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Now I needed my men to protect me.
That wasn’t all.
I also needed them to protect my heart while continuing to make my body tremble for them.
1
Rory
Iliked the low heat of certain things. The warmth of travel. The lowering of the sun past twilight. The twist of the words in my new erotic novel.
A thin layer of perspiration nestled in the space between my upper lip and nose, a tell-tale sign that the baker, his hands dusted with flour and wet with his lady’s love, was doing a pretty great job.
He pushed her up on the counter. A deft movement later, her long dress was up to her waist, and her legs were parted to allow him access to her sweet, warm honeypot.
The lilting chime of my bedside clock told me it was two am. My window was open to the night’s balmy air, as living alone left me unhindered in my pursuit of sultry pleasures.
I moaned slightly, reveling in the loneliness of my studio apartment.
As the baker took his lady to sweet orgasm, my hands traveled down past my nightgown to the wetness blooming between my own legs.
There’s just something about the way books depict sex, isn’t there?
It was as if a flame had suddenly erupted, and all the things I’d never considered important were larger than life.
I rose from my bed as my moan transcended past a climax into something gentler. The hot air had calmed into a cool reprieve. Outside, cicadas whispered secrets.
An owl hooted in the distance, its rumbling voice a curious contrast against the raretsip tsip tsipof a lonely Chimney Swift.
My phone’s screen came alive with Chelsea’s pretty face. Grinning, I answered.
“Hey there, bish.” She laughed as soon as I picked up her call. “Are you feeling all ready for college tomorrow?”
I looked at the calendar.
“Honestly?” I asked her. “I don’t know. I want to be ready. But after last time, it feels like I’d be expecting too much if I thought things would go well.”
“Rory,” she chided me, her words laced with gentleness. “Allow yourself some compassion, please. You were bullied so hard at that place.”
I swallowed. My mistake at Clifton Peaks was falling in love with the wrong boy.
And telling him I was a virgin.
It had meant nothing to me at the time. I’d actually told him because I wanted him to be my first. Because until then, no one had made me feel the need to be intimate.
Sure, I’d had my fair share of experiences in high school. They’d sucked.
When you’re that age—and especially if you’re a boy—you’re learning. And that means you’re a terrible kisser who thinks licking teeth is the sexiest thing you can do.
That’s what I learned from Dick, the first boy who ever kissed me. This was also the time I realized his parents had given him the perfect name.
He’d snuck out of home in his parents’ Range Rover.
At the time, these things were sexy.
Sneaking out of our parents’ places to meet near school or some out of the way dirt road.
Making out like we were pros at it, when honestly, none of us had any fucking idea what we were doing.
