“Oh God, Stanton, oh God . . .”
He releases my hips from his grasp and my pelvis gyrates shamelessly against him, wanting him deeper, harder, hotter. He slides two fingers into my tightness as his tongue makes firm, relentless circles against my clit. Every muscle in my body goes stiff in anticipation, and for a few beautiful seconds I’m suspended, hanging weightless on that sensual precipice.
And then, with a long serrated moan, I shatter. My shoulders shake with the force of my orgasm, my * pulses around Stanton’s fingers, as carnal joy wracks every nerve in my body. It goes on and on, spasms of pleasure that force whimpering gasps from my lungs.
After the heated sensations cool to soft embers, I open my eyes. Shining dots of light sparkle on the outer edge of my vision, and in the center is Stanton’s face—watching me with tender satisfaction. I feel his hand hold my jaw, and when he kisses me slowly, I taste a pleasing combination of tart alcohol and my own sweetness on his lips.
Drained and boneless, we crawl up the covers, rest our heads on the pillows, and with mingled breaths, close our eyes to the rest of the world.
14
Stanton
There’s a body of scientific study on sleep—the benefits, the side effects, how best to fall asleep, how many hours, which position, what kind of bed, what type of pillow, optimal room temperature. Researchers agree it’s best to wake up naturally—when your body tells you it’s had enough. If you work for a living, that’s probably not possible.
Second best is to be woken gradually—which is why there are clocks with crashing waves, classical music, and Tibetan chimes for alarms. But whatever the fucking sound, gentle is always better.
This is not a theory my mother has ever subscribed to.
Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding . . .
Sofia shoots upright, hair flying, arms swinging.
“What? What’s happening? Where . . . are we under attack?”
Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding . . .
I barely muster the energy to moan, “It’s a triangle dinner bell.” My momma’s favorite wake-up call. “As for under attack . . . you could say that.”
Shit. I feel my forehead, run my hand over my hair—looking for the pickax that’s obviously sticking out of my goddamn head—splitting it in two.
Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding . . .
“It’s getting louder . . .” Sofia wails before wrapping the pillow around her face like a taco. “Why is it getting louder?”
I fumble for my phone on the nightstand and check the time.
Fucking hell.
“It’s gettin’ louder because it’s Sunday.” My own whisper grates on my ears. “And because we’re in Mississippi.”
She lets half the pillow drop, picks up her head, and looks at me through one open eye. “Is that supposed to mean something?”
“Yeah. It means we’re goin’ to church.”
She plants her face right back in the pillow.
And I know just how she feels.
? ? ?