The Wrong Mr. Right (The Queen's Cove Series #2)(49)



The warmth of his lips and the quiet in my head—that’s all I noticed. No music, laughter, clink of glasses, or creak of footsteps on the old heritage floors. Wyatt’s mouth was hot, firm, and demanding, seeking and coaxing mine open, tongue slipping against the seam of my mouth.

He sucked on my tongue and I might have moaned.

In a restaurant.

Kissing Wyatt.

I’m pretty sure I moaned. Especially when his hand came to my hair and he fisted it, tilting my head back to open me up more. A ripple of something hot and languid moved down my body to my core and I throbbed. His other hand brushed my jaw, gentle and light, nothing like his mouth.

He smelled like the ocean. Fresh and clean with something masculine underneath.

He nipped my bottom lip but cut my tiny gasp off by laving the sting with his tongue. He tasted me, explored my mouth, using me to sooth something inside of him.

I’m not sure how long he kissed me before he broke away and rested his forehead on mine. We were both breathing hard, gaze locked on each other. I ached between my legs and pressed my thighs together.

“Don’t practice with Beck.” His voice was low, barely above a whisper. His gaze locked on mine. “You want to practice? You practice with me.”

I jerked a nod.

“And Hannah?”

“Mmm?” I could barely speak.

“Don’t forget the rest of your homework.” His breath tickled my mouth.

My core clenched around nothing and I nodded. He dropped another quick kiss on my mouth before straightening up and walking back out the front door of the restaurant while I watched, stunned.

Out of the corner of my eye, someone at another table fanned herself.

I fell back to earth and glanced around the restaurant. Except for the music, it was silent. Everyone stared at either me or the door with open mouths.

Avery stood at the bar with bright eyes and a look that said busted. That’s what I thought, she mouthed.

Twenty minutes later, I flew through my front door, tossed my bag down, and headed straight to my bedroom. I slammed the door, whipped my dress off and crawled under the covers.

I thought about Wyatt while I did my homework.

I thought about his fascinating mouth, the way it ticked up at the corner, the way he watched me with that easy grin. The playful, roguish expression he shot me as he teased me. The hungry, furious look he wore tonight.

I should have been embarrassed at the sigh that came out of my mouth when my fingers found the damp spot between my legs. I wasn’t, though. I was wet. Of course I was wet. I had been wet since the second Wyatt’s mouth took mine. I had been aching, twitchy, and wound the entire way home. I had never been so frustrated or needy until him.

My fingers moved fast, swirling over my clit, and in my head, I replayed Wyatt kissing me in the restaurant. I replayed Wyatt here in my bedroom, groaning against me and tugging my hair. How hard he was when I rubbed against him. Electricity shot through my limbs, and my fingers moved fast over my wetness.

Soaked. I was soaked. I had the bizarre desire to tell Wyatt, for him to be proud of me, and I almost laughed at the ridiculousness of it, but then I remembered kissing him, being kissed by him, and I let out a whimpery moan.

I thought about what it would be like for Wyatt to lay in the bed with me. For him to watch me do this. For his fingers to work my clit. For him to sink into me, for my core to stretch around his hard length. For his demanding, needy mouth to take another part of my body, to make me writhe and grind on his mouth.

My back arched and I cried out as I came, thinking of Wyatt the entire time. Lights exploded in my vision despite my eyes being clenched closed. My core pulsed around emptiness but it wasn’t enough. It was the strongest orgasm I had ever had, and it still wasn’t enough.

I blew a long breath out, relaxing into the pillows.

A different woman, indeed.





15





Wyatt





I had been pacing a hole in the ground for ten minutes when Hannah arrived behind the surf shop the next morning.

“Good morning.” Her smile was easy and cheerful and her new haircut swayed around her face.

I itched to reach out and touch it. The memory of her silky hair in my hands last night haunted me all night.

Her smile dropped and she shook her head. “No. No way.”

I made a hoarse, unintelligible noise in my throat like huh? And my eyebrows shot up.

She pointed a finger at my chest and narrowed her eyes. The finger poked me and I glanced between it and her face with a mix of curiosity, surprise, and amusement.

“You’re not going to grab me, kiss me, and then get weird on me. I’m not being weird. So it happened.” She crossed her arms. “You kissed me. Twice. But you don’t get to be weird.”

Her haughty nature made me grin. The Hannah from a couple months ago wouldn’t have told me to stop being weird. “Sorry.”

She watched me. “You think this is funny.”

“I think everything is funny, bookworm.”

We watched each other for a moment.

Last night, I had gone for a drink at the bar after surfing. I couldn’t sit at home and think about Hannah touching herself. I had already been thinking about it all day. Thinking about her letting out those little sighs, like the one she did when our mouths met in her bedroom. Thinking about her arching off the bed, pressing her lips tight so she wouldn’t cry out when she came.

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