Page 77 of Hot Shot

He’s right there on the other side of the door.

I twist my nipple hard enough that it stings, biting my lip to keep myself quiet.

I could see him—all I’d have to do is crack the door.

The temptation is too much to deny. My heart hammers as I tiptoe to the door, opening it silently, swallowing hard at the sight of him stretched out in the moonlight. His hand is still tucked behind his head, stretching the planes of his chest in a beautiful sweep of muscle, kissed by shadows. His shorts aregone, a dark pile at his outside foot, which is planted firmly on the ground. I follow the line of his calf, his massive thigh, the unreal profile of his ass cheek as it flexes to thrust his cock into his hand.

I can’t breathe. His big hand fists his shaft, the silken head appearing and disappearing with the gentle twist of his wrist. My own hand is pressed to my cunt, my clit against the heel, squeezing to the rhythm of his pumping hips and hand. Orgasm speeds toward me, tingling and hot and desperate.

And then he lets himself go, leans over, spits heavily into his hand, and grips his cock again.

I choke back a gasp, pressing my forearm to the doorframe, watching him through the crack, cock shining and slick as he hisses, face tight. His eyes close as he dips his head back, the knot of his Adam’s apple exposed. Eyes open, narrow as he watches his pleasure, chest rising and falling faster, his hand pumping. Mine matches pace, my throat tight, the pressure rising. His lips are pursed, breath sharp through his nose, jaw clenched, eyes on his cock until they roll. And with an animal grunt in the back of this throat, he comes all over himself. Ribbons of milky seed shoot from his pulsing cock, and I come all over myself too, biting my forearm so I’ll be quiet. So he won’t know just how much I want him.

He’s still stroking the root of his cock slowly, the tip still weeping, his arm slung over his face as he pants, and I’m rubbing my clit relentlessly, coming again. But one of my moans escapes, so small, so tiny, he can’t have heard. I roll away from the door along the wall to hide just in case, resting my head, the last of my desire rocking through me. My pussy still pulses as I wobble to bed and climb in. In a little bit, I’ll get up and pee and wash my hands—if I do it now, he’ll know. In the meantime, I lay there in the dark and think about him, wishing I didn’t want him so bad.

CHAPTER 30

SHAKE IT OFF

CASS

After that, it’s real hard to survive everyday life with Wilder.

Take grocery shopping, for example. Wilder holding a melon in his huge hand, taking a deep whiff of its nipple/rind/whatever? A problem. Wilder with a cucumber in his fist? A bigger problem. Don’t even get me started on Wilder with his hands full of various cheeses.

Yes, even cheese.Especiallycheese.

To be fair, he looks hot holding anything. A bag of peas. A basket of laundry.

His daughter.

I think I’ve been ovulating for eighteen days, ever since he promised to quit hitting on me. Two straight weeks. Every time I think it’s over,bam—here comes Wilder with a stack of dishes. And my poor, exhausted ovaries machine gun eggs at him like a sweaty, trigger-happy Rambo.

He’s respected my request to back off like an absolute fucking gentleman dickhead. How dare he just give me what I asked for. Like,how dare hejust leave me alone to squirm and squiggleand want him. Maybe that was his plan all along—withhold all the flirting and touching and innuendo knowing full well we both want it…because he knows at some point I won’t be able to stand it anymore.

Honestly, it would be kind of genius on his part. Because he’s killing me. I am dying a slow, painful, sexless death by melon sniffing.

The whole thing is made worse when we have to pretend we’re together. Holding hands. His arm around my shoulders, the scent of him eternally all over me. The chaste kisses that just the other day turned into something deeper, thanks to my fists, which were full of his shirt and busy yanking him into me so I could suck his whole, entire, stupid face off.

Every day, that kick drum in my gut has gotten softer and softer. At this point, it’s barely a whisper. Nothing more than a fluttering. I just don’t know if that’s because I’m closer than ever to being ready or because I’m so horned up for him that good judgment has gone out the window.

Damn him. Damn the whole situation.

I am so fucking screwed.

So screwed, I need togetscrewed before my head pops off my shoulders and shoots into the stratosphere.

And as if that isn’t bad enough, my feels have taken the form of a stampede of wild horses, thundering across my willpower until it’s been trampled to dust.

Sure, he quit hitting on me. But he hasn’t stopped being thoughtful or proactive orsogoddamn capable.Watching him learn how to braid Cricket’s hair with his face all pinched in concentration? Get out. When he folds all her little laundry and puts it in her drawers for her? Illegal. How he wants to know every single day how my day was, asks follow up questions,and remembers everything that I tell him?

Seriously, get the fuck out and don’t come back.

And Iwantto tell him. The other day, I realized I’ve been texting him before Jessa when something happens. I mean, I guess it kinda makes sense—he and I live together, share responsibilities. We have to talk about things that have nothing to do with either of us and everything to do with the both of us, like groceries and schedules and all. As such, I talk to him all the time. Even when I don’t have to.

Iwantto.

I want to see him walk in the door and smile at me. I hate when he’s gone at night and I have to go to bed without him—half the time we end up texting for an hour. When I’m tired or stressed or overwhelmed, he’s the one I want to talk to.He’sthe one I want to give me a hug and tell me everything will be alright. Once upon a time, he was my best friend. I didn’t think he’d ever find his way back into that spot, but it’s looking more and more like he managed it despite the odds.

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