Page 111 of Promise Me Nothing
Wyatt’s hands continue to rove, caressing me lightly over my sweater, then sweeping down along the tops of my thighs. Then the insides of my thighs. He does this over and over again, until I can barely take it.
His nose presses into my neck and I hear him inhale. “I love that smell,” he says. “That peachy lotion. You wearing it again?”
I nod, loving that he likes it, but unable to form any words to respond.
Then, finally, one hand slips over my aching core, cupping me softly and stroking lightly over my cotton pants. It eases something inside of me, and I just want to moan outyes, finally, thank you.
But within just a few seconds, I realize his movements haven’t eased my need. He’s only turned up the heat, raised the bar, stoked the fire to grow bigger and bigger.
His other hand slips under my sweater, reaching for my breasts.
“Are you not wearing a bra?” he asks, feather light kisses peppering my neck.
I can’t manage any words, his hands so distracting that I think I might collapse if I wasn’t already held so close to him.
“Are you a bad girl, Hannah? You like to taunt me?”
I nod. “Maybe a little.”
He groans, then pinches my nipple, pulling it just enough that the bite of pain has my own fingers gripping his thighs.
Wyatt slips his hand under my pants, the stretchy material giving him plenty of room to make his way down to where I’m wet and achy, a pulsing, needy thing that’s writhing under his touch.
“Please,” I whisper, the only word that comes to mind.
He sucks on my neck, his tongue coming out to lap at me, just as his fingers slip between my lower lips.
“You’re so wet,” he whispers, continuing to rotate his attention between my breasts and my legs. “Is this for me?”
I nod, though I’m shocked I can do that much.
He rubs the wetness, trails his finger down to my center and slips it inside, then pulls it up to the little bead that’s throbbing for him. And then he circles my clit, careful not to touch.
I feel like I could cry out in frustration and desperation and anger and need, like I might burst into pieces at any moment if he doesn’t just touch me and give me what I need from him.
“Wyatt, please.”
He nibbles on my earlobe. Groans in my ear. “Wait.”
It’s all he says, continuing to tease and torture, his fingers dropping down and sliding inside of me, then coming back up to circle me. Again and again, but never allowing me to surge to the top.
“God, you need it so bad, don’t you?” he whispers, his own voice sounding strained. “Fuck, Hannah, you need it?”
I nod my head, a whimper escaping from between my lips.
A loud pop has my eyes flying open, and I see the fireworks show has begun on the pier.
But at that exact moment, Wyatt brings his other hand down, uses two fingers to spread my lips wide, then uses his other hand to stroke me right on the center of my clit.
I cry out, something loud and painful and pleasured and frantic. The surge of need hits a new level as he strokes right over me, again and again and again, until I’m in near tears.
“I love the noises you make when you’re about to come,” he groans in my ear. “Like you might die if I don’t give you what you need.”
“I will,” I pant out, my hips writhing, my body unable to sit still.
Then a finger dips inside of me again and he strokes me in just the right way, groaning in my ear, telling me to come, promising me how good it’s going to feel.
I shatter.
