I do, pressing deeper at the same leisurely pace we’re making out to. I’m bigger than the other guys she’s been with, I’m guessing, which inflates my chest with some primal pride. But I don’t want to hurt her. I’mnotmy father.
I thumb her clit a few times, feeling how tight she’s stretched around me, hoping the friction will help. She’s plenty wet, her arousal soaking my fingers as I rub them around.
I pull back enough to see her face, wishing again that I’d left a light on. I can’t do anything about that now though, so I ask, “Still good?”
Her fingers play with the short strands of hair at the base of my neck. It feels fucking incredible. I fight a groan, quite certain she can feel my dick jerk inside of her. I’m desperate to pump—to fuck.
“I have a theory,” Wren tells me, tilting her head. Some blonde strands brush my biceps. “I think the asshole thing is a front to cover the fact that you’re secretly a decent guy.”
This is why I don’t kiss girls or talk during sex. Because they start to see what they want, not what I’m showing them.
“Your theory is wrong,” I tell her. “I’m an asshole, pretending to be a decent guy for a few minutes since you’re used to tiny dicks and rose-petal sheets.”
Rather than appear insulted or annoyed, Wren laughs. I feel the vibrations against me. Around me. We’re so intimately connected. Joined in a way I’ve never experienced during sex before because I’m normally thrusting, not lingering.
“I won’t break,” she tells me. “Don’t treat me like crystal.”
I suppress the snort that wants to slip out. Crystal. She’s so goddamn rich. I grew up drinking out of plastic cups. Glassdoesbreak and is expensive to replace.
Her legs tighten around my waist, shifting the angle slightly. I slip a little deeper, and Wren moans, nails sinking into my shoulders. I take it as a signal to keep moving, pulling out and pushing in with only slightly less effort. She’s still so tight. I move my thumb to her clit again, rubbing slow circles. Her mouth lands on my neck, sucking gently. Her teeth graze the skin, followed by the slick flick of her tongue. My control is slipping, base instincts fighting to emerge.
“You feel good,” Wren murmurs.
I adjust my grip on her hips. My hold is firm enough that I’m probably leaving marks.
I want this to last, but it’s not going to be physically possible for much longer. Fire is licking up my spine, feeding the distinctive tightening in my balls.
Wren makes this sexy whimper, and I let go, flooding the condom with cum. The release is longer and fiercer than I’m used to, blurring the edges of my vision. Robbing my ability to breathe. To move even as it rips through me with unexpected intensity.
Breathing heavily, I pull out and set her on the floor. Wren’s face dips, hair falling forward as she grabs her underwear, then adjusts her dress around her thighs.
When her chin lifts, her expression is serene and unreadable in the moonlight. “I’d say see you around, but I probably won’t.”
“You probably won’t,” I agree, amused by her parroting my parting comment when we reached the shore the other night.
I like that she remembers what I said. Like that she tossed it back in my face even more. And I wish it weren’t true—that I would see her around again.
“Bye, Sawyer.”
She’s walking out of Wade’s bedroom before I can muster any reply.
I stare at the door she left ajar for a few seconds, inhaling floral-and-sex-scented air and enjoying the lingering endorphins, then walk over to Wade’s bedside table to grab a tissue. When I can’t find one, I turn the lamp back on. There’s a small stack of napkins from a local pizza place that will work.
I grab a couple, go to peel off the condom, and freeze, staring at the dark streaks on the latex.
5
No sign of Rory or Dad when I stumble downstairs. Just Mom, perched in a dining room chair with a cup of green tea, flipping through a cooking magazine.
“Happy Fourth,” I say weakly, walking into the kitchen.
We’re staying at Aunt Scarlett and Uncle Crew’s house while they’re at my aunt’s parents’ place. The Ellsworths are hosting today’s famous party. We don’t normally attend it, but my dad had a work trip get canceled and suggested it would be fun—mandatory—for our family to spend the holiday weekend in the Hamptons. A decision I’m decreasingly resentful of.
“Good morning.” Mom leans back in her chair, grabbing her cup of tea and blowing at the steam. “Where were you last night?”
I knew this interrogation was coming. “Drove to Boston,” I answer. “Dumped some tea in the harbor to be patriotic.”
Mom shakes her head, unamused. “You’re grounded, Wren.”
