Page 70 of When Wildflowers Bloom

He stops.

“Do you go here?” he whispers.

I nod, but my mouth won’t work. Because yep. That’s absolutely where I go.

His fingers slide under the waistband, teasing me without touching me exactly where I need it, before sliding out and resting his palm just below my belly button.

“Show me, Birdie,” he says.

Pause.

Swallow.

“Please.”

It’s almost a beg.

I put my trembling hand on top of his, guiding it down again. This time, there’s no teasing, his fingers—our fingers—find the spot that’s begging for him.

I’m too weak to do anything useful. I realize as he starts to make small circles and well-hitting strokes that I’m just along for the ride. This is all Bo. Melting me. Ruining me.

The release that’s been building since the moment he picked me up tonight is about to explode. It scorches me. Everywhere.

“Bo, I…” There’s no finishing the sentence. Pleasure rips through me and steals every word and thought. My back arches off the wall he’s forming behind me, and a cry escapes my lips. Bo’s fingers work me to the point of no return while my entire body shakes and softens with wave after glorious wave.

When it’s over, he turns me to face him, a wet noodle in his arms.

With his mouth hovering over mine, he says, “I like that book,” and smiles against my lips. Before I can laugh, he kisses me. It’s slow, stoking the fire that’s already burning.

Again, like some kind of fool, I moan.

I can’t ignore how turned on he is against me or the desire I have to pull him into the bed and let him, quote,fuck me until I can’t walk for a month, my new favorite idea. I want him over me, in me, and showing me what he looks like when he comes undone.

But I know it can’t happen.

Instead.

I pull back from the kiss.

Unbutton his jeans.

When he says, “Birdie you don’t have to…”

I take the rest of the sentence with another kiss, and a breathy, “Let me.”

When he doesn’t argue, I slide his jeans down, then his briefs, and drop to my knees.

Twenty-seven

Sunlight shines through mywindows differently on Saturdays. Every other day of the week, it sets in motion what has to get done, but on Saturdays it’s an invitation to revel in the warmth and stillness of it. Like inhaling a deep breath of light as golden warmth pours into my bedroom. Dust particles glowing like magical orbs of serenity.

The bed shifts next to me, and I stiffen.Bo.

Bo slept in my bed.

Bo turned me into some kind of sex-crazed maniac when he touched me. Which he did—a lot.

All night.

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