Page 76 of Sleepover

Chapter 36

Sawyer

I gotta give it to Trevor and Helen—it’s one hell of a party. And there’s no way Elle and I aren’t going to take full advantage.

The food is amazing. We gorge ourselves on passed hors d’oeuvres and the charcuterie and cheese table. We help ourselves liberally to the open wine bar, swapping tastes so we get to try as many different bottles as possible. Helen’s dad, I learn, is a winemaker—he doesn’t grow grapes, but he bottles them.

We’re seated at a table with a bunch of Trevor’s friends, most of whom Elle is friendly with. I’m proud of her; she holds her head high and makes small talk with them, acting—or maybe, for all I know, feeling—like she has nothing to be ashamed of. And she doesn’t. She isn’t the dick in this scenario.

The beef is filet mignon, tender and juicy, with a side of just about the best garlic mashed potatoes I’ve ever eaten and stalks of young, tender asparagus. Elle has the salmon, and it’s cooked perfectly, with a lemon-honey spice rub, and served with mixed wild and brown rice and broccolini.

And it’s all foreplay.

All of it. The way Elle licks the rim of her wineglass just before she offers it to me, the way she looks teasingly up at me through her eyelashes when she drinks from my glass. The roll of thinly sliced salami she slips into her mouth, her tongue peeking out to lick salt from her lips. The expression on her face when she tastes the brie. The shocking expanse of her skin where the dress bares her back, the curves of her calves, the swing of her skirt, the keyhole cutout that exposes creamy cleavage, the spark that jumps between us when she reaches up to dab a crumb from the corner of my mouth.

The wedding cake has been cut and served, and I’ve eaten as much as I could cram in (the cake, like everything else, is fantastic). The toasts are in progress, and everyone’s attention has turned to the groom’s brother. He begins to talk about when Trevor first met Helen.

I turn to look at Elle, and she’s pale as a ghost.

Of course. The time period he’s talking about, the time when Trevor met Helen—that’s before he met, impregnated, and married Elle.

What a horror show.

No, just no. She can’t listen to this. But if we get up and leave now, we’ll be conspicuous. Everyone will see her leaving. They’ll see her fleeing.

I have to distract her.

Which is when I remember a very specific promise I made her.

I want to mess with you under the tablecloth.

Admittedly, when I said it, I was mostly just trying to get under her skin. Make her squirm a little at the Moving Up ceremony.

But given the circumstances, it’s not the worst idea ever.

Under the table, I slide my hand to her thigh and give it a squeeze.

Elle has the smoothest skin I have ever felt. It’s like satin. And there’s just a little give to the flesh underneath, a delicious softness, before I feel the tautness of muscle. Her skin at the edge of her dress is cool, but as I draw my hand higher, pushing her skirt aside, it gets warmer, until I can feel the heat where her thighs are close enough to touch.

She lets out a quick, nervous breath, but I don’t look at her. Her hand touches mine as if she’s going to bat me away—but she doesn’t.

A little higher and I can feel the edge of her panties, then damp lace, and then my fingertips move through silken wetness, and now it’s my breath that’s too loud for the still room. But no one turns to look at us—they’re fixated on Trevor’s brother and the story he’s weaving—so I keep playing. With the softness of her folds through her panties, with her lube, which I slick over every part of her I can reach, until I find the hard knot of her clit.

She squeaks.

I smirk.

She wriggles against my fingers.

“Hold still,” I murmur in her ear.

She is having a hard time obeying.

I whisper, “You have to hold completely still or I’m going to stop.”

Obediently, she goes still. She stares straight ahead, only the slight slackness to her lower lip and the dazed expression in her eyes giving away that anything is going on below the surface. And meanwhile, my finger moves in the lightest, sweetest, most tantalizing circle around her clit, dipping lower to find more wetness and smooth it over her. Every time I dip I feel the impulse zipping through her pelvis to push down against my fingers, to impale herself on me, and, holy hell I’m hard.

Just when I’m wondering if it’s actually possible to bring her off this way, with no pressure, no penetration, and no way for her to control the speed or intensity of what I’m doing, I feel a tremor rush through the tense muscles of her thigh. I can feel her fluttering against my fingers, as light as butterfly kisses. It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever experienced—followed closely behind by the hot pink flush that covers her whole face and the keyhole opening of her dress. But everyone else’s attention is so fixed on the wedding party that no one but me notices.

She’s all mine, and the wild burst of possessive feeling that goes through me practically bowls me over.

Just then glasses clink and the room explodes in applause.

Elle and I lift our glasses, clink, drink, and smile at each other.

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