Page 55 of Stealing Summer
“Reese...” I clung to him, the coolness of the rain seeping into my flesh, but nothing compared to the heat that radiated from our entwined bodies. My heart pounded, echoing the rhythm of the rainfall, and despite the conflicting feelings of desire and frustration, I couldn’t ignore how good this felt—even if it was wrong. Reese was either the best thing or the worst—I couldn’t tell which.
“I like it when you moan my name,” he said, his voice low.
“You’re making this so much harder. I don’t know how this can ever work,” I confessed, my voice barely audible over the rain.
“Do you wanna get out of the rain?” the sound of water overshadowed his question, slapping against the wooden pillars below.
“No,” I whispered, looking up at him. “Don’t stop kissing me.”
He obeyed without hesitation. The strength of his arms pulled me in tight as he lowered himself onto the dock, the old wood shifting under his weight. There was a steadiness in him that blocked out the surrounding chaos, and as he pulled me on top of him, I clung to him as if it were my lifeline.
He groaned as I bent to kiss the raindrops from his collarbone, the taste of the storm mingling with the warmth of his flesh. “You’re driving me crazy.”
“What are you going to do about it?” I teased, my voice filled with desire.
“You have no idea what I could do to you,” he said, his eyes darkening with hunger.
His grip on my waist tightened in response to every kiss I planted along the path of revealed skin.
“Reese,” I breathed out, parting from the intoxicating embrace just long enough to glimpse those piercing eyes, “I—I’ve never...”
“Never what?” he asked, the rain trailing down his chiseled face.
“Never... had sex before,” I confessed, my voice barely above the sound of the rain.
“Chandler,” he said, his voice low and husky, sending a jolt through me. He leaned in, his forehead resting against mine, our breaths mingling. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”
But that response, his proximity, everything about him—made me consumed with want. The usual caution that guided my actions, that reminded me of who I was—safe. Used to being in her bubble, Chandler seemed to dissolve under his touch.
“Maybe I am ready,” I whispered, as I tried to push away any thoughts of doubt or worry about what I was getting myself into—I couldn’t let those thoughts talk me out of this.
“No, you’re not ready for that, but tell me what you want—be real with me,” his eyes were serious and his voice was calm.
“Just touch me,” I managed to get out before kissing him again.
His hands explored every inch of me—from the curve of my breasts to the dip of my waist—each touch sent sparks flying along my nerves until they pooled in an intoxicating heat between my thighs.
“Wait,” I gasped between kisses, my voice barely a whisper. “What if someone sees us?” A flicker of caution I was unable to silence.
He leaned back, his gaze locking with mine. The corners of his lips turned up in a mischievous smile. “Then we better give them a show,” he teased, his hands, strong and assertive, wrapped around my waist, drawing me in until there was no space left for doubt or fear.
His fingers worked at the button of my jeans, popping it open with a soft click that seemed to echo in the stormy silence. The zip followed a whisper of sound drowned out by our heavy breaths. His thumb brushed over the cotton of my underwear, a teasing pressure that sent jolts of pleasure radiating through me. I arched into him, moaning his name, craving more of the exquisite torture.
“More,” I gasped, the rain mingling with the heat flushing my cheeks.
He eased my jeans down, his fingers slipping beneath the edge of my underwear with a boldness that belied his usual playful smirk. One finger slid inside, and then another to find me slick and ready for him—drawing a sharp intake of breath from me. His thumb resumed its slow circles as he continued to kiss me—I was leaning against him, riddled with need.
“Fuck,” he said, his voice thick with want as he watched me. “You’re so beautiful like this, wet from the storm... and you’re so wet for me.”
“God, Reese...” My hands found his arms, feeling his muscles beneath my grip, as if he too were holding on for dear life. Every movement of his hand, every deliberate stroke, sent a cascade of sensations that echoed the relentless downpour around us.
“That’s it, baby,” he coaxed, as he continued working me.
“I don’t want things to be complicated—I just want you,” I moaned, feeling close to the edge.
“You can have whatever you want,” he promised, his actions amplifying the words.
Our moans, intertwined with the rain’s patter, created a symphony that filled the air. Each surge of pleasure brought me closer to the edge, and Reese, ever the conductor of my desires, played me like an instrument he knew all too well. I felt myself unraveling, my composure slipping away.