The hunger is immediate. Lips bruise and teeth clash accidentally. Three long years, and I never forgot the taste of his mouth. Something uniquely him, mixed with the faint taste of his mint gum. My hand tightens in his hair so I can have his mouth at my mercy. I’m not letting him up. I’m overwhelmed with him, the smell of his body, salt and sweat, and the taste of him, and the feel of his hands roaming over me.
He’s got me around the waist, then he’s in my wind-tangled hair before his hands are holding my face. God, Joseph did always do that so well—take control of the kiss. I let him. I give in to the kiss. To him. Completely.
The heat rises, the pumping of my blood feels thicker, more urgent.
His breath grows shallow.
Our mouths become violent in their assault. His greedy tongue skates down my neck before finding my lips again like he can’t stop drinking from me.
He’s pressing closer, and God, the feel of him. He’s hard. The loose fitting board shorts do nothing to keep his arousal discreet. His hand pulls at the spaghetti straps of my dress until the fabric is only caught on the swell of my bikini top. Then his fingers are following. They close over my breast, kneading, his thumb flicking my nipple that’s straining to get free.
A sound climbs out of my throat, and my hands are under his shirt raking at his hot skin, my lower body pressing back to meet him.
“Shit,” he groans out the word against my mouth
My fingers fist in the fabric, and I pull it up his back.
He pulls away from our kiss to grab his t-shirt behind his neck and wrenches it up and over his head. His hips are pinning me to the wall. He uses this new leverage to lean his upper body back and rock against me, his hands back on my breasts.
“Please,” I whimper. I want him inside me so badly, the need is almost suffocating. Then he’s lifting my dress, his hands running up my leg. No, not just my dress, he’s lifting me. I hang on, my legs coming around his waist.
“I need to be inside you,” he growls. “Pill?”
“Yes, and condoms.” I make no sense. I mean I’ve always used condoms so I’m safe. But my tongue can’t form more words.
“I’m clean,” he grits out. “Please.”
I’m helpless. I nod. It happens so fast. He’s clumsily freed himself from his shorts, and my legs are around his waist, my long dress falling either side. His hands are tugging my bikini bottoms.
Frantic.
Sinning.
Epically sinning. For some reason Pastor McDaniel flashes through my mind.
It’s almost comical except that my skin is so hot it’s burning me alive.
And then he thrusts inside me.
Oh God.
My head drops back against the wall, every part of me focused on the feel of him between my legs.
“Fuck,” he mutters into my neck and draws out, thrusting into me again. So hard. As if he can get deeper. Take more of me.
I cry out.
It’s too much. I hang on to him as he takes me over and over. I’m trembling. My muscles straining, my heart screaming.
His face and hot breath are in my neck.
I suddenly want to cry. I want him to look at me. His desperate need to have me is breaking me in half. Does he even know he’s holding pieces of me against the wall? The part I hate the most is that it feels so good. It’s never felt this good. Before I know it, I’m chasing the edge, pushing back against each of his thrusts with everything I have. I’m holding his head, my hands bunched tight in his hair.
“God, Jazz.” His voice breaks. “I need … I can’t … you …” His hips jerk forward in one last punishing onslaught, not waiting for me. “Fuck.” The word explodes out of his throat, his body shuddering.
Water splashes on my knuckle, my face is resting against my hand that’s in his hair, and I realize I’m crying even as I’m gasping for breath.
He moves back, adjusting himself, and I slide down the wall.
“SHIT,” JOEY SAYS as he sees me collapsing down the wall.
I’m crying so hard, I can’t breathe. My face is a silent grimace, water streaming down my temples to my ears. I keep sliding, just needing to sink to the floor for some solidity. My legs have no strength.
He catches me before I hit the floor, and we both go down. He wraps his arms around me and holds me together as I break apart. “I’m sorry,” he says into my hair. “Shit, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
I shake my head as if I can assure him I’m okay, but I can’t speak. I have years and years of swallowed down emotions, brushed aside feelings, pretenses and heartbreak erupting out of me. And the absolute irony of it all is that I know now that Joey feels something for me. Something deep and beyond what just happened. But it’s too damn late for us.
I’m grieving, I realize.
I’m grieving what we could have had. And Joseph, clueless as ever, has no idea that I’m crying because I’m saying goodbye to my childhood dreams of him and me. I’m leaving Butler Cove and my childhood behind me, and it can’t happen soon enough. Though, God, maybe he does know this is goodbye for me. I can’t believe I let him have me again. “I have to go,” I manage. “Let me up.”
“Please,” Joey says. “Speak to me. Please. Did I hurt you? What the hell just happened? Please stay.”
“I can’t.” My voice is barely above a whisper.
“Please. I’m sorry,” he begs. He threads his fingers through the hair at my temple pushing it back from my face. His lips fall urgently to my skin there. “Please. Stay.”