She’s already walking to the passenger side. Climbing inside my truck.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Gus:She left.
Gus:Nichols is still here, whining about his face.
Gus:Nice right hook.
I smile, shoving my phone back in my jeans and heading for the driver’s side.
Wren has gotten comfortable, slipping off her shoes and reclining against the seat, cross-legged. I wonder if she really does like my truck or if she was just bullshitting me last summer.
I start the engine without asking. Brett will leave at some point, and it’s better for all of us if I’m gone by then. I’m not sure if he’ll actually go to the cops, but he might.
Wren flips on the radio as I drive, but doesn’t say anything, aside from sharing directions. The house her family is renting isn’t far fromthe Ellsworth compound, on the ocean, in an exclusive neighborhood.
“Want me to pull in?” I ask, braking when we reach the hedge that borders the end of the driveway.
She nods. “My parents are gone for the weekend. They went to some charity gala in the city.”
I flip on my blinker, even though the street is empty, then roll up the clamshell drive. The house—mansion—appears around the bend, pretty much exactly what I expected. Wren’s convertible is parked in the circular drive that ends in front of a four-car garage. I park by the water fountain set in front of the gray-shingled house. Six white columns support the front porch that stretches the entire length of the house, gable peaks above it.
I knew her family was rich, but … damn. Seeing this is something else.
“Want to come in?”
My gaze snaps to Wren, who’s watching me expectantly, hand poised on the door handle.
“Now?” I ask, like an idiot.
“Yeah.”
I turn the key and pocket it, climbing out of the cab. Follow Wren along the pavers that lead to the porch and up to the front door. She unlocks it, then immediately types a code into an electronic panel to the left.
I close the door slowly, looking around. There’s a pool I can see through the French doors straight ahead. And a sweeping staircase to the right of the entryway, which Wren heads for after slipping her shoes off. I step out of my sneakers, glancing left into a living room with one, two, three,fourcouches before starting upstairs.
“My room’s this way,” Wren says, turning left at the top.
I continue down the hallway after her, past artwork that looks awfully expensive, and into a room decorated in shades of blue.
I recognize too much. The bag she packed for her prom. The sunglasses she was wearing when she got to work yesterday. The pink tennis racquet leaning against her desk.
She has her own private bathroom and balcony. The suite is roughly the same size as my entire house. I don’t resent Wren for it, but it does make me question what the hell I’m doing here.
Then Wren pulls her shirt over her head, flinging it toward the hamper (and missing) and I forget what a question is.
“You’re wearing too many clothes,” she says without glancing over to check my state of undress.
I shrug my T-shirt off, snagging the condom out of my pocket before dropping my jeans. Wren is on the bed, in nothing except a matching set of lacy underwear. Her eyes are on my dick as I approach, and it hardens even more under her gaze. It’s been … fuck, it’s been so long.
Parts of this should feel rote. We’ve had sex three times before. But despite the flood of lust that’s fueling impatience, there’s a fluttering of nerves and uncertainty as I reach the edge of the mattress.
Wren rises up onto her knees, trailing her fingers down the center of my chest. They linger in the strip of hair below my navel, and it feels like all the blood in my body is rushing to that spot.
“Are you going to last more than five minutes this time?”
“Probably not,” I admit, tangling one hand in her hair.
