That is, until I feel his fingers brush against my wet panties. I break the kiss and whine, straight up. My legs quiver. “Please…”
His lips touch my ear as he whispers, “You’re soaked for me.”
I nod rapidly. Yes. Yes. “I need you,” I whimper. I arch my back, hoping that my pelvis connects with his. Something harder. Deeper. His body is snug between my legs.
“Shh, Lil,” he breathes.
I’m afraid he’s going to sit up, away from me, so I cling to his body, latching myself onto him.
He rests his forearm on the ground, less distance between us, and he combs my hair back, his lips a breath from mine. Kiss me. He does. Oh. He does so much. The earnestness in his lips heats my core, a kiss like he’s supplying me oxygen to live one more day on this Earth. Thank you, Loren Hale.
I’m fueled with love and lust.
He rocks his body forward, grinding against me. Holy shit. I cry, “Lo, Lo.” And his fingers begin to rub the outside of my panties. Oh my God.
I need his fingers. Not the cotton. Skin-to-skin. I whimper even more. Desperate and horny.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, and then he kisses my neck, sucking on the tender place. Between my thighs, his finger hooks in the cloth, and he finds the small, throbbing bud. As soon as he touches the sensitive skin, I jerk and buck up. He presses his body harder against me, keeping me still and adding more pressure.
God. Yes.
He whispers, in a deep, edged voice, “I’m inside of you.” His fingers quicken. “Slamming into you.” Yes. “Filling you.” His pace quickens, building me so high that my eyes flutter closed. My head lulls. Please. I hold onto his wrist. And then I place my hand on top of his, feeling the way he’s moving his fingers against the spot. Feeling how small I am compared to him.
“Deeper,” I plead.
He only rubs my clit. And he says, “I’m so deep inside of you, love, that there’s no more room to go any further.”
I cry into his shoulder, my body reaching a high. Nerves electrify, my pulse speeding to new levels, and I constrict multiple times. I stop breathing and float up to the clouds. From here on out, every touch on my sensitive flesh has me twisting and spasming. Lo presses on my clit, the intensity numbing me, and then he removes his hand and collects me in his arms, bringing me on his lap.
My breathing is like an out-of-shape whale. I can feel his hardness beneath his towel. “Again?” I question with a pant, longing in my eyes. I know the answer though. I shake my head at myself.
“No more, Lil.” He carefully raises my shorts. I didn’t even notice them fall to my thighs. He buttons and zips them back. No more. I’m trying to be satisfied with this. I am.
“Are you going to…” I stare at his crotch. “…touch yourself again?”
“Don’t think about it,” he tells me. Maybe it’s better that I don’t know what he does. I want to offer my services, but his jaw sharpens in this no-nonsense Loren Hale look. Something that shrivels people. It only steals my breath.
I try not to think about blow jobs or hand jobs or any kind of job. I clear my throat. “Do you know where the handcuffs are?”
His eyes narrow.
“They’re not for me,” I say quickly, realizing this was bad timing. “I have to show Rose.”
His expression does not soften. “Why?”
“Long story.”
He shakes his head and lets out a breath. He lifts me up to my feet just as he stands. And then he squats back down by his rack of Vans. He reaches for a box and pops it open. The silver cuffs are simple, but they have this black leather that makes them softer. We don’t use them often. Maybe like once every few months.
I prefer my hands to be touching him.
“Alrighty, thank you.” I reach out to take them.
“Kiss first,” he says.
I grin and glance down at his cock.
“Not there, love. On my lips.”
Damn. I look back up and he’s smiling. For a second, I wonder if I can postpone the kiss, just to see him smile longer.
He can’t read my mind.
Because he kisses me first.
I realize, though, that I like this just as much.
41
LOREN HALE
I never thought I’d see the day where Lily and Rose combine their birthdays into one party. For as long as I can remember, Rose insisted that it’d never happen. You know those people that milk their “special” day until it’s dry? Making others wait on them and do favors, as if they’ve suddenly been born into royalty?
Times that by a million and you have Rose Calloway.
August 5th is my least favorite day on Earth.
The fact that I get to be happy for Lily’s birthday four days before and then head over to hell doesn’t help. So today, August 3rd—exactly two days after Lil turned twenty-four and exactly two days before Rose turns twenty-six—just might live in infamy.
“So Rose,” I say, gripping a can of Fizz and leaning back into the suede couch, “when you imagined your twenty-sixth birthday, I know this is what you had in mind.” I wear a half-smile.
After a five-course meal, we’ve all retired to the parlor for cake and presents. Her parent’s Philadelphia mansion has been decorated in a combination of lilies and roses. A small party. Just family. Our parents sit in the dining room, visible through the archway. They drink champagne and fawn over the babies. It’s a mundane, normal event. Like Samantha Calloway threw one of her usual dinner parties. Nothing special.
I motion to the parlor space. “Perfection, right?”
Rose gives me a withering glare. “Stop talking, Loren.” She had some kind of getaway trip planned months ago, but logistically, with her baby, she decided it was better to stay in Philly. I know a part of her must have cracked when she handed her birthday plans to her mom.
Lily plops down on the couch beside me, barely causing a wave. “This is the fanciest birthday I’ve had since I was eleven,” she comments, scanning the room with big eyes.
Rose clutches a wine glass, Connor’s arm across the loveseat behind her head. “That’s because you never wanted a birthday party,” Rose says. “Mother would’ve thrown you one in a heartbeat.”
“And invited all of her friends,” Daisy adds, ambling over from the dining room with a plate of chocolate cake. Since the couch is full with Sam and Poppy, Lily and me—and the loveseat and chair are taken—she can either sit on the floor or on my brother.
As she lowers her ass to the expensive rug, Ryke grips the hem of her skirt and pulls her onto his lap. Smooth. Daisy eases against him, sharing the cream suede chair.
Poppy counters, “Any of us would have thrown you a party too. You didn’t have to go to Mom for one.” Sam is French-braiding his wife’s hair. It’s distracting, to be honest. Especially because Poppy is next to me.
I’m biting my tongue to keep from making a remark. But I must be doing a shit job since Sam speaks up. “When you have a daughter, you’ll learn how to do things you never really thought about before.”
When I have a daughter? My brows rise. It implies that one day I’ll have another kid. One day I’ll go through all of this again. One day, I’ll love another person with my entire soul.
It seems improbable.
“Whatever, Sammy,” I say dryly, not wanting to start more shit with him. He’s being nice. I’m an ass. I just want to leave it at that.