Only When It's Us (Bergman Brothers #1)(42)
Willa’s lips open wider over mine, her tongue a teasing flick that taunts mine to find hers again and dance. Slide, then nip, a kiss that pretends to be delicate before it builds in rhythm like a wave swelling to the point of collapse. Willa writhes over me, her movement so natural, her fit so perfect, we were made to do this. Her thighs lock around my waist, her elbows prop on my shoulders as she slides her fingers through my hair, and my world telescopes to this tiny breadth of space in which we touch and kiss and feel.
She grinds on me, and I roll my hips beneath hers, panting against her mouth, knowing if I do much more of this, it’s game over.
My hands find her shoulders and squeeze. Breaking apart, breathing heavily, I press my forehead to hers. Willa leans in for more, but I pull away just enough for our eyes to meet.
I’m beyond overwhelmed. My brain is scrambled, my senses confused.
When Willa sits back, her eyes search mine. She must read my torn expression, my shock. I watch her eyes cool and her walls go up. Clasping her hand, I wrack my brain for the right words, wishing I were clear-headed or brave enough to make her tell me why she asked me what I want, why we’re kissing when the drive up here was stony silence.
All we’ve done for months is banter and snap, prank and poke until this game ratcheted up to a dangerous realm of sexual tease. That damn yellow top started it all, and since then we’ve been brutally amping up each other’s libidos, taunting each other’s bodies.
Is this just the final move? Is this checkmate in our one-upmanship, and now all that’s left is to knock every piece away, to wipe away the history of each lost battle and victory from the board, now that she’s come out the winner? If so, I lost. She got me to kiss her. She undid me. I was putty in her arms. Willa fucking won.
Our eyes hold for a small eternity, hers cooling even more as time extends. On a long sigh, Willa gives me a halfhearted smile, then sweeps up her phone.
“Come on, Mountain Man. Back to reality.”
More obligatory questions answered perfunctorily, then our assignment is done and regret is a boulder in my chest. I know her favorite food, her twenty-year plan, her earliest memory, and the last state she lived in, but I still don’t know why she asked me what I wanted, why we just kissed and touched like the world was ending. I still don’t know what Willa Sutter wants from me.
Our descent’s silent, light still high in the sky as we walk to my car. Our clothes are sun warm, our skin sticky from sweat and the falls. Willa leans her temple against the window and stares out at the Pacific Coast Highway as I drive and rack my brain for how I can gain some clarity, some insight into what the hell is happening.
Just then I drive by a billboard featuring a father, his arm wrapped around his son, and it hits me. Dad.
I don’t often take advantage of the fact that my dad’s a physician, minutes from campus and my place. In fact, I never do. Mostly, it’s because I’m conditioned not to need him too much. My whole life, many other people’s need of him was more time-sensitive than mine, and I don’t mean that to sound like a victim, it’s just the truth. Dad’s an oncologist, he’s a father of seven, he’s a husband who loves his wife and prioritizes time with her. He’s on the boards of too many things to count, he even works with fellow veterans in his nonexistent spare time.
He’s a busy guy. I’m the middle child of his seven kids, so even when it came to family time, big agenda items like baby fevers and periods and first steps and failed tests were way more pressing than Ryder waiting with a book under his arm to read with Dad.
I learned how to be patient. I learned how to find those slivers of time when Dad was mine. I’d get up early to watch him shave and tell him about my day. I crawled into bed after he got home late from work and had showered off. Just five minutes cuddling in his arms before he started snoring, that was all I needed.
So now, as an adult man with his education underway and a practical life-plan ahead of him, I tell myself I shouldn’t need my father at all. Except I should, and I do.
I really need my dad.
My brothers and I aren’t talking much except for Ren, who’s empathetic to woman puzzles but not particularly helpful. He’s a bull in a china shop when it comes to the ladies. Aiden’s been there for me before, but he knows what’s good for him and has kept his distance the past few days, seeing as this whole mess is thanks to him moonlighting as a goddamn yenta.
I drop off Willa at her apartment and watch her slowly walk up the pathway. She turns and gives me a tired, halfhearted wave before she steps inside and closes the door behind her. Confused and torn, worried I’ve hurt her and terrified she’s played me, I feel the last emotional stilt collapse from under me. I pull out my phone, texting Dad, Got ten minutes for your favorite son today, old man?
His response is almost immediate. I always have ten minutes for you, Ry. Bring your old man a sandwich and an iced tea. Then we’re talking favorites.
13
Willa
Playlist: “Sunscreen,” Ira Wolf
What the fuck just happened?
Tears prick my eyes. I slam the door behind me, feeling the urge to do a quick sketch of Ryder’s face and throw darts at it. That’s followed by an oppositional tug to run after him, yank him by his good ear and drag him to my bed, where I’d take one punishing orgasm from him after another.