We sit in silence for a long time, and she yawns. “I’m exhausted. I want to go to bed.”
Wendy moves toward the stairs and then turns back and glances at me. “I don’t want to sleep alone.”
It’s an invitation that I selfishly take. We climb the stairs, still in our underwear, then enter her room. It’s pitch-black with the windows boarded up. The darkness captures us as we climb between the sheets.
She rolls onto her side, away from me, and I move close, molding my body into hers, holding her. With my eyes closed, I smell her hair, hoping this isn’t the last chance I get with her.
The storm makes landfall, and I know it’s somewhere around three. The wind drops an octave, sounding like a growl, and I stay awake through it all.
“I really hope you forgive me,” I whisper into the night.
She doesn’t respond.
chapter twenty-six
Wendy
Iwake up, and it’s dark because the windows are boarded.
The wind and rain are gone, and I hear seagulls in the distance, like nothing has changed.
Carter’s arm is heavy across my waist. His chest is warm against my back, and his breathing hasn’t changed. But his thumb moves in a small circle against my hip.
Last night comes back in pieces. I remember the Fireball and poker game with seashells.
“My full name is Dyson Carter Banks.”
The articles flash in my mind, and then I see photos of me with Carter—I mean, Dyson.
He shifts. His arm starts to slide off my waist, and I catch his wrist.
“Not yet.”
His arm tightens around me, and he presses his mouth against the back of my shoulder.
I’m angry, I’m confused, but really, I’m numb from the whirlwind of emotions I’ve experienced since he walked through the door of the B&B, looking at everything in the room but me.
His hand moves from my hip to my stomach, and I pull his hand lower.
“Wendy,” he growls in my ear.
I roll onto my back and look at him. “You promised me until August 3 too.”
“Treating me like your summer slut?” he asks.
“Don’t talk.”
His fingers slide beneath the waistband of my underwear, and my hips roll forward against his hand. He knows what I like because he’s spent six weeks learning me. When we’re together like this, names, finances, and job titles don’t matter. He finds the rhythm I need.
I grab a fist of sheets as his fingers work in slow circles.
“More,” I demand.
His teeth catch my earlobe, and the sound I make would embarrass me if anyone heard.
Two digits push inside me, and his thumb stays where I need it. The comforter rustles with movement as my breaths grow ragged. Dyson gives me everything I need without being told.
The orgasm hits, and I don’t hold back with my moans. I almost say Carter and stop myself halfway through.
