My breathing grows labored, and all I’m doing is lying on my back. I trail my fingers over the gusset of her shorts, tracing the seam. I could reach beneath the fabric so easily.
Her head turns, cheek pressing against my chest. Face down. Ass up. Hands on my shoulders. Bailey begs me again. “Please … tell me how to make you feel better. But don’t stop.”
My fingers curl around the strands of her onyx hair, and I give a firm tug.
She whimpers and grinds herself against my fingers.
I don’t know how we got so far past the line of appropriate, so far past the line of faking. But the 2:11 version of me lacks control, and he’s the only version of me that’s here right now.
“I’d feel okay if you started sleeping in the guest room, Bailey.”
She nods, dragging my fist along with her head as she does. My dick juts up, bumping against her stomach.
“And I’d feel even better if you let me reach into these flimsy fucking shorts and make you come on my fingers.”
A breath rushes from her lips and sweeps across my chest.
I should stop.
“Yes,” she replies breathlessly. Her stomach presses into my length while my fingers curl around the curve of her ass, teasing that line between her thigh and her pussy. “Yes.”
“Fuck,” I mutter again, because no matter how many times I tell myself I should stop, I won’t.
My hand inches forward until I feel her wetness. I swipe through gently, my body almost shaking under the strain of holding back. The dark part of me wants to flip her over and fuck her. Impale her and listen to her scream my name.
But that’s not what this is. That’s not who she is. I want to handle Bailey with care.
Her hips push back, and the tip of my finger slides in.
“Oh god.” She rolls her forehead over my chest, and I’m pretty sure I stop breathing as she rocks herself against my finger.
“Bailey.” I groan her name and pull out to spread her wetness over her clit. Her legs tremble on either side of my waist as I do. “Fuck.”
Her lips land back on my chest, and one hand grips my shoulder while the other braces above my head on the bed frame.
I press in again, further this time, and feel her clamp down around my finger. “You’re fucking soaked.”
She nods once more.
With one finger inside her, the others explore between her legs. Lips, clit, sliding up and down her slit. “If it’s too much, you’ll tell me?”
“Yes, yes.” She chants the words, hot shaky breaths against my skin. “Do it again.”
“Do what?” I murmur against her ear as she writhes above me.
“Finger fuck me.” Her words are languid, not shy at all.
“Like this?” I slide in and out, setting an even and torturous tempo.
She lifts her head to peer over her shoulder. No doubt trying to see the way her body fits against mine, the way I have angled my arm around behind her. “Yeah, like that.”
My muscles burn, but I don’t give a fuck. It’s nothing compared to the way my dick is throbbing from feeling Bailey all tight and wet, riding my fingers.
“What about this?” I slow my motions and add a second finger to join the first, toying with her entrance before easing into her slick heat. A gentle twist of my hand has her crying out, and her head drops back down to my chest.
“You like that, Bailey? Are two fingers better than one?” I push in further, spurred on by the needy mewling noises she’s making.
A soft, “Yes,” spills from her damp lips before she drags them over my collarbones, up the side of my neck—while still avoiding my face.
“In and out only? Or with a twist? I want to know.” My utmost desire is to know absolutely everything that drives her crazy. We can learn it together.
“Twist.” She’s gone monosyllabic, and I take a perverse sort of pleasure in stealing her pleasure and her words.
I work both fingers in and out, slowly twisting, her wetness surging around me.
Her body trembles.
Her hips rotate.
Her body pulses.
Our breaths come out sharp and choppy.
“Look at me, Bailey. You gonna come for me, Bailey? Just like I told you to?”
“Yesss,” she hisses, now bucking against me as she draws back just enough to meet my eyes.
I shove in hard a few times, getting off on the throaty noises she makes. Then I pull out, sliding back and forth over her clit. It only takes a few times until she shatters.
“Fuck! Beau!” She yanks my hair, and her teeth clamp down on my neck. The soaked insides of her thighs spread as she tumbles down on top of me, chest to chest. Her knees give out and she loses purchase on my sheets, slim legs slipping as they clamp my sides.
Her pussy pulses and slides over the edge of my cock. Down the vein, right to the base, where she stalls, trying to catch her breath with my full, round head pressed to her navel.
The worst fucking tease.
It’s a temptation so fucking strong I gasp for air and extricate myself from her soft, needy body.
Away from the bed at last, I stand and run my hands through my hair, needing to step away from her so I don’t go any further than I just did.
Way too fucking far.
I promised her I wouldn’t fuck her. I promised to help make things better for her. And I meant it.
She’s young and sweet, and has her entire life ahead of her. I’m the last thing she needs complicating her situation.
This arrangement? It’s a glorified bet. And she deserves better.
I should have stopped.
18
Bailey
Bailey: Take tonight off. Go to bed early. I’m fine.
Beau: No, thanks.
Bailey: Seriously, you can’t stay up late with me and then wake up an hour later doing your thing.
Beau: My thing?
Bailey: 2:11
Beau: Bailey, you do your thing, and I’ll do mine. And mine includes sitting at your bar, so you aren’t alone.
The knife slices through the lime, and a fresh wave of pain hums through my veins as the citrus juice hits my paper cut. But I don’t even flinch.
I can feel Beau’s eyes on me from where he sits at the end of the bar, and I’m sure if I show an iota of pain, he’ll call 911 to have me airlifted to the nearest hospital. We may be on tense terms right now, but he’s still here, guarding me like a German shepherd, ready to leap to my defense.
I’m also not oblivious to the fact Gary is watching us, drunken interest all over his face.
My head shakes as I recall the conversation Beau and I had the morning after … whatever that was. The morning I’d woken up alone in his bed and gone searching for him.
“I’m sorry I took advantage of you.”
Those were his first words when I found him in the kitchen.
My eyes bugged out at hickey I’d left on his neck—the one that’s still there today, although more yellow and less purple. I didn’t know what to expect him to say in that moment. Because the night before he’d looked down at me, hands on his head, with the most confusing mixture of lust and rage on his face. Then he left without a single word, and my heart dropped. I wanted to follow him, and yet I knew he needed space and control.
“You didn’t.”
“It’s my job to keep you safe. And that includes from me.”
“It’s literally not.”
“We agreed we wouldn’t cross that line. We laid everything out. I want you to stay in the house, but if you hear me in here … you can’t come in.”
I tried not to stare at the way his back strained against the T-shirt he still wore from the night before as he bent down and slid his new double-walled socks into his new Blundstones. He expected me to just lay there and listen to him panic?
“I’m not going to stay here.” I lifted my chin, forcing myself to appear prideful in a way that was a complete mismatch for how I felt inside.
And he didn’t even bother glancing at me when he said, “You can stay in the house, or I’ll pay to have your trailer equipped with air conditioning. Your call.” Then he slapped the door frame and left the house.
That was two days ago. Two nights of me waking up at 2:11—exactly—and walking across the hallway. Two nights of me wrapping my hand around his doorknob because I couldn’t handle listening to him shout.