Page 66 of The Summer I First Saw You
“Ohhh,” I murmur. I’m losing track of the conversation, and he’s barely begun. “She wanted—”
He slips a finger inside me and I gasp again. He adds a second one and begins to slowly fuck me with his hand.
“She wanted what?” he asks calmly.
“She wanted—” Oh, God, it’s so hard to think when I’ve been craving this all day long. “Go to the theater opening.”
“I thought the theater already opened.” His other hand slides between us and reaches my clit while his fingers continue to move.
“Harrison,” I groan. “More.”
His laugh is low and menacing and makes me want him even more than I already did. He smacks my ass again, but that finger on my clit never stops circling. “Greedy girl. You’re still explaining why you didn’t follow orders. I’m the one who decides when you get more.”
“It was a soft open.”
I brace for the sting of his hand, craving it in a weird way. He delivers, and I groan.
“Oh God, I’m going to feel so weird about coming while you spank me. That would be weird, right?”
The bulge in his pants throbs beneath me. “That sounds like a challenge, Daisy.” His hand lands on my ass again. “Should I attend this premiere too? Should I finger you during the movie but never let you come?”
I can see it. His hand lands again, harder this time, and I barely notice because I’m too consumed with the idea of him fingering me in a theater, refusing to let me get off.
I sit up on my knees. “I’ll do it back to you.”
He opens his belt, unzips his pants, and pulls his cock from his boxers, long and swollen and ready.
“Show me what you’d do in that theater, then,” he says, and he gasps as I lean over and pull him into my mouth.
“I’ll go straight from work,” he hisses. “You won’t have been fucked for at least twenty-four hours, and you’ll be so wet that it’s dripping down your thighs.”
Smack!
Fuck, it feels so real right now. His cock is hitting the back of my throat, already close. It’s as if we’re in that theater, andthe idea of it is so fucking filthy that when he jams two fingers inside me, I come apart.
“Fuck, Daisy,” he hisses, holding my head, unmoored by the fact that he’s made me come this way. “Swallow.”
He floods my mouth with a groan. It takes him a moment to come back down, to realize he’s got my hair in a death grip. “Jesus, sorry,” he says with a breathless laugh, releasing me. “That was a lot. I need a new couch now, don’t I?
I laugh, collapsing on my side and holding my arms out for him to join me. “Probably. You needed one anyway. Audrey decorated this place like the combination of a really boring museum and Lady Havisham’s moldy old tomb inGreat Expectations.”
He pulls me against him, pressing his smiling lips to my neck. “A boring museum?”
I shrug. “You know—the ones with really plain sculptures and where all the rooms are mostly empty, and everyone murmurs quietly about how brilliant the shit is when it’s, like, a rectangle made of marble? I don’t know how hard it is to work with marble, but I guarantee that I could make a rectangle out of one if I’d taken a class or two.”
“So how would I turn this place into a house that isn’t half boring museum and half Lady Havisham’s moldy old tomb?”
I reach for my phone and begin scrolling. This is something I’ve actually given a fair amount of thought to, perhaps because I want to rid his life of any remaining signs of Audrey. “First of all, ditch the velvet couch, because that just doesn’t work at the beach. I’m shocked it’s not already full of sand. Something like this.” I show him an oversized couch with plump cushions. “And ditch the coffee table too. I don’t even understand why you bought it if you guys wanted kids. That thing’s an accident waiting to happen.”
He frowns. “I brought up the table corners with Audrey. Shesaid if we had kids visiting, their parents should be watching them.”
Hope flares inside me:maybe he’s realizing how wrong she was, how right I am. I banish the thought as soon as I note it. No matter how true those things are, I’m not the girl he winds up with. I know that.
I continue showing him all the other things I’d change. The soft area rugs I’d buy, new light fixtures, a suede platform bed, a big oak table so he could have friends over.
He reaches to the floor for his pants, grabs his wallet, and hands me a credit card. “Order it.”
My brow furrows. “What?The nightstand? It wouldn’t really work unless you—”
