Page 112 of Promise Me Nothing
My bones and muscles and tendons and every atom in my body flies apart, the wave of euphoria pushing out all sensation so I can only feel where he’s touching me.
My knees try to slam together but Wyatt’s arms hold me open to him, allowing his fingers to continue to rub and slide, stretching out my orgasm until I literally can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
When he finally relaxes his fingers, I gasp for breath, my entire body going lax against him, like I’m melting into where he sits behind me.
He pulls his hands out, and presses them back into my stomach, making sure my body is as close to him as possible. I turn slightly to my side, nuzzling into him like a cat desperate for attention.
Because that’s exactly what I am.
A needy, desirous thing that just wants Wyatt as close to me as possible.
And then, as I pant and try to catch my breath, my body lying sluggish in his arms, the tiny flickers still popping along my nerves, we watch the fireworks show together.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Wyatt
“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”
Hannah’s voice has my eyes cracking open. She’s running around her room, stopping for a second to peer out the window to the street.
“Wyatt,” she hisses. “Wyatt, wake up.”
I roll over, reaching my arms above my head, a small smile stretching lazily across my face when I see Hannah in a pair of little panties and a tank top, her skin a little pink from our day in the sun yesterday.
“You have to get up,” she says, right before a shirt lands on my face.
I chuckle and push it away, reaching for Hannah’s hand as she walks past me and tugging her back into the bed.
It seems like she’s stressed about something, but I can’t seem to care right in this moment. This might be the first time I’ve ever woken up with a girl and felt this kind of groggy, morning, joyfulness that comes with sexual release and an amazing woman.
Normally, I’m tugging my clothes on and slipping out the door. But this morning, I can only focus on Hannah’s skin and her smell and the idea of bringing her back into this bed so we can do more of what we did last night.
Jesus, we didn’t even have sex and I feel almost lovesick. Like I’ve been drugged on something.
But this is apparently what Hannah Morrison does to me.
Makes me want to drag her beneath me and kiss her in the places that make her blush.
“Wyatt,” she says, her voice firm even though she’s trying not to giggle as I pull her against my chest, kissing her neck and biting her shoulder. “Wyatt, Lucas just got home.”
I lift my head back and give her a smile. “So. Is he going to ground you for having a boy spend the night?” I joke, giving her a grin.
Her expression pinches, and something inside of me tilts just slightly. It’s a new feeling. One I don’t think I’ve ever experienced before.
“I’m just not ready for him to know anything is happening between us,” she says.
I nod, my eyes searching hers.
She looks apologetic. Like this isn’t what shewantsto say, but it’s what she should say anyway.
And she doesn’t take it back.
So I climb off the bed, trying to leave this unpleasant feeling tangled in her sheets, and start slipping my clothes on.
Last night, after the fireworks, Hannah and I made out for a while on the deck. Then we packed up the donuts and made our way down to her bedroom. We crawled into bed, spooning together, my need to have her near me almost overwhelming.
