And it does. We stay out on the dock, talking for hours. It doesn’t feel like hours, though. It feels like I blink and suddenly the first hint of gray-blue light breaks over the horizon. Cuddled up on the lounge chair, we listen to the lapping water and the early birds singing in the trees, watching the sky slowly blush pink and orange. It’s mesmerizing.
“You don’t get sunrises like this in the city,” I remark.
He turns his head toward me, and the light catches the planes of his face now, brushing gold over the sharp line of his jaw and the scruff that makes him look older and softer at the same time.
“You’ve always liked the mornings. When we were kids, you’d sneak out here to watch the sun come up.”
“You remember that?”
“Yeah.” His eyes shift to the sky again. “You’d sit cross-legged on the dock with your knees tucked to your chin like you were trying to hug the whole lake. And then your parents would wake up and find you gone. Your dad would start banging on doors and organizing a search party, and I’d be laughing in my bed because I always knew exactly where they would find you.”
Something warm flickers through me. I didn’t realize he’d paid that much attention to me, especially when I was seven and he was eleven, and I was sneaking out to watch sunrises.
Finally, the sun breaks through the trees and shimmers across the lake. I shift under the blanket. My arm brushes Wyatt’s.
“You should get some sleep,” he says.
“Maybe,” I answer, still admiring the sunrise. “But this feels better than sleep.”
When I turn my head toward him, he’s looking back at me, his expression unreadable.
“Don’t look at me like that.” His voice is quiet, but there’s some heat in it. It makes my pulse skip.
“Like what?”
He doesn’t respond. His lips curve slightly, and those intense eyes suddenly focus on my mouth.
“What?” I murmur.
His hand comes out, fingers curling over my cheek. His touch unleashes a flurry of shivers. Oh my God. I think he’s going to kiss me for real this time. It’s the same heavy-lidded look he had in the bedroom when he asked to take my hair down.
He moistens his lips, and now I’m staring athismouth. Begging him silently to press it against mine.
His thumb gently sweeps my bottom lip, but then he sucks in a breath and lets his hand fall from my face. Disappointment slams into me.
“Know what I was doing when you called?” he says without meeting my eyes.
“What?”
“Getting my dick sucked.”
A hot pang of jealousy stabs me in the chest. “Oh.”
“I stopped it right before you called.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “Wasn’t into it.”
“You weren’t into a blowjob?”
“No.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I don’t know. I shouldn’t.”
I wait for my jealousy to transform into anger, for a sharp retort to exit my mouth. We just spent the entire night talking, and he decides to punctuate it by revealing he got a blowjob from someone else earlier? I should be livid.
