Page 8 of Summer with My Sexy Ex
I like that. It’s better than him feeling nothing, especially when I make him feel that way.
He stops the head banging but keeps his eyes closed, muttering something unintelligible under his breath.
He’s so beautiful.
We never get an opportunity to be alone like this. Just the two of us.
Take the chance, Bristol.
You’ll never get another one like this again.
I know I’m right.
Thanks to Matt's mom's liquor cabinet, I’ve got a small amount of liquid courage coursing through my veins, which helps. I pull my legs in, raise to my knees, then swing a leg over him to straddle his lap.
His eyes snap open as I settle over the bulge in his shorts.
“Whoa, Brie. What the fuck?” His hands grip my hips, but he doesn’t push me away.
I put my hands on his shoulders; the skin is still warm from the sun. My fingers splay, wanting to feel as much of him at once as I can.
His breath visibly quickens. “What are you doing, sweetheart?” he asks softly.
I want to swoon when he calls me that. Sometimes it’s sweetheart; sometimes Brie. Both make my heart burst with joy.
My fingertips lightly scratch down the front of his chest. The hair is as soft as I’d hoped it would be. He shivers from my touch; goosebumps rise along his skin. And I realize, in awe, I affect him.
“I want you to be my first.” I wriggle my hips feeling giddy.
“Oomph.” His grip on my hips tightens. “Don’t move like that,” he grits out.
His bulge hardens beneath me. It feels good. I tilt my hips forward, wanting more.
“Oh god.” He releases his breath with a swoosh. “Brie, baby, fuck, don’t do that.”
His thumbs dig into my hip bones, and his fingers wrap around my waist and lower back. Wyatt breathes in deeply through his nose. The sound is a bit wheezy, almost like he’s congested.
“Okay,” he says, sounding conflicted. “You need to get off my lap.” He lifts me by my hips, like I weigh nothing, and sets my ass on the floor beside him. My left leg is still balanced across his thighs. He uses his index finger to press against my ankle until my leg falls beside his. I rest my back against the wall and resume our earlier positions.
“Don’t you want me?” I don’t look at him. I can’t. Not right now. If there’s pity on his face, I don’t want to know. And if there’s desire, it will just piss me off.
“That’s not the point,” he says.
“What is the point?” I snap.
“The point.” He sighs and runs his hand over his face, scrubbing at it. “The point is you’re too young.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m eighteen.”
“Which is too young for me.” His voice is gentle, like he’s talking to a scared kitten that’s been backed into a corner.
“There’s only eight years between us. That’s nothing,” I say. “Everyone knows you’re only too young for someone if they’re old enough to be your parent.”
He chuckles. “Everyone knows that, huh?”
I nod.
“Have you been drinking?” he asks.
