Page 61 of Things I Wish I Said
I’m barely moving now, just a subtle gyration of my hips as Ryleigh does all the work. She throws her head back, smiling, eyes closed, arms in the air, feeling the music thrum to her bones as she grinds against me.
One arm loops around my neck, and I can feel the beat of the music through the rhythm of her heart. I allow myself to forget about the fact that she’s sick or that I’m the complete opposite of what she needs.
My hooded gaze trails the length of her, past her breasts, to where her tank top has ridden up, revealing a sliver of pale skin I desperately want to touch.
Sweat trickles down my back at the restraint of holding back, and when someone knocks into Ryleigh from behind, I growl, snapping at them like a dog while Ryleigh just laughs.
But that’s how it always seems to go with us.
She’s perpetual fucking sunshine to my blackened heart.
My hands slide to her hips, my fingertips sinking into her flesh as the air between us charges, turning electric. It’s as if each movement is a silent conversation, and when Ry turns aroundand presses her back to my chest, she’s fucking screaming for trouble.
The rhythm of the music ebbs and flows. Songs change, guiding her movements.
At some point, my head stops working entirely. My body takes over. Whether it’s the heat, the music, the beer, or this fucking girl, I can’t think straight. All I can do is fucking feel.
She grinds her ass into my groin, and I groan. My head drops beside hers as she arches her back into me, hands wrapping around my neck from behind, causing her shirt to rise even higher.
I drop my face down to hers, my breath heavy in her ear while my hand splays over her flat stomach where I imagine gliding south, dipping into the waistband of her shorts.
If she were any other girl, I would. I’d finger her right here. Make her call out my name. Teach her not to defy me again, and to hell with the consequences.
But I can’t.
This is Ryleigh.
Breakable, untouchable, buzzed, and sick, Ryleigh.
With a growl, I remove my hand and hook my arm over her torso instead, my forearm resting just below her breasts as I pull her closer, flush against me, my breath heavy in her ear.
My dick swells, straining against her lower back while I try to calm down, but the moment she gasps, I know she feels me.
I should stop this.
I should take a step back. Take a breather and clear my fucking head.
I start to pull away when she turns around, staring up at me with fire in those tiger eyes as she once again grinds against me.
Her breasts brush against my chest, the touch an electric jolt in my already simmering veins.
I nearly moan, immobile as I watch her move, and when she slows, raking her hands into my hair, I slowly drop my head. Only the most infinitesimal gap of space exists between our parted lips. We’re so close, the space between our parted mouths heating like an electric shock.
The warm caress of her breath teases.
Energy snaps.
The pink dart of her tongue wets her lips, and my stomach clenches with want. I can almost feel her against my mouth. Taste her on my tongue.
This is what boyfriends do,I tell myself.
We’re supposed to be pretending.
This is normal. More than that, it’s natural.
Her hands tighten in my hair, a silent plea I answer by lowering my mouth.
The brush of our lips is so soft, so gentle, so completely opposite of every fucking chaotic thing I’m feeling inside.
