Page 53 of Fourth Wheel
It’s my fourth time walking through this door over the last few weeks, but tonight, everything feels different.
I’m on fire.
And I want nothing more than for him to squelch out every flame that’s been building inside me since I pushed him against the clock tower.
As soon as I walk into the bar, our eyes meet, and he freezes where he stands. He’s holding a bottle of something in one hand, and I watch, entranced, as he runs his other hand through his blond hair before giving up a subtle smirk just for me.
As I come closer, he wraps up what he’s doing and backs up in front of an empty barstool. I take his cue and hoist myself up on the seat he’s standing in front of, holding my breath and counting down the seconds until he turns around and faces me.
Our eyes meet, and my heart leaps into my throat.
It’s the way he holds himself. The way he looks at me. I sit silently under his assessment as he appraises me.
Finally, he speaks.
“I like your shirt.”
I bet he does.
I’m wearing the oversized Archway Prep lacrosse shirt he loaned me last weekend. But I’ve twisted it up and secured it with a hair tie in the back so it’s fitted across my chest and shows off a good amount of the tanned skin of my stomach.
I glance down and feign surprise, then look back up to meet his gaze.
“Oh, this old thing?” I catch my heels on the base of the barstool, then rise up to get as close to him as possible. Whether he realizes it or not, he matches my posture, leaning in until we’re just inches apart. “It’ll look better on the floor of my bedroom tonight.”
His pupils blow out, and he lifts his fist to his mouth and shakes his head.
“Tonight,” he whispers, the one word lighting up my insides and confirming everything I’ve been dreaming about for weeks.
Tonight, he’s mine.
Chapter 25
Dempsey
“Idon’tknowifwe’ll make it to the bed if you keep touching me like that, princess.”
Her hands are everywhere—caressing up my arms, scraping down my abs, encircling my neck, and brushing over my fully hard erection. I’ve got her pinned against the wall, letting her explore freely now that we’re in the privacy of her house.
It was a mad dash to get here. To get inside. To get to her room. I have to keep reminding myself to slow the fuck down—we’re in no rush now, and she deserves to be worshipped.
I’m practically vibrating with pent-up energy and sexual tension. The combination of resisting her and then holding back over the last few days has been nothing less than torture.
I pull her away from her bedroom wall and walk her backward to the bed.
Her room is bright yellow, with one charcoal gray wall that stands out from the rest. It’s filled with framed pictures of friends and newspaper clippings touting her high school sports accomplishments. Her prom queen sash and crown hang off the end of a bookshelf next to an illustrated poster of Ruth Bader Ginsburg. She has an ornate white vanity at one end of the room, covered in products and all sorts of girly things, then above it is a wall decal that reads “I am a rich man.”
The whole space is a paradox; a dichotomous collection that’s perfectly her.
She sits down on her bed and smiles at me, crossing her bare legs and looking coy.
“Where do you keep your condoms, baby girl?”
Her pupils dilate when I call her that. I can’t wait to see how she responds when we really get going.
“In this drawer.” She crawls across the bed to the side table, then shakes her ass, taunting me to come closer.
I make my way to the other side of the bed and peer inside the drawer, finding a variety pack—open, but more than half-full.
