“Okay, Pep.” His breath comes heavy, and he inserts a bit of space between us, but his cock bridges the short distance to poke my stomach. “Maybe we should get back to the house.”
“Why?” My husky question hovers between us, our eyes locked, my desire as palpable as a touch. I haven’t had him in over a month, and I know he thinks we shouldn’t here at Aunt Ruthie’s, but we should. I lift the t-shirt over my head, tossing it to the floor. Rhyson’s eyes fix on my simple black bra, on my nipples poking against the silk, turgid and begging for his lips and tongue.
“Pep, I think—”
“Technically, out here we aren’t under Aunt Ruthie’s roof.”
I slip one strap off my shoulder and then the other, undoing the hook at my back so it falls away, exposing my breasts to the air.
“Fuck, Pep.” His words shake in the stillness.
“Make love to me, Rhys.”
“You’re exhausted. You’re just getting over pneumonia.” He swallows, his eyes ignoring the excuses and crawling over my breasts. “You . . .”
His words trail off as I unsnap my jeans, urging them over my hips and down my legs until only my black lace panties remain.
“I won’t break.” I grin up at him, feeling a little wicked on the cusp of screwing my boyfriend in the room where I did my high school homework. “But you can try.”
I dip one finger into the jar of preserves, scooping up the thick juice. I reach up to paint his lips with it. Before he can lick it off, I tilt up on my toes, lashing away the sweetness with my tongue, rubbing my bare nipples into his chest. He groans, hands spanning my back to draw me closer. The hunger, delayed and put off by the tour and by my sickness, roars to the surface of our kiss. His palms skid over the small of my back and into my panties to cup my butt, skin to skin. Pear-sweet words fall from his lips to mine.
“Aunt Ruthie—”
“Isn’t thinking about us when her soaps are on.” I grip his dick through his jeans.
“Shit, Pep.” He drops his head until our temples rest against each other. “If you keep doing that, I’m not gonna be able to stop.”
“I don’t want you to stop.” I unsnap his jeans, slipping my hands into his briefs to touch him, cupping his balls and pulling on him. My knees almost buckle at the warm, silky strength in my hands. “I need you.”
I need him pushing between my legs, rushing hot and liquid inside of me. I need his lips closing around me, sucking, licking, biting, tasting me like I’m as sweet as these preserves. Mostly I need him to chase away the half-sad memory of my mama in this shed. To kiss away the bitterness of her loneliness. The last traces of uncertainty remain on his face, and I’m determined to wipe them away.
I dip my fingers into the preserves jar again, eyes tangled with his as I smear the gooey thickness over my nipples. Rhyson’s eyes, mist grey, go dark and hot, prickling my skin with heat.
“That’s just not fair,” he breathes, hoisting me by my waist up onto the wooden table.
His head lowers, lips closing over my breast until it disappears in his mouth, worshipping each nipple and lingering to suckle and bite. I grip the edge of the table behind me, want splintering right down my middle and spreading my thighs, a blatant invitation for him to take what unequivocally belongs to him. He presses his eyes tightly closed, one hand at my back, pushing my breasts up and into his mouth. I’m licked clean of the preserves, but he can’t stop. I see it all over his face, hear it in the compulsive suckle, feel it in the rough tug of his lips over my breast. He moans like it hurts, but I see such deep pleasure on his face it pounds my heart and snatches my breath.
“The mattress.” The words labor past my lips, barely making it. “Let’s go to the mattress.”
Rhyson looks up for just a moment, his dark eyes wandering to the wall where the mattress waits. He walks us there, my legs clenched around his waist.
“Aunt Ruthie’s quilts are on the top shelf.” I nibble at his bottom lip.
He sets me on my feet to grab a quilt, which I spread the over the mattress, feeling his eyes burning over my body in just my tiny panties. He swallows, his voice coming out rough in the quiet room.
“Are you sure, Pep? Just a few days ago you needed help to the bathroom. If I hurt you—”
“You won’t. I’m fine.” I grab his hand and squeeze so he feels my need. “I want you, Rhys. It’s been so long.”
“Damn right it has, but I can wait.” His eyes search my face, looking for any sign that I’m not well, not ready. “If I need to, I can wait.”
“But I can’t.” I lie down on the mattress, diving my fingers into my panties, emboldened by the desire he keeps trying to dam back. “I can’t wait, Rhys.”