Page 31 of Until I Own You

“Hey,” I say, my smile not able to hide my nerves.

Bridget leaps into the air. “Oh, my god!”

“Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I–”

“What the hell are you doing just standing here like a creep? What the fuck is…” She tries to catch her breath. “What is that about?”

Poor thing doesn’t know I just heard her coming with my name in her mouth. But she knows she was repeating my name. Begging a version of me in her imagination to release her from the shackles of her arousal.

She wants me. Bridget fucking wants me.

I clear my throat. “Sorry, our parents–” Ugh, I hate saying that. “—they want a family picture before the photographer moves onto the cocktail hour. Your dad sent me to look for you, and I–”

“Okay, well, let’s get it over with I guess,” Bridget says, blowing past me toward the staircase.

I withhold a laugh.

She’s so flustered. Because I was just on her mind. More than that. I was in her body. In her blood coursing through her, the pounding of her heart, the wetness of her pussy.

As I follow her, I swear I can smell her, the remnants of her arousal between her legs. Not the first time I’ve felt able to smell her. I’ve been attuned to her since I first met her.

Fucking pheromones. They’re stronger than ever now that I know…she wants me.

My insides are like a circus over that. Backflips and acrobatics.

Elation.

Once we get downstairs, I catch up to walk beside her. “Bridget.”

“What?” she replies, clearly short with me.

“You look…really nice today.” God, how old am I? Thirteen? Telling a girl at her bat mitzvah her polka dot strapless dress looks nice? “I mean, you look amazing.”

The tension in her face melts, but she doesn’t look at me. “Thank you.”

We are silent the rest of the way to meet our parents out in the garden.

My mom grins. “There she is!” She gives Bridget a loving hug.

I try to ignore the guilt building in the back of my throat.

Mom has always treated Bridget with love and closeness. Unlike me, Bridget lost her mother when she was too young to have many memories of her. That allowed for my mom to give her more than Solomon has been able to give me.

We are a weird little family.

But all of that is eclipsed by the memory of my name in Bridget’s mouth.

We allow our parents to jigger us around since my mom wants to show her good side. Finally, we settle in a row, Bridget and I next to our respective parents.

“Alright, big smiles.” The photographer ducks behind his mammoth lens.

And boy, if I don’t follow that direction. I beam, lifting my chin, puffing my chest. Proud.

Not for my family. Not for how we look like the perfect American Dream from the outside.

No. For the way I feel. That after ten years, I can be proud of the way I want Bridget. There’s no reason to be ashamed.

Not when my name is in her mouth. Not when she wants me in her most primal, private moments.

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