Tessa Ever After

by Brighton Walsh

  I press my back against the wall outside Haley’s room, my eyes closing at my epiphany. I don’t have enough time to process it, though, before her bedroom door opens and Jason comes out, now free of all dress-up gear. He shuts the door again, then leans against the wall opposite from me, arms folded across his chest and ankles crossed.

  His pose is casual, just like how he was when I left him earlier, but his eyes are appraising, searching for something. They travel the entire length of me from my head all the way to my bare feet, darting up to see the shoes hanging between my fingers. And just like earlier, his eyes, the way they seem to almost caress me as his gaze travels over my body, light something inside me.

  “How was your date?” His voice is low and raspy from sleep, and I don’t want to admit what the sound does to me, that it sparks something deep when touches from other men haven’t evoked even a quarter of the response.

  I could lie. I could tell him it was wonderful, that Greg took me to a beautiful restaurant and I had a good time, but I don’t feel like pretending. Not tonight. “Not great.”

  “Why not?”

  I shrug. “We just didn’t click.”

  He stares at me for a long moment before he says, “Why do you keep going out with guys like him, Tess?”

  After a pause, the truth tumbles out of me. “Because he’s what I thought I needed.”

  “And what about now?”

  I look at him, take him in, from his carelessly mussed hair to his dark butterscotch eyes to the jaw sharp enough to cut glass, only marred with a slight shadow of stubble, and my knees go weak. “Now I’m not sure.”

  He pushes off the wall and moves to stand right in front of me, so close I can feel his breath ghosting over my exposed collarbone. “Were you ever sure about him?”

  His nearness has stolen my voice, and all I can do is shake my head.

  With his voice dropping even lower he asks, “Did he ever make you feel good?”

  And he could mean a dozen different things. He could mean intellectually or emotionally or physically, but it doesn’t matter which one he’s talking about because the answer is the same regardless.

  “No.” It comes out raspy and breathless, and when did I become that girl? The one who loses all composure at the nearness of a guy. A hot guy, sure, but a guy nonetheless. Apparently allowing the tension to build up so much that it has no choice but to explode wasn’t my brightest idea.

  He reaches out, his fingers tracing along my shoulders, and I shiver, a wave of goose bumps erupting all over my skin, my nipples tightening into hard points against the satin material of my dress. “I could,” he says, his voice so quiet I barely hear him. But I do. I do, and I want exactly what he’s suggesting. “I could make you feel so good, Tess.”

  Of that I have no doubt. Jason’s competence in that area has never been in question, not since we were in high school.

  “Do you want me to? Just say the word, and I will.”

  He leans forward, his lips brushing against my neck, and my head hits the wall, my shoes forgotten and thudding on the carpet by my feet. I can’t seem to make my arms go around him, to press my fingers into his hair and pull him to me, so instead I flatten them against the wall behind me.

  “Tell me, Tess.” His voice is low, gritty, and the desperation in his tone is what finally breaks me.

  “Yes,” I whisper, finding my voice.

  jason

  The word isn’t out of her mouth before I lean down, her face cupped in my hands as I press my lips to hers. And her lips—Jesus, her fucking lips. They’re soft and warm, and she doesn’t hesitate to move them along with mine. With a groan, I press into her farther, trapping her body between mine and the wall, and Christ, she feels good. Her hands finally come away from the wall and press into my sides, her fists bunching up the material of my shirt, and I want more. I want to feel them against my skin, all over my body. I want her gripping and grappling and scratching. I want her teeth marks on my shoulder and scratches from her nails down my back. I want her moaning and writhing and panting and crying out my name. I want to sink into her, to feel her pussy pulsing around me, to see what she looks like under me as I fuck her.

  I pull my mouth away from hers and kiss my way across her cheek to her ear. I trace the shell with my tongue, loving her moans of encouragement. “How much, Tess? How much will you give me?”

  “What?” And I can’t deny how much I love the raspy timbre of her voice, the breathless and almost confused way she answers. Like her mind is focused only on the responses from her body. Like I got her so worked up, she can’t comprehend a simple question.

  I pull back to look at her face. “How far do you want this to go? Can I take you to your bedroom?”

  Her eyes go wide and panicked for a minute, and I rub my thumb along her jaw, soothing her.

  “All right, no bedroom. It’s okay. I won’t push.” I press a quick kiss to her lips. “I can do a lot in a hallway.” With a smile, I duck down, sucking on the skin of her neck, and her head falls back against the wall again, her hands pulling me to her.

  “No sex,” she says, and I don’t know if it’s my ego imagining it or not, but it seems like she has to force the words out, as much to warn me off as to remind herself of it.

  “No sex,” I repeat, nodding, already leaning in for another kiss.

  She mirrors my efforts, her tongue searching for mine even before I can coax her mouth open. The sounds she makes, the way she moves her body against mine, gets me harder than I can remember being in a long time. And I don’t know if it’s the taboo of this—if it’s because I’ve finally got someone who’s been off-limits for so long in my hands—or if it’s simply Tess.

  Our height difference makes it awkward to kiss her and grind up on her in the way that makes her moan, so I reach down and grip the back of her thighs, lifting her up and against the wall as I guide her legs around my hips. With one hand gripping her ass to hold her up, the other trails up her leg, not stopping when I get to the material of her too-short dress now bunched around her hips. Knowing the only thing keeping me from her pussy is the thin scrap of lace I feel against my fingers makes me groan and press against her harder, my hips swiveling and trying to find the right rhythm that gets her exactly where she needs to be.

  This is what I’m good at, what I’ve always been good at. Finding what makes a girl moan, scream, melt into a boneless heap under my hands. What gets her off. And while I want to do all that with Tessa, too, before it always felt like a duty. Like the least I could do for these women who agreed to spend nothing more than a night in my bed was to make sure they had a good time while they were there.

  But with Tess . . . with her it’s so different. For one thing, I want so much more than a single night. I think I could spend days studying her body and not grow tired of it . . . not grow tired of her. And for another, I want to get her off. I want to give her pleasure, to see her come apart in my arms, to know I’m the only one making her feel like this.

  I want to feel her soft and warm and wet, slip my hand under the material of her panties and make her come around my fingers. I want to pull the top of her dress down, put my mouth on her tits, suck her nipples until she screams, but I don’t want to push her too far. Instead, I grip her ass in both hands and press my cock against her, moving until she gasps against my mouth, her eyes heavy and sleepy-drunk as she stares into mine. She’s restless against me, her rhythm long since lost, her body seeking the release it desperately wants.

  Against her mouth, I say, “Come on, baby. Let go. Just let go. Let me make you come.”

  And even though I had it in my mind that I wasn’t going to, that I didn’t want to push, I move my hand up to the top of her thigh and slide my thumb over until it slips just under the material of her panties. She’s wet and smooth and Jesus Christ, I’m going to come in my goddamn jeans like I’m an inexperienced teenager again.

  She tenses, gasps, then moans, and it doesn’t take more than a brush of my
thumb against her clit before she comes, her head thrown back, her neck exposed, her chest heaving.

  The complete and utter satisfaction I feel at being the one who was able to do that for her should embarrass me, but I can’t seem to muster up any shame. I love the fact that I got her off with little more than a swipe of my thumb against her and a few kisses. The thought of what she’ll be like when I’ve got a bed to work with, when I’m able to use my fingers and my tongue and my cock, sets my head spinning.

  This is usually when I start thinking about my next conquest, already bored with the girl I’d just made come, but the thought of not doing this with Tess again makes my chest twist. And I realize with panic that I’m not bored. Quite the opposite.

  I could see myself doing this for her every day for a month and not tiring of it. And that’s scary as hell.

  THIRTEEN

  tessa

  When I was younger, I had a crush on Jason. How could I not? He was everything my gangly, preteen self wanted in a boyfriend. He was older and more experienced. He was funny and ridiculously hot and knew how to have a good time. Unfortunately, he saw me as nothing more than his best friend’s younger, annoying sister.

  But still, I was a tenacious little thing, even then, and I harbored the completely unrealistic fantasy that one day soon he’d come around. He’d realize we were meant to be and he’d come to my room one night when he was hanging out with Cade and he’d kiss me. And then we’d live happily ever after.

  It’s hard to believe I was ever that girl . . . the one who was so innocent and naive. The one who pined for nothing but a kiss.

  That all changed my freshman year of high school when we were all in the same school again. I was forced to watch Jason day in and day out show off a different girl on his arm. I’d see him in the halls, pressing some faceless blonde or brunette or redhead—he never was discriminatory—against the lockers, hands and lips everywhere they could get away with, and I was devastated. Absolutely heartbroken—or as heartbroken as a fourteen-year-old could be when finding out her crush was unrequited.

  And then I moved on.

  I set my sights on other guys, cultivated crushes, and then, eventually, found my first boyfriend and got my first kiss. I forgot about Jason and his girl of the day and never looked back.

  But even if I forgot about it on the surface, it’s never really gone away, because here I am, lying in my bed completely sated from none other than the man himself, and all I can think about is the fact that he’s probably done that with a hundred other girls. Hell, he probably did that with one yesterday. And the thought sends my stomach twisting, my heart racing, my mouth going dry.

  I don’t want to be just one girl in a long line of too many to count.

  Somehow he went from the guy I didn’t want to the guy I wanted above all others, and that thought scares the shit out of me, especially having been a front-row observer of Jason’s past indiscretions.

  When he left, he seemed fine. He was all smiles and soft words, telling me he’d call me tomorrow, but for all I know he tells that to all his conquests.

  My phone buzzes on my nightstand, yanking me out of my thoughts, and I’m equal parts relieved and disappointed to see Paige’s name instead of the guy I was thinking about.

  “Hey.”

  “Damn, I was hoping you weren’t going to answer.”

  I huff out a laugh. “Why?”

  “Because I would hope you wouldn’t answer the phone if you were being fucked good and proper.”

  “God, Paige.”

  “What? That was the goal of tonight, wasn’t it? Date three? God knows you didn’t get your vag waxed for me.”

  And though I didn’t have sex tonight, someone else at least got to feel the benefit of it. Just the thought of Jason running his thumb over me has me tingling all over again.

  “Holy shit. You did have sex!”

  “I didn’t say anything!”

  “Please, you not saying anything said more than if you’d said anything at all.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  Ignoring my question, she barrels on, “But, hell, it’s only ten and you’re already home, so that means he was a two-pump chump, huh?”

  “I swear to God, I don’t understand how your brain works.”

  “But you love me anyway.”

  “Most of the time.”

  “So fill me in. Give me the details. Did he at least have a horse cock to make up for his other shortcomings?”

  “Oh my God. What’s wrong with you?”

  “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with hoping my best friend gets some solid action.”

  “I’m not sure I’d want to screw someone who has a horse cock, to be perfectly honest. Ouch. And stop talking about sex! I didn’t have any.”

  “Well you had some something. I can tell.”

  “Oh, get off it. You can’t tell anything over the phone.”

  “I absolutely can. You’re all . . . jittery-sounding. Nervous. And that’s exactly how you’d be after sex, because for some unknown reason, you don’t think you should be having it.”

  I exhale an exhausted breath. She is going to go round and round in circles until I spill. “I didn’t have sex, okay? I just . . . did something else.”

  “Ohhhh, I can work with something else. Did this something else involve a tongue by any chance?”

  “No, no tongues.”

  “Fingers, then.”

  “Mmm . . . not exactly.”

  “Jesus, Tess, do we need to play twenty fucking questions or are you just going to tell me what the hell happened?”

  I could avoid her question, refuse to answer, but the truth is, I need to talk this out with someone. I stare at the ceiling and blow out a breath before the words rush out of me. “Jason dry humped me against the wall.”

  “Say what now?”

  “Oh God. It’s bad, right? It’s so bad. I can’t believe I did that. I can’t believe I did that. God, I can’t believe I let him do that to me. And right after I got home from a date with another man. What kind of person does this make me? I mean, at least it wasn’t sex, though, right? I told him that right away—no sex. But that doesn’t really make it any better, does it? He’s still the same kind of guy he’s always been, the same one I’ve always known him to be. And even knowing that, I let him hold me up against the wall and grind all up on me until I came. Oh God.”

  Paige is quiet for a moment, and when I don’t say anything more, she asks, “You done with your word vomit now?”

  “I think so.”

  “Okay, first things first. Was it good?”

  I think about how it felt being in his arms. The length of his torso against mine, the bunch of his muscles under my fingers. How I wanted to reach under his shirt and feel his skin against my fingertips. I think about his breath on my neck and my chest and against my lips and in my mouth. How it felt when he pressed against me, how hard he was, how easily I came when he just slipped his thumb under my panties and applied the faintest pressure.

  “It was amazing.”

  “Well, at least you can admit that. This might not be as hard as I thought.”

  “What might not be?”

  “Me convincing you to give this a go with him.”

  “Give what a go with him? This is Jason we’re talking about. Jason, who was banned from that coffee shop on Center Avenue because he got caught screwing some girl in the bathroom. This isn’t Greg, who was actively seeking someone to get serious with. Jason actively seeks ways not to get serious with someone.”

  “Yeah, but it’s you.”

  And I want so badly to believe the words she’s saying. But I just can’t. “That’s not going to matter, Paige.”

  “What did he say before he left?”

  I blow out a breath, remembering his words, the expression on his face, and for one minute, a tiny part of me harbors the hope that maybe Paige isn’t completely full of shit. “That he’d call me tomorrow.”
r />   “Well, then, I’ll guess we’ll see what happens tomorrow.”

  jason

  I’m not even home before the guilt kicks in, settling like a lead weight in my stomach. Guilt is the last thing I want to feel right now, especially considering I left a blissed-out Tess at home. And though there probably should’ve been awkward conversation or uncomfortable silence following our make-out session, there was neither. She was breathless and all smiles, and I left her with a kiss and a promise to talk tomorrow.

  So then if everything was fine when I left, why is this feeling creeping in my gut? I know I didn’t take advantage of her. I gave her plenty of times to say no, to stop it, and I know she wanted it as bad as I did, but still, that nagging sense that I did something wrong is eating me alive.

  It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what it is, though. That unwavering sense of loyalty to my best friend is the reason. Just a couple weeks ago, he told me to stay away from her, and instead of listening to him, instead of backing off like I know I should’ve, I pushed her up against a wall and made her come. Something her brother would have my balls for.

  The drive home is quick, and I pull into my parking space before heading into my apartment building. Once inside, I toss my keys on the kitchen counter and throw my coat over a chair. Knowing I need to unwind before I’ll ever be able to sleep, I grab a beer from the fridge and relax on the couch.

  My phone rings just after I’ve turned on the TV, and for one second, I think it might be Tess, calling to say what a mistake it was. I don’t want to admit what the thought of her saying that does to my chest.

  The display on my phone shows the last person I want to talk to now—the very person I feel like I betrayed. Groaning, I drop my head to the back of the couch and close my eyes. I don’t need Cade’s warnings or his overprotective bullshit right now, but I know if I don’t answer, he’ll probably call Tess, and I don’t want her to have to field his calls now. I don’t want her second-guessing what happened between us any more than she already may be.