Sweet Cheeks(54)

And then he moves. Dragging my mind from thoughts that will just complicate matters and flooding me with the slow and steady rhythm he pulls us into. I’m swamped with pleasure immediately. The warmth is so intense. The manipulation of every part of me overwhelming. It’s been so long.

He pushes all the way into me and grinds his hips so the base of his shaft adds a touch of friction against my clit. On his withdrawal, the crest of his cock rubs against the pleasure point of nerves inside. Then he eases almost all the way out, teases me with just the tip and then begins the slow slide back in.

I’m drugged by his adept skill. His insatiable finesse.

My eyes flutter open to take in the sight of him before me. Muscles tense, teeth biting into his bottom lip, head angled down to watch where we’re joined.

He looks up and meets my eyes. A dare and a warning flash in his expression. His nonverbal advice to hold on as he begins to pick up the pace.

The unmistakable sound of our bodies connecting, uniting, separating, and then starting the process all over again fill the kitchen. My body glides on the flour beneath me. Backward with each push in, then toward him, as his hands on my hips pull my ass over the edge of the counter again. He uses the unbalanced weight of my hips off the edge to push into me until he bottoms out.

His guttural sounds. The unrelenting pace. My name groaned on his lips. The grip of his hands on my flesh. The harshness of the granite beneath me, and his hardness within me.

Our words are as frenzied as our movements. Like we can’t get them out fast enough and at the same time want to draw this out as long as possible.

Right there.

More.

Oh God.

So tight.

Deeper.

So good.

Oh God.

Saylor.

My body chills and heats. An ache like I’ve never experienced before tears through me making my want turn desperate. Makes my moans become demands. And without warning, I tumble over the edge into that delirious free fall of ecstasy. My mind shuts down. My body takes over. An explosion of heat. A desperate gulp of air. A cry of his name. My muscles contracting around him so that even the slightest movement from him brings me such intense pleasure that I want him to stop and not stop simultaneously.

I’m swamped in the bliss of the orgasm. Lost to its euphoric haze.

And then Hayes can’t hold back anymore. He starts to move again. To pump and thrust. To worship and take. To own and possess. Then it’s my name on his lips followed by a ragged cry of release. A few more pumps of his hips before the room falls silent save for the ragged draw of his breath.

Without a word, he slips out and leans forward to press his forehead against my chest, lips against my belly, and just stills there for a moment.

I thread my fingers through his hair and revel in the warmth of the moment. In the difference of making love to the man now versus the teenagers fumbling in the dark that we used to be.

And the line we rehearsed earlier today comes back to my mind: It’s only ever been you.





I wake with a start. The room is darkened. My arm is numb from where Saylor’s head rests on it.

Saylor.

The goddamn drug I forgot about. The yardstick I’ve measured all against. The one woman I’ve always wondered what-if about.

Well, now you know, Whitley. Ten times better than you remembered. Richter-scale sex. But how does knowing help the situation?

Fuck if I know, but holy shit was that incredible sex.

And then it hits me. Is she the real reason I stayed away from Tessa in the weeks before coming here? We weren’t dating. I’d even told Say that. But spending that small amount of time with Saylor, our one hour of fun in our old stomping ground—the tree house—was clearly enough.

I hadn’t ever been interested in Tessa. A good lay? Sure. Available? Yes. Emotionally connected? Not a chance in hell.

Tessa could never hold a candle to everything Saylor Rodgers is.

I shift on the chaise and turn so I can see her face and watch her sleep. Take in the soft lips and long lashes. The freckles I used to tease her about, and that stubborn chin she’s lifted more times to me during our lifetime than I can count.

And I know my hunch is right. Tessa—perhaps any woman—pales in comparison to Saylor.

How in the hell did this happen? And why the f*ck do I want to lean forward, taste those lips, and do it all over again?

Because it’s Saylor.

My afternoon run was supposed to cure this want. The exertion should have staunched the unexpected need and calmed the ache in my gut I’ve had since we walked down the path together last night. And yet it did the complete opposite. Each step of my jog was a pounding reminder how much I wanted her and an affirmation that the ball-tightening kiss we’d had was more than just for show.

I kissed her because I wanted to. Had to. Couldn’t resist not knowing if she still kissed the same. Tasted the same. Made that same little sound that used to get me hard in a split second (but in all fairness, for a teenage boy, a cool breeze could do that).

And selfishly my ego wanted the f*cker, Mitch, to see she was with me. Call it a dickish move, tell me it doesn’t matter because he’s getting married and didn’t fight hard enough to keep her, but I know it does. I’ll make him wonder what I have that he doesn’t. A bigger dick? A larger bank account? A better personality?

Yes, to all three.

So f*ck, the kiss might have been a combination of all the above, but the sex? That was all me. All want. All greed. Everything I need. And f*ck yes, it was against my better judgment. But sure as shit, my better judgment is not communicating with my dick.