Clover grins at me. “You getting that old, Bucket? Do I need to shout at you?” Her voice is low and teasing, and my dick has entered the conversation.
“You little shit, no.” I adjust my position on the swing slightly, trying to make my erection not so apparent. Not the right time for one, probably. “Why in the world would she call you a whore?”
She lets out a sarcastic laugh and, with the world’s worst country accent, repeats what Hannah told her in the store. My mouth twists into a disapproving frown. “That’s a real shitty accent you got there, CJ.”
“Unfortunately, I’m not far off from how she was trying to sound.”
I tense my jaw a few times, trying to wrap my mind around what she just went through. “What did you tell her?”
Clover shrugs. “That if she is still calling you her husband, that’s her first problem out of many.”
I feel my grin stretch across my face. I’m proud as fuck. “Hell yeah, Lucky.” I sit back, and we swing in silence for a few minutes, listening to the bug orchestra of the night.
“I’m sorry you had to deal with her and I wasn’t there,” I say gently. Clover makes a small humming noise, but leans over onto me and puts her head on my shoulder.
“It’s okay. She’s not scary. She is, however, much taller than I expected.”
I chuckle quietly. “Yeah, well. There are parts of my yard that are taller than you, shortstop.”
“Asshole,” she accuses, poking me in the rib. I flinch because it catches me off guard and tickles, and I see the spark in her eyes. Her little shit-starting spark.
“Oh Lord, here we go,” I groan and steel myself, preparing for her attack. She digs her fingertips into my sides, and it takes all of my willpower not to cave and double over into laughter.
It’s so fucking easy with her. I feel like myself. I don’t have to be some serious dude with all the responsibility and guilt; she lightens it. She carries things she doesn’t have to just so I don’t have to do it on my own, and damn if it isn’t appreciated.
I set my beer down on the ground and move hers, too, knowing she’s about to amp up, and I’m right.
Oh fuck, am I right.
CLOVER
The minute he moves our beers, I know he knows I’m in a mood. I’m sure he thinks it’s a silly one, and it kind of is, but I’m so fucking hungry for this man.
Before he can calculate my next move, I straddle his lap, my knees on the wooden bench swing on either side of him, my shorts riding up my thighs, exposing my skin in the light of the campfire. According to what I feel on the other side of the seam of my shorts, he’s hungry too. His cock is straining against the fabric of his perfectly fitted jeans, as Hannah put it.
I don’t want to think about Hannah right now, but at the same time, fuck her. Fuck her for walking out on Lennon, fuck her for walking out on him, and fuck her for walking back into their lives with selfish motivation and zero care for the tidal wave of emotional distress she’s going to put them through.
Beckett’s palms slide up my thighs, the condensation left on his hands from the beers leaving a cold trail behind. He runs his hands back down towards him and then repeats the motion. I don’t know why this feels so erotic. Maybe it’s the way he’s staring at me like I’m prey, or the fact that his full lips are parted, and his breathing is a little faster. Maybe it’s the low growl that comes from him when the next time his hands are at the apex ofmy thighs, he pushes the pad of his thumb injustthe right spot to make me gasp.
Yeah, it’s that part that’s making it erotic.
He smiles at me when my lips part and does it again, his stare piercing me as he lingers this time, pressing the seam of my shorts against my clit and rubbing in small circles. “That feels good,” I whisper raggedly.
“Does it?” he responds, but he’s not actually asking. I nod anyway.
He continues the circles until I’m panting, my thighs shaking against him. “I’m going to come,” I exhale as I lean forward to put my forehead against his. I try to angle my hips for more pressure, but right when I do, he takes his hands off of me completely, and I could scream.
I pout, instead. Much more mature of me.
He fucking laughs at me. “My poor, greedy girl,” he coos at me with fake sympathy. Again, no idea why that’s so fucking hot, but I can feel the moisture uncomfortably pooling between my lips.
“Please,” I whisper, moving my own hand down to mimic what he had been doing. “I was so close,” I moan quietly, finding the same spot. “So close . . . ”
His lips meet the side of my neck softly, and it sends chills up my spine, but when he moves my hand away from what I’m doing, I let out a frustrated groan.
“Beckett,” I start, firmly, but his mouth is on mine, pulling my bottom lip in between his teeth. I melt into him, and when he pulls away, I miss him.
“I didn’t realize you had been following me around desperately trying to get into my pants,” he says quietly, throwing what Hannah had said earlier into the moment. I’m about to be angry, but what he says next erases all of the anger and makes me light-headed.
