side?” I echo. “That what you think this is?”
His grin falters.
I hook my thumb toward Summer.
“She knows what I taste like when I’m sweet. But she knows what I taste like when I’m not. You wanna ask her which one keeps her up at night?”
He stammers something, then turns red and shuffles back to his table without another word.
I train my eyes back to her. She’s flushed with embarrassment and arousal.
Good.
That’s how I want her. On edge. Always a little too aware of me. Of what I’m capable of—both with my hands and without them.
I pick up my fork and slide it through the slice like nothing happened.
“Eat,” I say softly.
And she does. We finish dessert, but I don’t taste a thing. Not really.
Not when she’s across from me with her cheeks flushed and pupils blown wide. Not when the ghost of her mouth lingers on my fucking finger, sweet and sinful, like she’s marked me with whipped cream and fire.
My cock’s been hard since the first taste. And it hasn’t gone down once. She doesn’t know what she’s done—not really—but every move she makes, every breath she takes, every fucking glance she throws my way tightens the leash I’ve kept on myself all night. By the time we leave the diner, I’m past pretending.
We step out into the thick evening air. The sky’s black but thenight is humid; the heat clinging to everything. But I’m colder than I’ve ever been.
I unlock the truck. She turns to climb in, her long legs hiking up to the perfect angle. I could stand between them, pull her panties to one side and slam myself inside her.
I clench my teeth so hard I’m surprised they don’t crack under the pressure.I grab her by the waist, turn her to me and lift her like she weighs nothing—because to me, she does. She gasps, but it turns into something softer when I slam her against the door, one hand pinning her wrists above her head, the other gripping her jaw.
Then I kiss her. Not a kiss—a fucking war. Teeth. Tongue. Desperation. I own her mouth like it’s mine. Like I’m pouring every twisted part of me into her—every fight, every breath I’ve held back, every second I’ve spent trying to be something close to decent.
I’ve been fooling myself. There’s nothing decent about the way I want her.
I kiss her until she melts. Until her body goes limp with need and her hips grind into my thigh, like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. Until her breath catches in a sound that makes my vision blur.
And when I pull back, her lips are swollen, eyes half-lidded, breath hot and fast. I press my forehead to hers.
My voice comes out low. Raw. “I need you.”
