Page 149 of Not Another Yesterday
I tug at the towel around my waist, letting it fall where it does. I’ll deal with it later. Right now, all I care about is the shape curled up in my bed, the one that makes everything else fall away.
Cat.
She hasn’t spent the night with me in a couple of weeks now. Her dad’s been giving her a hard time. She hasn’t gone into detail, but she doesn’t need to. I know he doesn’t like me, blames me for… well, everything. Rightfully so, I guess. I told Cat not to pay itany mind, but she’s forever a peacekeeper, and as much as she’s realized people-pleasing isn’t always healthy, I understand why it’s much harder to go against your parents than someone on the outside, especially now that we may need to rely on them for help very soon.
But she’s here tonight, asleep on her side, facing away from the window she must’ve cracked open for me. Cool air slips through, giving the room my favorite kind of chill. And, god, she looks so peaceful, soat homein my bed it makes something tighten in my chest.
She’s the opposite of everything about that new car parked on the curb. The car is sterile. Smooth. Buttoned-up. White, with no personality. Cat is all curves and warmth and chaos and color. She’s scent and softness and breath. She’s mine, even when my demons say she shouldn’t be.
Her right hand rests over her stomach, a pillow tucked under it like she’s cradling the tiniest secret. She’s barely showing. There’s just the faintest swell, something no one would notice unless they were looking for it. But I notice. I notice everything.
She says she’s not having many symptoms, that it’s all easy so far. Except I notice her fatigue, the frequency of her trips to the bathroom at night, the wrinkling of her nose when something doesn’t smell quite right to her. Little tells she probably doesn’t even realize I’m clocking.
And then there are the other changes. The ones that get under my skin in all the best ways. She’s always been unreal, twelve-out-of-ten, knock-the-wind-out-of-me gorgeous. But lately? Lately, there’s this softness, this fullness to her curves that drives me completely fucking insane. And it’s not just physical. It’s the way shewantsme. The way she reaches for me, takes the lead, chases her pleasure like it’s something urgent.
It’s the hottest thing ever.
Quietly, I pad to my side of the bed. My fingers graze the edge of the blanket as I slide beneath it, the mattress dipping with my weight. I inch toward her, slowly, carefully, letting her presence wrap around me before I even touch her. I find her warmth and,fuck, she’s naked.
My breath catches in my throat as I settle behind her, letting my hand glide to her waist. She shifts slightly in her sleep and makes a soft sound but doesn’t wake.
I press my nose to her head and inhale. She smells like lavender and rosewater, and something else I don’t have a name for. All I know is it’sher. It’s safety. It’s want.
Carefully, I trace my fingers along the gentle dip of her waist, up her side to the arc of her ribs, then under her arm to the warm swell of her breast. She fits perfectly into my palm, like she was made for me. Her nipple tightens under my thumb, and I stifle a groan as I press against her. I’m already so damn hard for her.
I lean in, brushing a kiss over the curve of her shoulder, then up to her delicate jaw. Her skin tastes like sleep and warmth.
She doesn’t speak, but I know she’s awake by the soft moan that slips from her lips just before her hand moves from her stomach to my hair. Her fingers curl there, and she turns just enough to find my mouth.
She kisses me like she’s starving. Like I’m the answer to every question she didn’t know she was asking.
I shift even closer to her, desperate to erase every molecule of air between us as my hand glides down her front, slow, memorizing,feelingthat soft, barely-there bump of her lower stomach. I spread my fingers over it, letting my palm settle there for a moment, allowing the weight of it all to remind me what and whom I’m killing myself for right now. Not my yesterday. My tomorrow.
Then I continue lower, slipping between her thighs.
She parts them willingly, instinctively, and my fingers find the heat of her.Fuck. She’s already so wet. My middle finger slides through her slickness, parting her softly, circling over her clit with slow, careful pressure. I take my time, learning what her body wants tonight. She’s so responsive, every breath a reaction, every thrust of her hips a silent plea.
I dip my finger lower, teasing her entrance, then ease it inside her. She moans into the dark, her fingers still buried in my hair, her body matching the rhythm I set.
I withdraw the finger slowly, savoring the way her heat clings to me, and bring it up to her mouth.
“Open for me,” I whisper.
Her lips part without hesitation, her tongue darting out to taste herself from my hand. The sight of it, the feel of her mouth on my finger, the soft suck…shit, I almost come right then and there.
“Jesus, Cat,” I breathe, the sound wrecked and reverent all at once.
I slide my hand back down between her thighs, this time with purpose. I stroke her again, finding that rhythm she loves—slow at first, precise, then building. I can read her body like a book, every moan, every rock of her hips, every pleading whimper like a poem written only for me.
Her hips move with my hand, her thighs trembling around my hand, and I keep my mouth close to her ear, whispering things I reserve for exactly these moments.
She presses her ass into me, her thrusts more desperate, unrefined, as her breaths morph into shallow inhales of air. “So needy for me,” I groan into her ear. “Come for me, baby. That’s it.”
She tightens around my fingers, her breath hitching high in her chest, and then she’s coming, pulsing, her body arching, head tipping back against my shoulder, moaning my name like it’s the only word she remembers. And, fuck, it’s the only word I need to hear.
Her breathing’s ragged, little gasps slipping from her parted lips as her thighs twitch. I keep my strokes steady, easing her down from the high I just took her to. My lips graze her shoulder, her neck, her jaw again. “You’re so soft, so perfect,” I murmur into her ear. “You did so good.”
She shifts, her hand sliding off my head, and rolls forward, moving the pillow that had been tucked under her stomach. Then, wordlessly, she presses her chest to the mattress, her spine a graceful curve, herback arching, her ass tilted up and toward me in open invitation. Her head turns, just enough for her eyes to find mine in the dark, and the look she gives me—glossy, wrecked, wanting—is almost too much.
