Page 42 of The Wallflower and the Running Back

She blinks a few times, then glances down with a smirk.

“Okay, fine. It’s not. But that’s only because I’m a girl. And Mark Twain wasn’t really about the romance. He was more about the skipping rocks and sword fighting and?—”

I chuckle.

“I don’t think that was really the point of Tom Sawyer,” I say.

“Oh, yeah?”

I shake my head.

“Uh uh.” I lick my lips and take a long, slow inhale of air. “It’s more about the pull to be an adult, but this inherent desire not to follow the paths our parents laid out for us. To make our own mark. And to slow down and just be a kid sometimes.”

She studies me for a few seconds, and I’m not sure whether her inner voice is echoing the opinions of those people at dinner tonight, or something else. Something better . . . or worse.

“Hey, Logan?” she finally utters.

I lift a brow.

“When you talk like that? You’re sexy as fuck.”

And there it is, that flicker in her eyes. I’ve only seen it a handful of times, and each time it makes me want to pick her up in my arms and consume her.

“You said the real F word,” I tease.

“I did.”

“I’m going to need to take you inside now,” I continue, unlatching my seat belt.

“You are,” she agrees.

I’m out of the truck in half a second and to her side in the other half. I help her swing the door wide open and then pick her up from her seat and hoist her over my shoulder. Her hands slap at my ass as I kick the truck door shut and swing her around, carrying her up the driveway and through the front door.

Her giggling is muffled the moment we’re inside, but I can still feel her laughing as I take her up the stairs and into my room.

I close the door and set her down against it, pinning her hands above her head with one hand while cradling her jaw with my other. She titters for another second or two, biting her bottom lip, which slips free when our eyes meet. Her chin lifts and she breathes in through her nose, pushing her chest up, almost in defiance. My mouth drops to her throat, my tongue dragging up her neck and along her jawline until my mouth covers hers and my teeth find the soft plumpness of her bottom lip. I bite her gently, pulling as I let out a soft growl.

My head rests against hers as I let her hands go and drop both of mine to the braids on either side of her head. Her hair is long enough that I can wrap it around each palm, and she hisses when I lightly tug.

“You know why I call you Shortcake? Because I bet you taste sweet. And those strawberry braids are begging me to grab hold and give you a lick.”

It’s her whimper that pushes me over the edge.

I toss away my jacket and drop to my knees, unbuttoning her pants and sliding them down her hips, the fabric pooling around her feet. She kicks them to the side and reaches for one of her shoes—strappy black heels that crisscross her ankles and wrap around her legs. I stop her.

“These stay,” I say.

Her foot lowers to the floor. My hands begin just where the leather straps end, about halfway up her calves. I glide my palms up to her knees, pausing there to coax her legs apart. She obeys, and her willing submission makes my dick swell.

I lean in, first pressing a soft kiss to the inside of her knee. Her breath falters, and I smile against her, tilting my head to gaze up at her. She’s biting her fist, eyes locked on me.

“It’s the anticipation that does it, huh?” I kiss her inner thigh and look up again.

“Uh huh,” she whispers with a tiny nod.

Turning my focus back to her black lace panties, I slide both of my hands up until they meet the thin band on her hips. I toy with it, hooking my fingers around it and pulling them down an inch before stopping to kiss her inner thigh again, this time inches from where I really want to taste.

I look up at her again.

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