Page 8 of Prey Tell
I withhold a sigh. “Yeah.”
“Did you come?”
I never do.
“No, but it’s fine.”
He turns to face me, running a finger over my bare arm. “Do you want me to get you off?”
I bite my tongue. Why does he always offer to do it himself? We both know he means watching me as I use Wolverine—my handy black vibrator—to bring myself over the edge.
Most of the time, I don’t have the energy to finish myself off, and tonight, I just want to go to sleep.
“No, I’m okay.”
“You sure? I could try—”
I kiss his shoulder. “I’m sure. I’m tired.”
Every time I suggest getting me offbeforeintercourse, he loses patience. I’ve shown him what I like, how to move his fingers, his tongue, his hips… but it’s pointless. He gives up after a few minutes. I’m not the kind of girl who can get off instantly. It takes me a long time. Sometimes I wonder if something’s wrong with me. I know, logically, that it’s normal. I’ve concluded that I’m one of the unlucky ones who doesn’t climax during sex. I get close sometimes, like tonight—if I can touch myself, that is.
But it’s never quite enough.
Sitting up, I shuffle to the bathroom in my robe and clean up while he lounges on the bed. Once I’m done, I walk back into my bedroom to find him snoring and asleep where I left him. I grimace as I close the door and walk into the kitchen.How can one person besosatisfied after sex that they just… pass the fuck out like that?
I wouldn’t know what that’s like.
My engagement ring knocks against the edge of the counter as I walk, and I hiss in pain as I glare down at it. The damn ring gets caught oneverything.
“What’s wrong?”
I spin around, only to find my brother lounging on the couch with his laptop. “You know, when I let you keep your key, that wasn’t an invitation to waltz intomyhouse anytime you wanted.”
Jackson smirks as he types. “It’s technicallymy house too.”
“How long have you been here?” I ask, crossing my arms.
He cringes. “Long enough to know I’m going to need to gouge my eardrums.”
Oh, God.
I grab one of the spare pillows and chuck it at him. “Go home.”
He holds his arms out to defend himself and laughs. “I can’t. Chase is having one of his parties, and I need the quiet to go over the production plans for next week. Rehearsals start tomorrow.”
Clenching my jaw, I lean a hip against the back of the couch. “Yes, well, I don’t know what you expected by moving in withhim. You know you could’ve stayed here.”
Jackson continues typing, wincing slightly. “Jules, as much as I love you, I’d rather not be the third wheel. Chase has plenty of room anyway, and it’s closer to work.”
I study him as he squints at the screen. Six years my senior, Jackson Parker is a goddamn breathing, walking bleeding heart. A hopeless romantic, he’s the only person I know who enjoys working overtime for tiny, little dictators. As a preschool theater teacher at Saint Helena Academy, Crestwood’s only private school, he spends all of his time shaping impressionable minds. Truth be told, the kids are damn lucky to have him. If California had a Best Teacher award, Jackson would win. Ten times over.
With a quick glance at his computer, I can see that he’s coordinating next week’s theater productions.
“Right. When is the show next week again?” I ask, rubbing my eyes. It’s late, and we should both probably be asleep.
Adulting is hard sometimes.
“Friday night. I already got you and Dylan tickets.” He looks up from his computer and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. His light brown hair is swept off to the side, and his sharp cheekbones mixed with amber-colored eyes make most adults swoon. “Two Friday nights in a row. Is your nerdy, introverted soul going to be okay?”
