“Yep,” Wyatt says, hardly sparing a glance behind him. His gaze is too fixed on me. “Mom changed a lot, though. Degendered it. It’s…a good feeling. Like maybe she really was just waiting for me to come back.”
He slides his hands up my thighs, hiking up the hem of my dress. And I forget all about the weird museum room in favor of kissing him again.
The kiss breaks only long enough for Wyatt to strip my dress off over my head—and then his lips are on my neck instead, drawing a low sound from my throat. He cups my breast in one hand, thumb rubbing over the peaked nipple through the thin fabric of one of the flimsy bralettes I wear since my tits have never been big enough to justify actual bras.
“I hope your walls are thick,” I mumble, face pressed against the side of his head, where I can breathe in the piney scent of his shampoo.
“Oh yeah. Liam got up to plenty when we were younger, and I never heard a thing.” Wyatt unclips the back of my bralette. “That, or he was making it all up. Which might be the more likely explanation.”
I’ve finally managed to get his tie undone without looking. “Please stop talking.”
He laughs but obeys, and by the time he pushes me back onto the bed we’re both naked. His skin is warm everywhere I touch. And I’ve been wanting this for far too long; I want to engrave every second of this night into my memory permanently. Underneath his weight I feel heavy, protected. I want to keep him held close forever.
It’s nothing like our first time. He isn’t that suave stranger I met in a club. He touches me now like I’m something gentle, something worth protecting.
Like he…feelssomething for me. Perhaps the same thing that I feel for him in return.
He trails kisses down my sternum, going far too slowly. I want more—I want him to dig his fingers into my hips so hard they bruise. I want him to shred me apart with his teeth.
But he’s perilously, torturously gentle. He handles me like I’m something valuable and easily broken. He touches me like he never wants to stop.
“Did you bring…?”
He shakes his head. “This wasn’t exactly on my to-do list for the weekend.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “Oh. Right.”
“Don’t worry, though.” He nips at the corner of my jaw. “There are plenty of other ways to have fun.”
His fingers slip between my legs and I gasp. The smirk on his face is more than enough reward for waiting so long—and the longer his hand is down there, the more incapable I become of actual coherent thought. And when he shifts down the length of my body to let his tongue take over, I give up on staying silent. I keep one hand tangled up in his hair while the other clasps tight over my mouth, holding back the moans.
His tongue is fucking magical, for one thing. He teases it around my clit too well, always not quite close enough. I arch my hips toward him, searching, yearning for more, but he won’t give it. He just slides his tongue between my lips, licking at my entrance, then goes back to his torturous task at my clit. The heat that wells between my legs is unbearable; my thighs tremble on either side of his head, the hand in his hair pulling so hard I’m surprised he doesn’t cry out.
“God,” I groan. “Please—Wyatt—oh god, keep going. I—”
The first climax that crashes over me feels like getting caught under an ocean wave before I’ve had time to take a breath. I’mtrapped in the undertow, lungs straining for air, hips straining toward his mouth as I reach desperately for his hand, holding on tight.
He doesn’t stop. He keeps going, slower this time, spending more focus on my inner thighs and dragging his tongue carefully, carefully up my taint and back toward my cunt. I hum and sink back into the sheets, languid and satisfied even as my body keeps rocking up against him. Even as he draws me closer and closer to the edge again.
The second climax is softer, like being rocked in a gentle tide. I’m still shivering slightly as Wyatt makes his way back up the length of my body and kisses me, letting me taste myself on his tongue. My hands feel useless as I rest them on his narrow hips, wishing there was something I could do to return the favor but remembering too well how firm he was in his boundaries last time—no touching him in return.
“I’ve missed you,” I say softly.
He tips his brow against mine. This close, his brown eyes are dark and easy to lose myself in. “I’ve missed you too,” he says, and catches my wrist in one hand, guiding it down below his navel.
My breath hitches. “Are you sure?”
A faint smile crosses his lips and he nods. “I trust you.”
I lift up to kiss him hard as he rocks his hips down against my hand, chasing friction. I want to be the best he’s ever had, the way he was the best I’d ever had. I want tonight to pop up in his memories every time he looks at me. I want him to fall asleep thinking about it. To remember it in the shower. I want to invade him the way he has invaded me.
It’s only fair, right?
I finish him not once but twice; the third time we come together, and then the exhaustion chases us down and tethers us in a deep and sweat-slicked, satisfied sleep.
33
The next morning I can’t stop looking at Wyatt. Something has changed between us now—I can feel it. It’s as if last night wove a tether between us. Even when we’re in separate rooms I’m hyperaware of his presence, a weight tugging at the other end of that invisible rope.
