Page 61 of Wyatt
“That’s just…never happened before.” He reaches for the gearshift. “I’ll be fine. But use nicknames with caution, would you?”
I scoff. “Rich, coming from you.”
“You sayin’ my nicknames turn you on?”
“Maybe,” I tease.
His eyes glimmer. “Good to know.”
I’m smiling so hard, my face hurts. “I really do want to thank you for being the best date I’ve had in…jeez”—I blow out a breath—“feels like forever.”
“You need to get out more, Dr. Powell.”
“Good thing you’re available, Mr. Rivers.”
“For you?” Changing hands on the wheel so that he’s holding it in his left, he puts his right hand on my thigh. “Always.”
CHAPTER 13
Wyatt
YOU SHOULD PROBABLY LEAVE
Best friendsand blow jobs do not go together.
But you wouldn’t know it from the very graphic, very vivid dreams I have of Sally on her knees, on all fours, or draped over my lap in the front seat of my truck, my dick in her mouth and my hand on the back of her head.
Just like in real life, in my dreams Sally is eager to please. She’s passionate. Vocal. Vulnerable. No wonder I came in my pants like an amateur last night. The girl is onfire.
In my dreams, she becomes more confident the longer we touch, just like she did when we actually kissed in my truck. By the time I dragged myself off of her, she was all in, kissing me back like the world was ending.
More than that, she clearly cared about what I liked and how I was feeling, and that’s what has me coming in my hand at six thirty in the morning on a Saturday as I relive a particularly explicit dream—the one where she comes from makingmecome.
The one where she shows up again and again, proving me wrong. People don’t always leave. They won’t always hurt you if you let them get close.
In fact, sometimes, they take real good care of you.
Did Sally take care of herself after I dropped her off at home last night? For some reason, I picture her using a vibrator. Something small and discreet, but also powerful.
She think of me while she used it?
Shoving the thought aside, I climb out of bed and turn on the shower. The house’s old pipes creak. It’ll be a couple minutes before the water warms up, but maybe that’s a good thing. I need to cool my jets, literally, or I’m gonna end up doing something stupid. Like have sex with my best friend under the guise of “teaching” her how to have a good time on a date.
She’s seemed to enjoy everything I’ve taught her so far. Still can’t help but cringe at how much of myself I bared to her last night. Not with my words necessarily, but with my body. I couldn’t hide my hunger.
Then again, I don’t think she wanted me to because she didn’t hide hers either.
And yet I still feel a sense of guilt that I didn’t bare even more. I kept telling her to be honest with me, all while I was holding back an atomic bomb of a confession.
If we take things any further, she’s gonna see the tattoo on my thigh—the one I got for her. And then what? I won’t have any choice but to tell her I lied by omission.
I step into the ice-cold stream of water. It hits my skin like a hundred tiny knives, but I force myself to stand there and hurt. Only what I deserve for not being totally honest with Sally.
I need to grow a pair and tell her how I feel.
I need to tell her last night was a mistake. I’m desperate not to lose her.
But, God, it was good. So good that I can’t stop thinking about it. Just like I can’t stop thinking about how she encouraged me to talk about Mom. No one’s really done that before. I think people are scared to bring up my parents, like they don’t want to make things awkward orwhatever. It’s easier to just pretend like their passing didn’t happen.