Before I know it, I’ve pressed her up against the door and my hand is rubbing small circles up her thigh, higher and higher, as we taste and take and grind together.
“Wyatt,” she whispers when my mouth drops to her neck and I suck on her skin. “Do you want to come inside?”
“Inside?” I say, my mind still focused on where my thumb is now stroking along the crease between her thigh and her center, the easy access of her dress too hard to resist. For a brief moment, I envision her asking me to come inside of her, and I groan out loud, my dick pressing firmly against the inside of my slacks at the idea of fucking her right here.
“Upstairs.”
And that’s when I realize she wants me to come up. The sign for sex. The thing every guy wants on a date. The invitation.
As much as I would love that, my mind won’t allow it. I can’t knowingly go upstairs when there are things she doesn’t know.
But I push that thought aside, deciding to focus instead on not wanting to leave her unsatisfied.
“Right here is fine,” I say, and then I drop to my knees, lifting one of her legs up onto my shoulder.
When I look up at her, I see a glazed over, hazy expression. The lust in her eyes is unmistakable, and when I lean in and nuzzle my face against her panties, she uses her hands to hike her dress up slightly, giving me better access.
Her underwear are plain. Basic black cotton. I think too many people assume that sexy underwear is a turn on. That a lover needs to see a pretty package in order to appreciate what’s inside.
But that’s not the case for me. I wouldn’t care if she was wearing a paper sack under her dress if it was as easy to slide to the side as her underwear are now, the tiny scrap of cotton pushed away to reveal her pussy.
She’s so wet. I can see it gleaming in the low light in the courtyard. I glance up at her one more time as I lean forward and press my tongue to the center of her, stroke it firmly once from core to clit, then fan out to make sure I don’t miss a single spot.
Hannah pants out an impassioned gasp, her eyes following me, her mouth slightly open. And as I move my tongue against her, she starts to roll her hips, a hand coming to rest against the top of my hair.
I want her to grip my hair and press me against her. I’ve always been dominant in bed, wanting control for the most part. But something in me wants her to take the control right now. Wants her to tell me what she wants and how to give it to her.
My tongue continues to lap at her pussy. I raise a hand to part her lower lips, then focus my attention on her tiny little clit, tracing around and around, then sucking lightly. Her head falls back, tapping against the glass of her door and a soft cry of pleasure escapes from between her lips.
“Wyatt,” she whispers. “Shit, what are you doing to me?”
I groan, loving how she’s responding, loving the way she tastes, that bit of muskiness mixing with a peachy smell from the lotion I’ve been smelling on her all night. It’s heaven, and I’ll happily spend more time on my knees worshipping her if she’ll let me.
Sometimes sex can be hit or miss with a new person. Seeing her body light on fire, feeling the goosebumps covering her thighs that are exposed to the cool, damp, night air, watching her eyes glow and her expression morphing as she experiences the pleasure I can bring her… it satisfies something inside of me.
Something primal. Something dirty.
“Oh my god, Wyatt.” She cries out, her voice echoing off the walls and bouncing around the courtyard. I wonder if she realizes we’re outside, if she likes the idea that someone might hear her pleas. “Oh my god. Don’t stop.”
I continue to lathe her with my tongue, stroke slightly against her core with my middle finger before I slip it firmly inside of her. She cries out, her mouth opening and her eyes wide. I feel a bite of pain as her hands grip at my hair. I savor the surprise on her face, contrasting so beautifully with pleasure. Almost like… it hits me like a bat to the face… almost like she’s never felt like this before.
I start to slow, my own emotions and fears coming into play as my mind races through the things she has told me about her past.
“Don’t stop, please, Wyatt,” she says, pulling me tighter against her. “Please. I’m so close.”
Shoving my wandering mind aside, I refocus my attention on getting her off, suddenly overcome with a desperate need to make sure she experiences bliss like she never has before.
My finger slides in and out of her, and she rocks against my hand, against my mouth, searching for the top of the peak as I continue to build her up. And then I feel it. That soft space inside of her body that she probably hasn’t ever been able to find on her own.
And when I find it, I press against it, stroke it over and over again, loving the words that are spilling from her mouth, almost against her will.
“God, Wyatt, please. Please. Fuck. Right… right… oh God. I can’t… I… please.”
She’s almost mindless as I continue to torture that sweet spot, bring her to that highest peak, her hands dropping to my shoulders and her nails digging into me enough to leave marks.
But I don’t stop, and when I stroke her in just the right way, suck her just hard enough, she breaks apart. Cries out. Closes her eyes and soars over the top.
I groan, enjoying the look on her face, my fingers feeling the pulse of how she comes, my mind imagining what it would be like to have her squeeze against my dick like that.
I continue sucking on her softly as she comes down. Only once her breathing has slowed do I pull my finger out, kiss her on the thigh, wipe my hand discreetly on the back of her underwear, and let her panties slide back into place.
Then I stand, her dress falling back into place as she stays slumped lazily against her front door.
That satisfied look on her face, like she’s high on something, her pupils blown out and the tiniest smile… I delight in that look on her face.
Though I worry.
I can’t help but worry that I’ve done something I shouldn’t have. That I moved too far, too quickly.
“Was that okay?” I whisper.
This is a different version of me. A softer me. The me I was before Hannah would have assumed the woman enjoyed herself. Would have taken the nonverbals as the only necessary cues that she wanted what I was offering.
But with Hannah, I want that confirmation from her mouth. Want to know I didn’t push her too far, something I hadn’t even considered before I was already on my knees before her.
Instead of saying anything, she presses her head forward, her lips finding mine, her tongue dipping into my mouth. Searching. And fuck if it doesn’t taste so good.
My cock throbs.
We kiss for a while longer, a drunk kind of kiss, the kind you can only have after an intense orgasm.
It’s the most amazing kiss I’ve ever had.
“I can taste me on you,” she whispers, her head dropping as she nuzzles into my neck. “That was so amazing.”
I smile and wrap my arms around her, holding her tight against me. “For me, too.”
I feel her giggle.
“I’m serious,” I say, my hands coming up to hold her face, so I can look her right in the eyes. “Seeing you like that?” I groan. “God, I’m so hard.”
And that’s when the wariness comes. I can see it form on her face, though it’s like a light gray cloud. Just a hint that a storm might be coming in the future, even if it’s not here yet.
She tries to hide it, though, so I leave it alone. Instead, kissing her softly on the cheek.
“So, Monday. I’ll pick you up at noon?”
And just like that, whatever flitted across her expression is gone, replaced with a soft, almost disbelieving smile.
She wraps her arms around my back and kisses me again, her tongue making just a small entrance into my mouth.
“Sounds perfect. What should I wear?”
“Duh. A bathing suit.”
She laughs. Gives me another peck.
> And then she lets me go.
I give her a wave and a “see you tomorrow,” before heading out of the courtyard and to my car, which waits in the driveway.
Then I make the short drive home.
Tonight felt like a game changer.
For a number of reasons.
And I can’t help but feel like Hannah Morrison might be a more important piece to my life than I’d originally assumed.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Hannah
The Sunday double kills me. Slays me. Runs me ragged and buries me deep under the exhaustion that’s been building with so many back-to-back shifts with no break.
But I wake up on Monday with a surge of energy. Enough so that I go for a five-mile run up and down The Strand when I roll out of bed at nine o’clock.
I’m surprised by how many people are already out on the sand, setting up their tents and large umbrellas for a long day at the beach. A large group surrounds the volleyball net that’s a permanent fixture just a few blocks from Lucas’, and a house a few doors down has their music banging loud and dozens of people spilling out of the downstairs patio when I get home just an hour later.
Part of me is bummed that I’ll miss out on everything that will be happening around here today. But it’s only a small part. The bigger part of me is thrumming with excitement about spending the day with Wyatt.
I step into my bathroom and flick on the shower, letting the water heat while I strip out of my sweaty running gear and chuck it into the small laundry basket in the corner.
My phone beeps before I step in, so I grab it and take a look.
Lucas: Enjoying your holiday weekend so far? Hope things aren’t too crazy.
Accompanying the text is a photo of him, Otto and a girl that I think might be Remmy at a beach in Malibu, giving me the shaka.
I shake my head on a laugh and set my phone aside, planning to respond once I finish rinsing off.
Stepping under the heat, I allow my sore muscles to soak for a while, doing nothing except giving my mind a moment to wander.
To think back to my date with Wyatt on Saturday night.
I’ve only been on a handful of dates in my life. There were only a few boys in high school brave enough to poke at The Cactus and not hurt themselves. And when I got older, I just kept up with the same prickly vibe, enjoying the space it created between me and unwanted male attention.
Wyatt’s attention, though? Definitely not unwanted.
It is wanted with a capital W.
When he’d dropped to his knees in front of me, I felt like I was starring in one of the hottest fantasies I could ever possibly imagine. My body gets hot now, just thinking about it, and it takes a concerted effort to push those thoughts aside instead of letting my hand slip between my soapy thighs.
I focus on giving my body a rinse and wash. Shaving my legs. Trimming my bikini line.
I’d been willing to invite him inside. The words popped out without me even realizing it.
Even more startling than the fact that I said those words is the fact I’d meant them. I wanted him to come inside, both the house and me. Be my first.
There are all of these things out there trying to convince young people that it’s strange to be a virgin at twenty-one. But I disagree with all of those things. If the average age for cherry popping is seventeen, that means there are tons of people who lose it much older, even older than I am.
And the last thing I needed when I was in high school was to get accidentally pregnant when I could barely envision a future for myself.
I never really think about sex, though, having never really felt like it was something I wanted or needed. After what happened with Rob, it always felt like something violent, something aggressive. Like something was going to be taken from me when I’ve always felt like too much had already been stolen away.
But now, with Wyatt, I feel different. Like this could be the right time. The right man.
His mouth and his hands and the way that he looks at me… it makes me feel like he sees sex as a time to give, not take. Give pleasure, give emotion, give connection.
It’s a beautiful feeling.
I shake my head, trying to redirect my thoughts.
He’ll be leaving at the end of the summer. And even if he wasn’t, I probably will be. There aren’t any expectations of long-time love, a future, a forever.
There isn’t anywhere for a broken promise to fall.
And that suits me perfectly.
I just wonder if I’ll have the courage to talk to him about it, or if I’ll just try to hide it. Though even thinking that feels stupid.
I finish cleaning up and step out of the shower. Once I’ve dried and slipped on something cute to wear – the white bikini from Wyatt’s that he insisted I keep, with a pair of jean shorts and a deep blue tank top – I grab my phone and head downstairs.
Stepping out onto the balcony, I take a picture of the growing craziness on The Strand and send it off to Lucas with a message.
Me: Things here are great. Parties already happening down the way. Can’t wait to see what things are like today!
It only takes a few minutes for him to respond.
Lucas: Just be careful and smart. Memorial Day is pretty chill, though. It’s 4th of July that’s lit. Can’t wait for you to see it!
I smile, staying out on the balcony for a few more minutes and watching the people go by, the noise level rising as time passes.
Someone has set up some speakers out front on The Strand, blasting some R&B music. A group of guys jump up onto the patio wall at the neighboring house, dancing with their shirts off and red solo cups in their hands.
I laugh at their antics and one of them glances up my way, singing along to some ridiculous song I’ve never heard of.
I push myself to enjoy the attention instead of shy away from it, giving them a wave. Then I head back inside, jogging upstairs to finish getting ready.
There’s only one person’s attention I want today, and he’s going to be here soon.
"This is so cool,” I say, smiling at Wyatt as we lay out our towels.
When he picked me up a little while ago, he pulled up on his bike with a cooler resting on a small wagon he was towing, wearing a backpack full of beach stuff. I grabbed my own bike, then we rode down The Strand, half-way between Lucas’ place and the pier.
We locked our bikes up and carried the cooler out to a volleyball net, my eyes lighting up when I saw Paige and a few familiar faces.
Including Eleanor.
Now that we’ve said hello to everyone and added our cooler to the stack of coolers filled with beers and pre-mixed drinks, it’s apparently time to watch a few of the guys make fools of themselves by playing volleyball.
“Yeah. Spending time with these guys on holidays is definitely something I miss about living here,” he says, taking a seat next to me.
I reach over and grab two beers out of our cooler “I don’t understand sand sports, though.” I twist one open. “I’m not coordinated at all. Running is as athletic as I get, so this?” I swirl my hand in a circle, indicating the four guys bouncing the ball back and forth before their game starts. “Looks like the most miserable thing I could ever imagine.”
Wyatt laughs. “My soccer coach in high school used to make us jog in the sand, and it was always the most horrible thing I’d ever experienced. Always. It never got any better. So playing a sport designed to be in the sand? Ridiculous.”
He twists open his own beer and we clink them together, each taking a sip. Then I take a moment to glance around, spotting Eleanor sitting next to Paige and Rebecka.
“Thanks for inviting Eleanor.”
“I’d like to take credit, but it was Paige’s idea. She said you guys were friends, and I just wanted you to enjoy the day,” he says on a shrug.
My smile is wide.
We spend the afternoon just like that, side-by-side, flirting. But also chatting and laughing with our friends. Well, his friends. Mostly.
Plus Eleanor.
Who is really enjoying the fact that Hamish called and told her she didn’t need to come in for her lunch shift today.
Wyatt may have given me a devious little smirk when he heard us talking about that. Makes me wonder how impromptu that decision actually was.
“Are you and Wyatt Calloway dating?” she asks me later in the afternoon, her voice a whisper as she stretches out on the towel next to me that Wyatt left vacant when he decided to play volleyball.
I glance at her. “I’m not sure. Why?”
Her eyes widen, a sweet expression coming over her face. “Because you guys are so cute together. Seriously, you would make an adorable couple.”
I shake my head, though I can’t hide the smile that wants to bloom onto my face. “He’s great. I don’t know entirely what’s going on.” Then I have a thought. “But don’t tell anyone, okay? I know this town is all about gossip, and we need some time to just get to know each other.”
She nods, her eyes wide. “No problem.” Then she adds, “And thanks for trusting me with something like this.”
I look at her and decide I want her to be someone I can talk to. About life. So I lean closer to her and whisper, “We went on a date on Saturday night, and he went down on me.”
Her smile is huge. “Oh shit, tell me everything.”
I share most of what happened, though I keep a few of the dirtier details to myself, Eleanor smiling and nodding and making commentary at all the right moments. And then we move on to other topics, like work and her life. She tells me all about Travis, the new guy that moved into her apartment complex that she has a crush on.
“I saw his penis,” she says, and I spit out some of the beer I just sipped. “It was an accident. It’s not my fault he decided to stand naked with a massive erection in front of his window.”
Promise Me Nothing (Hermosa Beach Book 1) Page 24