Meet Me at the Lake

“Better make a plan, then,” I whisper.

A small smile sneaks across his lips. “I could do that.” He takes my earlobe between his teeth, one hand reaching up to hold my wrists in place. “I could go from top to bottom,” he says, tracing his nose down my neck. “Would you like that?” He presses his tongue along the underside of my arm toward my elbow, pushing his hips against mine to keep me still when I squirm.

“Yes,” I tell him. “That works.” He leans over me, and my forehead presses into his chest. The contrast of soft fabric and hard muscle and the smoky-sweet smell of him is overwhelming. And then I feel the hot damp of his tongue as he takes my pinkie finger into his mouth.

“Oh my god,” I murmur, and I feel him smile around my finger, his teeth brushing against the knuckle. He moves his tongue to my ring finger and does the same, sucking it into his mouth. I tilt my hips forward, rubbing against his bare thigh, but he slants himself back and out of reach. A more composed person might be embarrassed by the moan that I make. But I am not composed. I feel like I am being unwritten with every movement of Will’s mouth, with each finger he envelops with it.

I’m shaking by the time he applies his lips to the opposite wrist, kissing my pulse, and then running his tongue back down my arm, sucking and biting until he’s found my neck, back to where he started. He pulls my shirt up, bringing it past the tops of my legs, past my underwear, exposing my stomach. “I’m going to need this off,” he says, but he doesn’t keep pulling.

“Okay,” I tell him, and in one swift movement, my shirt is gone. I hear him curse under his breath and he pauses for a long second, then reaches with both hands to tuck my hair behind my ears before crushing his mouth to mine, running his tongue over my bottom lip and then moving it back to my neck.

“Gotta stick to the plan,” he says into my collarbone, cupping my breast and moving his mouth down my chest as he rolls the nipple between his fingers, gently, then a little harder. I cross my ankles together, squeezing my thighs, and the movement is so blatant that Will stops and looks between us.

“Or maybe you want a second option to consider?” He grins at me. “I could start at the bottom and work my way up. See if you like that better?” He runs a hand from my knee up to my hip, sliding his fingers under the cotton of my underwear.

“Good idea,” I breathe. “I choose option two.”

There’s a flash of mischief in Will’s eyes. “You sure?” He twists the fabric in his hand, pulling it tight between my legs.

I sigh out an “uh-huh” and then he drops to his knees with his hands on my waist. My legs are shaking in anticipation, and I hold his shoulders to keep myself upright. Behind him, I get a glimpse of papers strewn about the floor and a set of pencils on the coffee table. But then Will wraps a hand around my left ankle and brings my bare foot to his mouth, his eyes on me. I try to pull it away. He traces his index finger along the bottom of my foot, and I squeal, twisting and attempting to stay upright.

“Option one,” I cry.

“Too late,” Will says, but he puts my foot on the ground. “I’ve already put option two into motion.”

He grips both of my hips tightly. Even kneeling, he comes up almost to my chest, and he dips his head to trace up the inside of my leg with his tongue. I dig my fingers into his hair, pulling it back from his forehead so I can see him better.

“So soft,” I murmur, and he nips the flesh of my inner thigh in response. He moves his thumb over my underwear to where every sensation is pooling tightly inside me, and I let out a sound that starts as a laugh but ends as a groan. He slips his thumb under the fabric, moving in little circles, and he brings his lips to my other thigh, lightly biting. My body can’t make sense of the rapid transitions between pleasure and denial, between tickling and teeth.

“What are you even doing to me?” I mumble.

Will looks up at me from beneath the black line of his lashes, the golden lamplight kissing the tops of his cheekbones. He keeps moving his thumb, faster now, then shifts his hand so he can bring a finger over the spot where I’m wettest. I close my eyes, because Will is watching me with such hunger, I won’t be able to maintain any semblance of control. I feel him slip a finger slowly inside, then after a few seconds, he adds another, setting a rhythm that brings me right to the edge, and just when I’m about to fall over, he slows down.

“No, no, no. Keep going. Keep going.” I open my eyes, and Will’s are fixed on me.

“I want to make you want this as much as I do,” he says. “I want you to feel as desperate as I have all this time.”

I tighten my grip in his hair, tugging in frustration, and Will closes his eyes. I make a new compartment in my brain and label it what will likes. I tug a little harder and watch as he brings his hand under the waistband of his underwear, moving it back and forth a few times. I want to do that, I think, and I begin to lower myself to the floor, but Will stops me, holding my hips.

“I’m very dedicated to finishing my work, Fern,” he says, and slides my underwear down, helping me step out of them. He eases my legs apart and then grabs my ass in his hands, bringing his mouth to where his thumb was.

My legs go weak, and I give his hair a sharp pull.

He moves his hands to steady me by the waist.

I feel the vibrations through me when he speaks. “Trust me.”

He puts one leg on his shoulder, and when I’m close, I tell him don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop, and this time he listens.

After I’ve gone still, he loosens his hold and I stumble. He stands, puts his hands on either side of my face, his fingers in my hair, his eyes darting between mine. Checking.

I want to tell him how good that felt, but I seem to have lost the ability to turn vowels and consonants into actual words, let alone string a bunch of them together in a sentence. Instead, I stand on my tiptoes and close the distance between our lips, kissing him hungrily. I reach down between us, running my hand over the hard length of him. I want more, more, more.

“I want more of you,” I say. I’m not sure it makes any sense, but Will is nodding.

“You can have it all.”

I feel like someone has handed me the keys to the most incredible theme park and told me to play. I want to do everything at once. I want to be under him, on top of him. I want to fall to my knees. I want to push him to the couch. I feel frantic. My hands are trembling. I start with the basics. I grab the hem of his shirt and move it up over his stomach. Will helps me take it off, and when it’s gone, I let out my most reverent “Holy shit.”

The man is covered in ink. Not so much that there isn’t a square inch of unadorned skin, but there have to be at least half a dozen tattoos over the planes of his chest, the ridges of his abdominals. The contrast between his fair skin and the designs, all done in black and gray, is striking.

“Have you always had these?” I trace the pencil that sits atop the jut of his right hip bone. It’s held by long fingers. There’s a meandering line that swirls out from its sharpened tip and disappears into the waistband of Will’s boxer briefs.

“Since birth,” he deadpans, sucking in his breath as I move my finger to his rib cage.

“I mean back then.” If I had known he was hiding all this under his clothes ten years ago, I don’t know if I would have had so much restraint.

“Some of them.”

The name Sofia sits at the top of his right side, almost under his arm. I hate it immediately. I don’t ask who she is. There’s a lemon on his ribs that I adore and a comic strip across one side of his stomach. The lettering is instantly recognizable.

“You drew all of these, didn’t you?” I say, peering up at him. He murmurs in the affirmative.

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