It’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen or done in my entire life.
Wyatt plunges his tongue deep inside me, pulls it out, and then flutters it hard against me. Out of nowhere, my orgasm crashes over me, and the one leg I’m standing on buckles in weakness as I start to collapse. Wyatt never misses a heartbeat, merely shifts his face under me for support, and lets me sag against his mouth while he continues to draw my climax out with continued assault.
The spasms of pleasure go on and on and on.
“Fuck yeah,” Wyatt groans against me, continuing to lick and suck. My standing leg finds a bit of strength, locks, and then I’m grinding against him to draw every bit of ecstasy out of this experience.
Then I’m drifting away.
Eyes closed, my fingers now gently rub at Wyatt’s scalp.
He pulls my leg off his shoulder… gives a soft kiss to the inside of my thigh.
My eyes open slowly. I gaze down as Wyatt maneuvers my one foot back into my underwear and pulls them up my legs, careful to avoid the bandage. Just before he covers me completely, he leans in, plants a sweet kiss on my bare mound, and then pulls my panties all the way up.
His lifts his face to look at me, and his eyes are dark… thoughtful.
I reach a shaky hand out to cup his cheek. He leans into me for just a second, lets his eyes close so I can see the long lashes for a brief moment against his skin, and then they open.
With a resolute look, he stands from the floor, which causes my hand to fall away from him. He takes a step back from me, glances down at the floor once, and then back up to me.
“I’ll wait outside while you finished getting dressed,” he says.
I open my mouth to say… to say… what? I have no clue. What do I say to something that was taboo, erotic, fulfilling, dirty, and absolutely mind blowing?
He gives me a short nod and turns on his boot, giving me his back and leaving me behind.
Chapter 13
Wyatt
One week later…
“This is how you’re spending your last day of vacation?” Hunter asks from behind me. I push up from the deck… lean back on my haunches.
Wiping the sweat off my forehead with the back of my glove-covered hand, I shrug my shoulders. “Sure, why not? Not like I have anything else better to do.”
Hunter makes a sound deep in his throat and squats down. Running his fingertips over the wood boards of my deck, he gives a nod of approval. “Very smooth. Gabby would be impressed.”
Of course, she would. Gabby lived, ate, and breathed all things wood.
I look around at the back deck of my cottage, which sits on stilts just thirty feet off of the beach. I had been meaning to re-stain my deck for going on oh… about four years now, and I finally decided to do it. Didn’t matter that I was undertaking this backbreaking chore at the end of July when temperatures cruised in the nineties. I had a week off from work following my return from Raleigh, and I was bound and determined to be productive.
I was bound and determined to be productive, because I learned very quickly that my idle mind over the last week kept turning over and over again to Andrea. Living in the Outer Banks, it’s almost an art form to learn how to sit on the beach with a cooler of beer and bake away your stress under the sun. I’ve had twenty-eight years of practice doing it.
I figured it would be easy… like riding a bike.
Except, when I was down on the beach… my feet sunk deep into the wet sand and a cold Budweiser in my hands, I found that I just couldn’t fucking relax.
Because I kept thinking of Andrea.
Andrea dancing.
Andrea smiling.
Andrea’s mouth on my cock.
Andrea tackling Simon.
Andrea’s pussy in my mouth.
Andrea, Andrea, Andrea.
After three days of torture, I gave up and started sanding my deck by hand. The muscles in my back and neck were on constant fire and my skin had turned dark brown from the hot sun. I went to bed each night exhausted and slept dreamlessly.
Throwing the block of wood with sandpaper wrapped around it, I take off my gloves and drop them to the deck. Standing up, I swivel my head and arch my back to work out the kinks.
“Want a beer?” I ask Hunter as I head into the house.
“Sure,” he says as he follows me in.
The icy blast of air conditioning is a welcome relief, the coolness of the beer bottle in my hand even better. After our bottles are opened, Hunter cocks a hip against my kitchen counter and levels his gaze at me. “So, what’s wrong?”
My eyebrows rise in surprise. “What do you mean ‘what’s wrong’?”
He just stares at me, not saying a word. He holds his beer casually in his hand, but I can tell he’s on high alert.
High alert to call bullshit on me if I choose to dick him around.