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My toes curl against the soft cushions, my shins press down, shoving my back and ass into the back of the couch, gaining my purchase to fight my urge to drive my fingers lower. I don’t have any resolve left as I curl one, then two fingers inside me, slapping my other hand over my mouth to suppress a squeal.
My legs are practically crushing my hand as I keep driving them in, dragging them out, hooking them to press against that spot just inside, each stroke forcing me closer to letting go.
I’m squeezing so hard my hand hurts.
But it’s not my hand I’m hurting, it’s Evan’s.
Roaring, rushing noise rise in my ears, my brain buzzing as I soar to the brink. I debate going over, finishing myself off, but I hesitate, hearing Gavin grumble in the next room, talking in his sleep.
The thought of his being awake and walking in on me does me in.
Or better, awake and watching me, gripping himself and trying not to make a noise as he comes to the sight of me writhing on his couch. Watching through the crack in his door.
Thrills of shock-fright and nervousness spiral together with my orgasm, zinging down the backs of my legs, up along my back, surging through my head, out into my fingertips and toes. Everything tightens, and I bite down on my pillow to keep from screaming, my whole body pressed against the couch, one hand stretched out, twisted in the sheets like a lifeline.
Gavin moans one last time, the bed creaking as he turns over, and I imagine him curling up behind me in the wake of the storm, the swells of my release throbbing like my pounding heartbeat, ebbing as I relax, gasping in the dark.
With my last bit of energy, I tear my damp T-shirt off, tossing it aside, desperate to cool down.
In the quiet of the early morning, I imagine Evan’s eyes tracing the shimmer of the porchlight reflecting off the sweat on my breast.
And I want him again. I want him for real.
What is Evan DeSante doing to me?
13
GAVIN
She’s doing it again.
Making my blood boil by cleaning, cooking. Mostly because she doesn’t need to take care of me. Somewhat because I hate how much I like the idea of her taking care of me and being my live-in maid, wife, girlfriend, and none of the above.
But more than anything else, because she always does it wearing those impossibly small sweat-shorts that tuck between her ass cheeks and make me want to pick them out with my teeth.
I know she’s picked up on the tension.
That hasn’t stopped us looking, though.
Or playing with fire a bit here and there, either. I swear, she tries to time it so that she passes me in the little hallway from the spare bedroom to the kitchen. Always brushing up against each other. I catch just a hint of her cinnamon scent. Her shampoo makes me want to breathe deeper. Take her in.
And then I spend the next several seconds forcing my erection down through sheer force of will.
It’s the lack of work, being stuck at home. That must be it.
I’ve been working on projects around the house and in the garage just to keep busy.
And admittedly, tailing Hellena on her outings, keeping tabs on her.
Honestly, it is a ridiculous amount of problems she's gotten herself into. I was prepared for the contingency that when she couldn’t pay those guys, she would need to disappear.
Or the possibility that she might have to stay with me indefinitely.
It would be easier than the alternative.
I'd have to go on the offensive against some of the people who employ me, the Holy Ghosts, because that's absolutely who she owes money to. There's nobody else who deals drugs in this town. And who they work for, the conglomerate pharma company.
Who undoubtedly are members of the alleged organization that runs this town. Politics.
