Page 36 of When It's Us
“But won’t I smother you? I’m too—”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” he says, lapping at my clit and making my eyes roll back. He grabs my shirt at the hem and yanks it off over my head. “Tug on those pretty nipples while I eat this perfect pussy.”
I hesitate but he gives me a look before landing a cracking smack on my ass cheek that has another long moan ripping from my throat. “Move.”
When I don't respond right away, he pulls back to look up at me, the stubble of his short beard scraping my thighs; his pretty blue eyes locked on mine.
“Let’s not pretend, California,” he says, all deep-timbered, low and assertive, like silk over my skin. His eyes bore into mine. “You like it when I’m in control, yeah? When I tell you what to do?”
My core clenches involuntarily, and I bite my lip to stifle a moan. Yes. I love it when he’s in control. Crave the fact that I don’t have to be. God, what does that say about me?
“Sit.” The one-word command has me reeling.
My nipples harden and I can’t help but do as he says and lift my hands to touch myself. I’m in nothing but my panties, hovering over him. I love the command in his voice and the control he has over my body. I knew Hutch could play me like an instrument with his hands and tongue, but his words? Holy shit.
Doing as he says, I tug on both my nipples, rolling them until they’re hard and peaked.
“Yeah, just like that, now ride my face, filthy girl,” he says before diving back into my pussy.
I’m so lost to the sensation of his heat underneath me, his hand holding my panties aside, and his fingers gripping my thigh. His tongue works against my clit, then down to my entrance, gathering wetness to swipe back up to my clit with a moan, the feel of his beard scratching against my skin and the cool air on my nipples, it’s like sensory overload in the best fucking way.
Hutch pulls away, and I whimper at the lost contact. “Do you need to get that?”
“What?” I stare down at him through lust-drunk eyes, chest heaving.
“Your phone is ringing.”
I’d already been so close to coming that I’d thought myearswere ringing. I still when I register it as Peter’s ringtone.
I scramble off Hutch and stand on my tiptoes, rummaging through the blankets on the top bunk to find my phone. As I pick it up, the screen goes dark, but not before I see the FaceTime notification from Peter. I nearly whimper because I wasso fucking close.
A text comes through.
Peter:Hey, Tate wanted to talk to you. I tried to tell him it’s late, but he’s pretty upset. Call us back if you’re still up?
Shit. What am I doing? Grinding on Hutch’s face when my son needs me? I really need to get a fucking grip.
“I have to take this,” I say, swiping my T-shirt up before rummaging in my bag for pajama pants and pulling them on.
I look over at Hutch in the dark. He’s laid back, arms behind his head. He nods, but doesn’t say anything.
Grabbing a blanket from the bunk, I wrap it around myself and slide open the side door before climbing down. I slide the door shut as I bring up Peter’s number and redial. Almost immediately, Tate’s tear-stained face fills the screen.
Ginger
Iwaketoearly-morninglight filtering through the roof vents in broken patches. Despite the two-inch mattress and the persistent thrum of arousal between my legs, I’d actually slept well after crawling back into the bunk last night.
When I returned from calming Tate down, I’d braced myself to pump the brakes on whatever was about to happen. But Hutch hadn’t pushed. He asked if everything was okay, I said it was, and even though I’m sure he would’ve been fine picking up where we left off, I just…couldn’t.
Tate had a nightmare, and I wasn’t there. I was hours away, wrapped up in my own need for space, and he needed his mom. I know I’m being dramatic—no parent can be everywhere at once—but the guilt still claws at me.
Thankfully, the blankets Hutch gave me were the perfect kind of heavy, and they worked like a weighted hug. It didn’t take long before sleep swallowed me whole.
Now, I push up onto my elbows, straining to hear any sound from outside. I need to get dressed, but that’s easier said than done in this sardine can. Stripping in front of Hutch—especially after last night—is a hard pass.
Because let’s be honest: my vagina is still on high alert, and part of me is stupidly disappointed we didn’t finish what we started. Which, frankly, doesn’t bode well for me. If he so much as crooks a finger at me again, I’ll probably roll over, legs up, panting like a bitch in heat. Shame? Never heard of her.
I shake the thought off and tune in. There’s the faint scrape of metal, followed by the unmistakable scent of coffee.
