Page 17 of Keeping Mr. Sweet

I don’t answer his question. Mainly because I can’t. Sometimes I get so sick of myself and the stupid ways I’ve managed to screw up. Luca was supposed to be different. He was meant to become something more than a distraction from what was happening between Sam and Mandy. Not that it was possible after so many years and so many distractions.

But I’d hoped for something to help me get over Sam while he moved on with one of my closest friends. After all, it had been years. It’s not like either of us expected the other to just mope around for the rest of their life. Even if that’s exactly what it feels like I’ve been doing. I just wanted to not want him anymore. I certainly didn’t expect to find myself screwed over by a sex tape.

“What am I going to do about the video, Sam? How do I go back to normal after this? You saw those guys, heard what they said. And Ru.”

“Ru doesn’t care.” Sam says, walking over to me and putting his hand on my shoulder. “And you shouldn’t care about a pack of drunken losers.”

“And my dad? Summer? You?” I’ve let them all down, even if they don’t know it yet. How am I supposed to fix that? This video isn’t simply going to disappear into the ether.

What happens when I ruin the reputation of a man who the public admires and respects? He’s a saint when it comes to education and family tech for those in lower socioeconomic groups. “What happens when the public work out that I’m the daughter of that Durum?”

“Don’t worry about things that haven’t happened yet.” He ushers me through the kitchen, turning lights out behind us. “You’ve said it before yourself. The reason you can go out and do what you want is because barely anyone knows your father has a daughter. He’s kept you protected all these years. It’s not information that’s going to burst into the public awareness after twenty-five years.”

“He’s kept me out of his life. It isn’t the same thing,” I argue. “And now with this video…”

“You made a mistake.” He squeezes my elbow. “But you weren’t the one who made a video.”

“That’s not how people see it, Sam. They think I’m a slut. How do I face people when I can tell that’s what they’re thinking?” I trod up the stairs with him right behind me. The only thing making this situation bearable is him, and even that has its cost.

We hit the landing and he ushers me through the storage space to the door of his bedroom. “Prove them wrong.”

But they’re not entirely wrong, are they? My behavior tonight; drinking and dancing on the bar like that. I did exactly what everyone expects of me because there’s no point in trying to do things differently. How can Sam still have faith in me? How am I supposed to live up to it? “That’s a lot easier said than done. What would you do, Sam? If it was you.”

“I don’t know, but we’ll work it out.” He drops his hand to his side. Walking in front of me he goes to the dresser and picks up the half empty bottle of vodka. “But you have to get off the boozy merry go round first. No more alcohol, okay? Sober up. You’re always better when you’re clearheaded.”

He’s not wrong, but he isn’t entirely right either. It’s not the alcohol that twists up everything in my head when I’m around him. It just numbs it.

“Ash.” He stops in the doorway as I approach the bed. “This once do what I tell you. Don’t masturbate in my bed. Not tonight.”

An hour later I’ve cleaned up and climbed into his bed, rolling the covers around me to make a cocoon so that I can’t possibly squeeze a hand between my thighs, but I haven’t been able to fall asleep. Damn it, why is this so hard? Worse, before Sam mentioned masturbating it hadn’t crossed my mind. It probably would have at some point, but now it’s slamming me over the head with every breath I take. Sam doesn’t want me to masturbate in his bed? Or does he? Did he say it because he doesn’t want me anymore? Or because he wants me so much that he doesn’t think he will have the self-control to keep his distance if I do? My pussy throbs, and I press my thighs together until my calves start to cramp. Then my toes.

Christ, I just need a few seconds with my fingers to take the edge off whatever this mind fuck is. I wiggle around until I can get one hand free and slide it down over my belly before hesitating just above where my body cries for attention. It’s an itch that I have to scratch.

“Don’t.” I hear his voice in my head so crystal clear that for a second I freeze and scan the barely illuminated room.

Why would he do this to me? Why is he changing the rules of who we are? Why is it the hottest torture ever? My fingers barely graze my mound and I whimper as I arch under my own touch. I suck my bottom lip between my teeth. Crap, what if he heard that?

Since I have his bed, I don’t know where he’s sleeping. Or if he is. What if he’s just waiting for me to do what he told me not to? I turn my face to the door, listening. But there’s no noise beside my own panting. Surely he didn’t mean it. Not seriously. Perhaps it was even some form of reverse psychology. Maybe he wants me to play with myself in the hopes I won’t want him so much.

It’s not working. I want him more. I break out in a sweat. It’s like I’m running a fever, burning up inside. I struggle with the covers. I can’t take this anymore. Tossing off the blankets, I lift my hips and shed my panties. Am I going to disappoint him? Or is this exactly what he wants? Or both? What will he do if I scream out his name while I fuck myself with my fingers? What will he do?

That little thought pushes me right off the edge. It thrills me to my core as I slide a finger over my aching flesh and bite my lip against the pleasure that explodes from that one simple touch. What will he do to me if he finds me like this? I have to know. I push a finger into my entrance, coating it with my arousal before drawing circles over my sensitive clit with a low, drawn out moan. Even if I wanted to be quiet I couldn’t. Not now. The sensation is too built up from my trying to ignore it, too intense. And the fact that Sam might hear me?

I want him to. I push two fingers into my pussy up to my knuckles and grind against my palm, while I cry out his name. It’s barely a whisper on my lips between pants the first time. This shifting line between us makes me nervous. What if he ignores me, or worse, I’m disappointing him? But what if it’s something else entirely? What if he bursts in here and touches me like I want him to touch me? I imagine his hands on my body, his fingers between my legs as I stroke just the right spot that my thighs tense, and it’s so vivid it might as well be real. This time when I cry out his name it’s unmistakable. I don’t stop, I can’t, and it’s not fake. I’m so close, but I need him to know what he’s done to me. And then the door flies open and Sam bursts into the room, turning on the lights so that he can see me.

I blink rapidly as I’m temporarily blinded and when my vision clears he’s standing just inside the door. Shirtless and unkempt, with his hair spiked up messily on one side he stalks toward me. Wild eyes scorch me as they travel the length of my body and take in all that I’m doing. His gaze lands on my hand, my fingers still deep inside me.

“I asked you not to do this.” He sits on the edge of the mattress as though I’m not mid fingerbang.

“More like ordered me,” I retort.

Only the gruffness in his voice gives away that he’s affected by walking in on my little orgy for one. “Still couldn’t help yourself?”

My heart beats frantically. I can’t tell if he’s angry or disappointed or turned on. I don’t bother pulling my hand from between my thighs or closing my legs in case it’s the latter. Let him see how much I want him. “Actually, I could. That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

“Is it? And how, precisely, are you helping yourself? By touching yourself?” he asks, his tongue darting between his lips and then retreating. “Or trying to get my attention?”

“Touching myself.”

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