She yanks at my hair.
“Calm down.” When she pulls harder, my hand meets her ass, causing a sharp noise in the room. She shivers and loosens her grip. “God, you taste so good.”
“What about you?” she moans.
I blow against her clit, lick, and repeat. “What about me?”
“I want to make you happy. I want to—” But I cut her off by lowering her to the floor, my tongue never loosing her. I wait until she’s gasping, practically singing, and then I stop. I cover the sounds she’s making with my mouth, shoving my tongue in between her lips, letting her taste herself as I drag down my pants. When I draw away from her—and it’s f**king hard to do—she drops her blue eyes down to my cock. “I didn’t even realize you were putting that on.”
I follow her gaze to the condom and grin. “Multi-talented.” She starts to respond, but I shake my head. “Bend over, Si.”
But she moves her head from side to side, too. The motion quickly changes to a shudder as I rub my thumb over her clit. “Please, I-I want to see you,” she pleads.
I stare down at her for a minute, watching as she grinds her teeth, and her hips, before I give her a nod. “Then come here.”
I wake up then in a cold sweat, but I know how it ends. I know how she felt, how she tasted. And how she told me over and over how much she loved me—me, a f**ked up man who had screwed her over.
And of course, as I drink a Sam Adams even though it’s 3 in the goddamn morning, I force myself to remember how the night ended—how I f**ked her once again.
So by the time I get into my Audi to drive to Nashville the next evening, I know that there’s a good chance it’s all over.
But I turn on a playlist my sister made for me with way too much f**king Chevelle, and I remain hopeful.