I exhale, bracing a hand against the tiles beside her head. “My dad embezzled money from the force. That’s what he went to prison for. Nichols’s dad was chief when it happened. My dad made his look like a fool, got him fired. That’s why—part of why—he hates me so much.”
“Why else?” she asks quietly.
I half smile. “I beat him out for the starting pitcher spot.”
“I didn’t know you play baseball.”
“Used to. I don’t anymore.”
She bites her bottom lip. “I didn’t flirt back. If I had … it would have only been because you were there with Macie.”
“I wasn’t therewithMacie.”
“So, you’re not …”
“I’ve never touched her, Wren.”
I slide my palm down her ribs, over the curve of her hip, and then between her thighs, fingering her slick, swollen pussy. She moans softly, head tilting back against the tiles.
The tip of my cock is leaking; I’m so hard. But I don’t open the condom. Don’t end the torture. I rub her clit and then fuck her with my fingers, smiling when her moans come louder and closer together. It’s fast and messy, my hand picking up pace as she grinds against my palm. But there’s something soft about it too—maybe because I know I just let her in a little more despite my resolve that I wouldn’t.
It’s only July. What will my willpower look like by late August? I’m the one who will get left behind when Wren goes to California.
She comes hard, again, squeezing the shit out of my fingers. Blinking at me with a dazed, sated expression.
I smirk, tipping her chin up with my left hand. “Not used to coming twice?”
Wren glares, batting my hand away. “You’re an asshole.”
“I know.” I press closer, letting her feel how hard I am. “And so do you.”
Her hands brush the damp hair off my forehead. Her fingers trail down the side of my face, thumb stroking the scar that splits my chin. Her lips part, like she’s going to say something, but then her other hand grabs the chain around my neck, using it to jerk my head down. She rises up on her tiptoes, kissing me again.
This—we—won’t last.
And I’m terrified by the sudden realization of how much I’d like it to.
27
I’m more comfortable in a police station than the average person. But it’s still daunting, sitting in an interrogation room, waiting to be questioned. My knee bounces nervously beneath the table, and I hope the cameras in here can’t pick that angle up. It’d probably be interpreted as an admission of guilt. And Iamguilty, technically, but I only hit him once. Didn’t break his nose. Nichols was back on his feet a few seconds later, spewing threats. Despite what my dad did, I’m more popular around here than Brett or the former chief is. But my father sure didn’t do himself any favors with the local police force.
The door opens.
I glance up, knee stilling.
“You grew up, kid.”
I exhale, recognizing the officer. Mason Howard is who I would have requested, if I’d been given a choice of interrogator. He’d always hand me lollipops when I visited my dad at work. More importantly, he’sa decent guy. Fair. The type of cop I thought my father was.
“Yeah,” I say, forcing a smile. “Good to see you.”
“You too. Wish it were at a game.”
I nod once. Mason has a kid a couple of years younger than me. We played together on a few teams over the years. I think Max Howard used to look up to me the same way Mason Howard used to look up to my dad.
I wonder if Mason knows I quit baseball. Probably.
“All right,” Mason says, settling across from me and flipping open a folder. “You know why you’re here?”
