A mischievous grin curls along her lips. “Oh no.”
There are spare Wellies and some rain shells in the mudroom, so we both bundle up as best we can and make a run for it.
The guesthouse is beyond the pool and closer to the cliffside. It might be significantly smaller than the main house, but the view is superior.
We splash through puddles and mud, but the boots do a good job of protecting our feet. When we both stumble into the dark house, we’re soaked from the sideways rain blowing in off the water and we quickly strip out of our gear.
I flip on the gas fireplace while Clover flicks on a few lamps and turns in slow circles. “The couch is different,” she says, walking around the dark green leather sectional.
“Yeah, I couldn’t be responsible for a white couch.”
She laughs, standing behind the couch, her arms spread across the back. “Neither could my mom, honestly. She flipped the cushions so many times that I wondered if the inside of the couch led to another dimension.”
I tried not to change the house too much. Just a few pieces of furniture so that my mom would walk in and think I at least tried.
“I haven’t really spent much time here,” I tell her as I crowdbehind her. Skin, damp from the rain. The threadbare T-shirt does little to separate us, and all I want is to touch her.
The back wall of windows facing the cliffside is open air from the first floor to the second mezzanine. The lightning illuminates the sky in an unpredictable rhythm, spilling into the house.
Clover arches back against me, her lovely ass pressing into my groin.
With one arm curled around her waist, I use my free hand to push her hair aside so that my teeth can sink into the soft flesh of her neck. She emits a low, throaty moan. I decide that if I had to choose one last sound to hear on my deathbed, it would be that.
“Ben,” she whines, an arm reaching up, fingers winding around the back of my neck.
My erection was already coming to life when she stepped into my room wearing this T-shirt, but now it is fully stiff in the cleft of her ass.
She turns in my arms and pushes me back just enough so that she can lift the shirt over her head.
I almost complain about undressing her beingmyjob, but she leaves me breathless without a complete thought in my head.
Her underwear only just covers her. A small navy scrap of fabric with thin strings pulled over the curves of her hips, nearly disappearing into the mouthwatering crease there. The curve above her pubic bone makes me feral and has me thinking obscene, irresponsible things about making her belly swell.
The bra is a flimsy mesh thing with strips of navy fabric that run through the center of each cup, just wide enough to cover her hardening nipples.
“Do you have any idea how many hours of my days have been spent wondering what you’re wearing under your clothing? From thefirst day of school when you got dressed in our room. I could write an entire essay about your propensity for matching underthings.”
“Really?” she asks in a way that says she’s got me right where she wants me.
She pulls me back to her by the waistband of my wet jeans, and my hips jerk forward as I watch her delicate hands undo the buckle of my belt and then my button and fly.
My mouth is on her, biting and licking and teasing. She yanks the collar of my T-shirt and pulls me down on her, so that we’re both tumbling over the back of the couch, laughing and moaning into each other’s mouths.
“You’re still wearing too many clothes,” she says.
With one hand, I yank my long-sleeved shirt off. “You could tell me to bark and I would say how loud.”
She grins devilishly.
“Woof,” I say as I dip my head down to run my tongue between her breasts, then pull her nipples into my mouth one by one, swirling my tongue over the fabric. Her fingers dig into the leather of the couch, and I rut into her, the seam of my boxer briefs damp with pre-come.
“I don’t want this to stop,” she tells me, her moan echoing and competing with the rattling of thunder.
I don’t know if she means us or what we’re doing, but I’m foolish enough to hope that she means both.
I gather each of her wrists in one of my hands, pinning them above her head, into the corner cushion of the sofa. Reluctantly, I abandon her tits. Her eyes are calculating as she searches my face for any sign of doubt.
My free hand slides up her ribs, cupping her, and I could study the broad expanse of my hand on her milky skin for the rest of my lifeand still find new subtle beauties. “If you’re looking at me to say no—if you’re looking for someone to stop—you won’t find that here.”
