Page 49 of Afterglow
I can’t even focus on getting out of the truck after Fletcher drives me home from the law firm. He kisses every knuckle, every finger, the inside of my wrists, all without breaking eye contact. “What’re you thinking about?”
“So many things,” I blurt. “But mostly about how you’ve got the prettiest pink mouth.”
Fletcher freezes, his lips pressing against the throbbing pulse.
“And how pretty it’d look all over me.”
Auburn freckles disappear behind the beet red of his blush. He curses under his breath.
“Can we go inside?” I ask, sounding whinier and more desperate than is usually acceptable. But the truth is, Iamneedy and desperate for this man. “I need you to keep kissing me, touching me, all over. Everywhere.”
Fletcher lifts and tugs me across the cab, placing me in a straddle over his lap. “Can we take it slow?” His hands climb my thighs, dragging the hem of my dress upward.
“Of course.”
“I wanna make you feel good.”
“You do?—”
“Teach me,” he begs, burying his face into the crook of my neck. “God, I want you so badly. Tell me you want me, too.”
I nod rapidly. “I want you.”
“Tell me how.” His plea fissures the weak walls of my heart.
I lift his head. “In all the ways I can have you. In all the ways that matter. Actually, in all the ways that don’t, too. I want you in every way possible.”
“Oh, thank God. Because you can have all of me.”
I can?
“You hear me, Bea?” Fletcher catches my chin in the crook of his finger, forcing my gaze. “You have all of me.”
Chapter 19
Dip, Drip, Wet
Fletcher
My dick is somad at me.
Let’s take it slow, you say. Fuck right off. Listen, my guy, we’ve been fine using our hands and imagination so far. A little longer won’t kill us.It might, he protests.
We had to separate to get out of the truck, but instead of the couch, Bea sent me to my room with strict directions.
“Fletcher?” She knocks three times. “You changed?”
I smooth my beard and give my hair a last floof before answering the door. “Yep.” I drag both hands down my sides. “Is this grungy enough for pottery throwing?”
She takes a step back and studies my faded Carhartt work pants and the plain tan tee with paint blotches on it from when we repainted my parents’ house last summer. “Adorable.”
We saunter to the spare room, which looks more like a paint and pottery studio with the wheel, clay, and some tools set up next to it. A clear plastic sheeting secured with blue painters’ tape protects every surface: the floor, the walls, the bookshelves.
“Wow. You went all out.”
“Anything to avoid clay stains. Exhibit A.” She motions to the various spatters on her shirt and cuffed jeans. “Ready for your first lesson?”
I return a stiff salute. “At your command.”
