Unzipping his jeans, he wastes no time taking me without restraint, stretching and filling my soft, pliant sex with deep and urgent thrusts.
I drag my fingers down his back as he drives into me harder … faster … filling me like it’s the last time.
Ten years ago, Wyatt promised to wait for me, to save himself for me, to marry me—and while the promise has since been shattered, here I am giving myself to him anyway. I can’t kill the deep-seated want I have for this man. It’s in my marrow. In my soul. In every fiber of my body.
His mouth crashes onto mine when we finish, our tongues dancing as our bodies melt together in sweet exhaustion. A moment later, he lies next to me, taking me into his arms, both of us breathless and half-clothed.
I rest in this quiet aftermath, too tired to think about what any of this means and too beguiled to care.
Tomorrow will come regardless.
All we have is tonight.
30
Wyatt
* * *
I’m twenty minutes late to the reunion, lingering outside the back door of the Whiskey Springs High gymnasium, when Ivy Forsythe spots me.
“Hey, Wyatt, you going in?” she asks.
I wasn’t going to come tonight. I’d spent all night with Blaire—against my best judgement. And while I have zero regrets about devouring her body until the sun came up, showing up here tonight is asking to get myself in trouble.
My self-control grows weaker every time I see her pretty smile and that light in her eyes that only comes around when she’s with me.
I spent most of the day with Oliver’s warning ringing in my ears, but I figured a high school reunion would give me an excuse to see her again without raising questions. We graduated together, it’s only natural that we’d both be here tonight.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll head in in a bit.”
Ivy wrinkles her nose but smiles anyway. “Okay … Beau’s in there. You should say hi when you see him.”
“Will do.”
She reaches for the door, turning back. “Blaire’s here too.”
“I figured as much.”
“You know, out of everyone in our school, I always thought the two of you would be the ones to make it,” she adds with a wistful tone.
“Me too.”
“Between you and me,” her voice lowers, “I think she still has a thing for you.”
I fight the smile that wants to claim my face.
“Good to know,” I say.
With a shrug, she pulls the door open and the sound of cheesy pop music blares from inside
“Anyway … guess I’ll see you inside.”
“Yep,” I say. I take another minute to gather myself before heading in.
Last night at the festival, she asked if I’d ever considered finding a nice girl and moving on. The idea of loving someone else half as much as I love Blaire made me physically ill. But the thought of her marrying some jackass who doesn’t know how good he has it … makes me sicker.
I head in, stepping into a gymnasium full of balloons and disco balls and a DJ playing Top 40 music from our younger years. Whoever planned this must’ve confused a high school reunion with a goddamned prom.
“Hey, Wyatt!” A freckled blonde stops halfway across the basketball court. “So good to see you.”
“Yeah …” I scan her face, trying to place it somewhere in my memory.
“Meghan,” she says with a hurt smile. “Meghan Cliff.”
“Yes, Meghan, hey,” I pretend I have any idea who she is. My high school years were a blur—except when I was with Blaire. Time stood still with her. It always did. “Good to see you.”
I scan the room in search of her and find her by the punch bowl in a little black dress that hugs her in all the right places (and looks exceptionally out of place in this crowd).
The Usher song blaring through the speakers fades into Joe Nichols’ Gimme That Girl, a song that always made me think of her back then … when she was the jeans-and-a-t-shirt girl with messy hair always singing or dancing, always loving on me when no one was looking.
She smiles when she notices me.
“Hi,” I say over the song.
“I was wondering if you were going to show.” She mouths the words to the song, her mouth tugged up at one side as she pops her hips and does a silly little dance—the only one dancing in this entire gym. And then she reaches for me, urging me to join her knowing damn well I’m a terrible dancer. “Fine. If you’re going to be a wet blanket, you can help me find my old locker.”
Punch cup in hand, she makes a beeline to the nearest exit, swaying her hips to the rhythm of the song every step of the way.
I steal a glimpse of her perfect ass in that skintight dress and it takes me back to the good old days, when I’d do the same when we were younger. Though she was almost always wearing cut-off shorts.