Page 43 of Something Like Sunflowers

Nobody’s ever called me a winner for being just plain Devyn. Is Just-Plain-Devyn someone anyone even wants?

Do I want her?

Faces I grew up seeing smaller, younger versions of, surround us. They’re all grown up. Smiling. Laughing. It’s nostalgic to say the least. And while I feel like half of my emotions are probably drunk-girl feelings, the other half of me knows with experience that a drunk girl’s words are a sober girl’s thoughts.

Do I like it here? I think I do. So, what does that mean?

I chew on my lip, mulling over the feelings.

Hunter, Lemon, Home.

“You okay there, princess?”

I jump, startled by his words.

“Forever daydreaming.” He smirks, pressing the glass bottle to his lips. I watch as he takes a swig, and for some reason unbeknownst to me, but totally knownst to my ho of a vajayjay, I continue to watch his Adam’s apple push a path along his throat as he swallows.

“I always loved that about you,” he says, eyes crinkling at the edges.

He leans in, and my lips part involuntarily, my skin tingling with the proximity of his perfectly sculpted body, so flush with mine. Close enough that his heat is mine. And it’s scorching right now. Hunter is infuriating sometimes.

I spend hours choosing my outfits, but this man has the audacity to look sinful as all get-out in nothing but a pair of tight jeans, dirty shit-kickers, and a plain white T-shirt. His sleeves are stretched so tight over his biceps that they hardly look comfortable. I really should rip the cotton from his body and free them.

And run my fingers over the ridges.

I fan myself, turning my face away from him before he can see how he’s affecting me. I want him so bad I can’t stand to be beside him.

Hunter hooks an arm around me, his fingers twining through the ribbons of hair that flow down my back. I sigh wistfully, leaning into the crook of his arm, my heart skittering with the smell of his cologne and the way his body tightens around mine when he feels me nuzzle in.

He runs light trails up and down my side with his fingers, and a wake of goosebumps follows. They follow everywhere he touches. Down my arms. Over my thighs. I gasp when they move in between my legs, which part for him all on their own, stretching open as far as my jean skirt will allow.

Nobody can see beneath the table, especially with the corner we’ve somehow managed to find ourselves conveniently nestled into. I turn my head into his neck and bite down to stifle a moan when he guides his rough fingers along the lace edges of my panties, the teasing touch of his fingers almost too much to handle. But the thought of him stopping is almost unbearable all the same.

“Don’t stop,” I mutter breathlessly.

Reminding myself of why I shouldn’t do this is completely useless right now. I don’t give a fuck what Past-Devyn has to say about this, Present-Devyn wants this man’s fingers to slide approximately one centimeter to the left and make a shit ton of little circles until she comes into oblivion right under this suspiciously beautiful table.

I might be drinking, and I might regret my decisions, but a few drinks do not beer goggles make, and I’m certain right now, as I move my hand over his jeans and make my way straight to the hardness pressing tightly against his zipper, that he’s done being cordial about this, too.

I lean closer, licking my lips as he stiffens beneath my hand.

“I’m going to touch you,” I tell him. It’s not a request for permission, or even a question. It’s just a truth we both seem to be living in the middle of.

Hunter nods, his mouth turning up on the sides, and leaning back to give me better access, his eyes roaming my body and lingering appreciatively over my lips, my chest. My heartbeat quickens and flames kick up in my belly, a fire scorching beneath my skin and heating me at my core. He chuckles when I tug my bottom lip between my teeth, unsuccessfully suppressing a whimper.

“So needy,” he whispers into my ear, guiding me by my waist into his lap. With his hard body behind me like this and his strong arms holding me down, I have nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide.

But that’s okay with me.

There’s nowhere I’d rather be right now than precisely where I am.

His hard cock pressing into my ass makes my pussy clench, and he groans, throwing his leather jacket over my lap and fisting my skirt, hiking it up higher as he trails hot kisses across the back of my neck. His fingers feel like electricity with each point of contact, making me hot and static. I could explode at any minute.

And the sexy asshole knows this, chuckling low and sensual, his voice a smoky velvet that pours into my senses with warmth and promise. I gasp, his fingers brushing over my panties and stopping to pinch my clit through the fabric every so often. And the crazy part is, I don’t even care what’s going on around me. I’m here for this. So wet, and I’m not even a bit embarrassed by that.

It’s his fault.

He’s done this to me. Turned me into a wild, hungry beast who wants nothing more than to devour his heart and keep it inside of me. To feel him there always, to fill the empty spaces in my soul.

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