He may have won the battle, he may be done with me, but I’m not done with him.
“I’m so close,” Colt says, grinding his hardness between my thighs. He rolls us over so I’m straddling his hips. He grips my hips and thrusts up hard against me, his head dropping back and his eyes squeezing closed. “Tell me how wet your pussy is, baby.”
I feel guilty for what I’m doing, but the poor guy’s worked himself up into a tizzy, so I give him what he wants. I mean, I’d be lying if I said having him grind against my clit for ten minutes didn’t feel good. But I’m nowhere close to where he is. “I’m so wet,” I say, making my voice all breathy for him and rocking my hips over his length. “But you feel so big, I don’t think you’d fit.”
Bingo.
He grabs my ass with both hands, his hips jerking under mine, his teeth biting down on his lower lip as his eyes screw tightly closed. Watching a guy cum always makes me feel slightly powerful, but also oddly detached, like it wasn’t really my doing at all. I’m not part of this orgasm, after all. I’ve actually never been part of the orgasm. But I enjoy the part before it, and I enjoy the sense of accomplishment when he gets there, like I’ve done my job.
I wonder if that’s how Royal feels. Maybe he never cums because he can’t, either. But I seriously doubt it. I get the feeling it’s more about him being a control freak. He wants to control everyone and everything, right down to his own body.
And it’s not like I can’t orgasm. Guys just generally don’t try because they’re too busy chasing their own orgasm, or they think it’s too much work. To his credit, Mav did try, but I got bored of him trying to figure it out and faked it once, and then he thought that move did the trick, and he kept doing it every time. So, I kept faking it. It was easier just to let him get his and take care of myself afterwards. Plus, it was cute how proud of himself he was.
“Fuck me, that was hot,” Colt groans, rolling us over so he’s on top of me. “You made me make a mess of myself.”
“I think you did that all on your own.”
“I had help,” he says, moving his hips in a slow circle so I can feel he’s still got a semi. “Want me to eat you out? I’ve been told I’m good at it.”
“I’m good,” I say quickly, not really wanting to go into the whole explanation of how that feels more personal to me than sex, and I don’t want just any rando’s face down there, getting up close and personal with my snatch.
“Oh, yeah, you’ve got a jungle situation going,” Colt says. “Hey, I’ve got a razor you can borrow. What do you say we take this to the shower and clean up, and then I’ll return the favor when you’re done clearcutting?”
“We’re really sticking with this metaphor?” I ask, pushing him off. “And I’m good. Really. I already came. Before you.”
Colt narrows his eyes and gives me a look that says he knows I’m full of shit, but he doesn’t push it. He shrugs and hops up, adjusting his jeans. “Well, I’m going to get myself cleaned up. Grab the clothes you want and wait for me in the kitchen, okay? I’ll make us some lunch.”
My jeans are still dry, thanks to the position we were in when he came, so I stuff as many clothes as will fit into my backpack and head downstairs. It seems a little weird that he didn’t have me wait in his room, but whatever. Maybe the guy’s private, or maybe he only lets girls go in his room if he’s fucking them. He did offer to take me there to fuck, after all. Still, almost as soon as I step into the kitchen, I hear tires on the gravel outside, and I wish I’d asked to wait in his room. Though I don’t know the house well enough to know where his parents will go when they come in, I have the absurd urge to run and hide nonetheless.
I’m not the kind of girl that guys bring home to meet their moms. I’m the kind they take all the way out of town and park beside bridges with. The kind who gives blowjobs in cars down by the tracks behind the tampon factory. I don’t usually have to hide because guys hide me. And that’s fine by me. It’s a small town, and people gossip, and I don’t want to be the subject of it any more than they want the town knowing they’re slumming it with a girl like me.
A broad-shouldered man gets out of the SUV that just pulled up. He takes a leather briefcase out of the car with one hand and grips a cane in the other as he starts across the gravel. He looks too young to walk with a cane, his hair still mostly dark blond, his solid frame clad a suit like he’s working a good job and not retired.
My mind races with excuses for why I’m here, for why Colt is home in the middle of the day. I haven’t come up with one when the guy lets himself in. I pray he’ll go into a study or something, but he comes right into the big, fancy kitchen instead.
He sets his bag on the island and shrugs out of his sports coat, watching me like I’m supposed to say something.
“Um, hi,” I say at last, hooking my thumbs into my jeans pockets. “Mr. Darling?”
My mind flashes to the texting app that led me to this moment. Is this Mr. D? There are a lot of Darlings in this town. How would I know which one has been texting me? Does he look like the kind of guy who pervs on teenage girls online?
“Yeah, that’s me,” he says, giving me a halfhearted smile. His eyes are like Colt’s—cool, blue, guarded. “Guess you’re a better reason than some for him to be skipping school.”
“Oh—Colt’s upstairs,” I say, as if that explains anything. “We were just about to have lunch.”
“Lunch, huh?” He says the words like they’re a code for sex. I’m tempted to sniff the air and see if I somehow filled the room with the scent of what we’ve been doing. Or maybe I’m reading too much into it because I have a guilty conscience, or too much experience with grown-ass men who just screwed my mom all night leering at my legs as I race from my room to the bathroom in the morning.
He could totally be the perv. Yeah, he looks normal, but what do I know about the guy? He’s got money—maybe not an ungodly amount, but enough to float an extra scholarship at WHPA. Beyond that, I know what car he drives, that he walks with a cane because of some injury or disability and not age, that his daughter disowned his family, and that his son is beautiful and broken and fun and wonderful.
“Hey, Pops,” Colt says, strolling into the kitchen with a towel still hanging around his neck. His blond hair clings to his ears and neck, and his tats are on full display below the sleeves of a plain white tee, which he wears with a pair of low-slung Levi’s and…
“Are those… Cowboy boots?” I ask.
He gives me an aw-shucks grin and leans an elbow on the island, tipping an imaginary hat. “Why, yes, ma’am, they sure are,” he says, laying the accent on thick.
I shake my head at him. “Well, who woulda thunk it,” I say, exaggerating my accent, too. “Our tatted up rebel boy is a goat wrangler at heart.”
He grins and pushes off the counter. “Guess y’all met,” he says, grabbing bread and sandwich stuff out of the fridge.
“Not officially,” Mr. Darling says, reaching out a hand. I swallow hard, trying not to be sick when I take his hand and shake. He’s missing a finger, too.