“This, Kylie, this is how I need to remember you if you’re done with me.”
I curl my fingers around his hand but I say nothing. I don’t trust myself to.
It doesn’t take long for him to fall asleep. He sleeps hard, sound, so he doesn’t even flinch when I untangle myself from his body to turn back over to face him. I spend the next hour studying him, running my fingertips gently over his lips and the angles of his face. Etching every detail of him into my memory.
CHAPTER THREE
“Fuck . . .”
The sound of Wyatt’s voice cutting through the silence of the dark hotel room immediately snaps me out of my sleep, which is already fitful thanks to him. “Don’t do that, Ky,” he continues.
It takes a moment, which I spend with my eyes squeezed together, to realize that he’s talking to me. And it takes another few seconds to grasp that at some point since I drifted off to sleep, he has closed the tiny amount of space that was left between our bodies earlier. He’s wrapped his arm loosely around my waist and thrown one of his long legs across my own legs. And at some point, he’s gotten rid of his boxers so that I’d wake up to his very bare and, as much as I hate to admit it, incredibly epic dick hard against my stomach.
“Fuck is right,” I mutter under my breath, echoing the word he’d used to wake me up.
“Kylie,” he says my name again, this time in an urgent growl. His hold on my waist tightens, and I flinch. I just know he’ll mention how hot my skin feels, how he knows that every inch of my body is reacting to him right now.
But he doesn’t say anything. And that’s so untypical of Wyatt that I freeze. “Hmm?” When he doesn’t rush to answer me, I drag my eyes open. “Wyatt, what the—” My words catch in the back of my throat.
He’s asleep.
Wyatt is asleep and he’s saying my name desperately, hopelessly.
Call it cliché, but when the man you’ve loved since you lost your virginity to him at 17, the heavy sleeper that you’re just a few days away from leaving for good, calls out your name in his sleep, you’ve got no choice but to react.
The question is: what am I supposed to do?
Blowing a short blue strand of hair up and out of my eye, I curl my fingers around his shoulders. “You okay?” I nudge him back and forth. He grinds his hips down and doesn’t stop moving until we’re crotch to crotch. My lips part slowly, and something that sounds like a rumble mixed with a moan comes out. What the hell is this man trying to do to me?
“Wyatt, are you okay?” I repeat.
He exhales roughly. “I’m fine.” He takes his hand away from my waist and moves it to my wrist. He brings my hand from his shoulder. “I’m fine but sleeping with you like this f**ks me up.” He grazes the tip of his tongue over my fingers, sucking every other one completely into his mouth, skimming his straight teeth over the ridges of my knuckles.
Even though I know where this is going, I still gasp when he presses my palm to his erection. “Not f**king fair, McCrae,” I say through a forced smile, and he closes my fingers one by one around his c**k and guides my hand up and down his shaft. No, this isn’t fair at all. “Go back to sleep.”
He finally decides to open his eyes, parting them lazily so that he can stare at me unblinking. The back of my throat constricts and, inadvertently, I tighten my grip on him. The side of his mouth with the labret pulls up into a wicked grin. “We’ve slept long enough, Kylie,” he says. In a couple of well-executed, swift motions, he pins me flat on my back and rolls over on top of me, his knees sinking into the mattress on either side of my hips. “Now, I’m planning to f**k you until my wake-up call.”
When he tries to bend his head down to mine, I stop him, shoving my palm to his chest. I successfully succeed at not wandering my fingertips over the defined muscles taut beneath them, but the hand that’s below his belt is not so resistant. It strokes him even harder. “And what time would that be?”
He moves his knee, and just when I think he’s about to get off of me, he nudges it against my closed thighs. I don’t budge. “10:30,” he says. “And your ass is mine ‘til then.”
Rolling my head to the side, I check the time on the digital MP3 clock sitting on the nightstand beside the hotel telephone. It’s 5:53 AM.
“Ambitious, aren’t we, McCrae?” I ask, loving the way he shudders when I move the hand that’s wrapped around him faster.
“One part ambition.” He reaches down and splays his hands on my thighs. He gives me a pointed look that clearly says he’s not going to tell me part two until I oblige.
Sighing, I spread my feet apart, curling my toes in the crisp white sheets. “Now, part two?”
He caresses two fingers back and forth between my legs and whispers something unintelligible about how much he hates my panties. It takes every ounce of self-control I’ve got not to moan or shudder.
I want him to feel what I am feeling. I want him to experience every flash of exquisite torture and numbing pleasure. And I want him to feel it now. I move my hand up the length of him and then back down again and feel a thrill spread through my veins as a slow, but uncertain, smile builds on his face. “That’s my girl,” he whispers into my ear.
“What’s the other part?”
“Every time we see each other after this is all over and you’re pretending like we’re not shit to each other, I want to think back on how tonight, and every night before it, your pu**y belonged to me.” Without warning, he dips a finger into my panties and traces a heart around my clit. Wyatt’s always hated playing his guitar with the pick, so his fingertips are rough. It’s the most erotic, addictive thing I’ve ever felt—just a little painful but incredibly satisfying.