Page 32 of The Worst Kind of Promise
The nearly impossible pose—and definitely not one for beginners—involves two people sitting on their butts, extending their legs upwards to form a V shape, with their arms interlocked on the outside for extra balance. Given Kit’s and my height difference, this may look more like a malformed N.
I grab Kit’s wrist hard enough to bruise, start to get into position, and wait for him to use that walnut-sized brain of his to mirror me. His limbs are like putty, flailing all about, as if every hockey warmup he’s ever done has been erased from his memory. I’d be lying if I said his struggle didn’t bring me immense joy.
When he finally manages to somehow contort his body to look like mine, we hold the pose for two minutes, staring into each other’s eyes, hands on forearms. His legs dwarf mine, making them rise at different levels, and our backs aren’t completely straight, but I’m surprised we could replicate the pose at all. Indignation shreds an acidic hole in my gut. Look at him—oblivious, unaffected. He’s thriving, while I’m dying inside.
“Aren’t I, though? I’m the one who ended things. I’m the one who’s regretting it. I’m the one who’s suffering.”
Kit’s grasp wavers. “You think you’re the only one suffering?”
My core is on fire (and not in the good way). I seesaw for balance, letting my sexual frustration fuel me, refusing to surrender for a second time.
“Yes! Yes, because you seem super cool with just being friends.”
His tone is a knife’s edge of rage so sharp it could wound me. “I’m not ‘super cool’ with just being friends, Faye. I fucking hate being your friend. You have no idea how hard it’s been for me to control myself around you—how hard it’s been not to jack off to the thought of you. Just the other night, I had a boner the size of Texas because you weren’t wearing any pants.”
My cheeks warm. “That’s why you ran out on me?
Kit’s legs begin to shake, and I can see his abs contract through his shirt, though he finds his balance rather quickly. “Jesus. Yes,” he admits quietly, embarrassment evident in the flush of his collarbone.
“So, what? We’re just gonna keep our distance for the rest of the summer? Act like we’re not even friends?”
“I don’t think you’re ready to be more than friends.”
I hate the power Kit has over me. He’s got my heart in a stranglehold, and he’s not planning on letting go any time soon. I’m a grown woman. I can’t let some hockey player bring me to my knees. I choose when to get on my knees, and for whom.
“Fuck you,” I spit, dropping the pose. I don’t have time to deal with this conversation.
My arms shoot out behind me to support myself, but instead of falling backwards like me, Kit leaps forward onto his knees, right between my spread legs, his arms bracketing my sides.
“Fuck me?” His mouth hovers near mine, our breaths a kiss away from unreturnable, the bulge in his pants grazing the inside of my thigh. I have nowhere to run, to hide. His lips are poison, his tongue forked, everything about him spellingDANGERin big, bold letters. One hit off him and I’m an addict for life.
My heart freefalls into my stomach. “You don’t want this,” I whisper.
“I don’t remember what it feels like tonotwant this.”
I barely know what happens next; it’s all a blur. One minute, I’m in control of my body. And the next, my lips are attacking his, the taste of him transporting me back to the hotel room. Our mouths move in synchrony—a dance guided by lovesick hearts—teeth taking turns grazing and pulling. His kiss strokes the desire seated inside me, and when he cups the side of my cheek, I thaw for him. His tongue weaves around mine, then flicks out to my bottom lip, where he paints the skin with saliva. I swallow, needing more, starved to the point where the hollow ache of not having him can ruin me beyond repair.
Sensing my desperation, the loving caress of his calloused palm gets traded for a harsh tug of my hair, and when he yanks my head back, he laves the soft give of my throat, branding me with a hickey. I squirm and mewl, my nails clawing his shirt, wanting so badly to destroy every barrier between us until we’re skin to skin, heart to heart. I only put a thong on to help conceal my panty lines, and I’m now realizing it was a terrible idea because the gusset isn’t anywhere large enough to hold my arousal. I can feel my wetness coating the inside of my thighs.
“Is this what you want, Princess? For me to eat you out right here, where anyone can walk in and catch us?” Kit’s voice rumbles in my ears, shakes my foundation, and he uses one large hand to part my legs as wide as possible. He emits a tortured groan at the sight of the damp spot on my pants.
“You like the idea of being watched, don’t you? You’re a fucking whore for it.”
My entire body quivers as need races to the surface, ready to explode like pressure in a well-shaken can. And the second Kit’s hand strokes over my clothed pussy, I detonate, tearing down the walls I’ve reinforced to guard my heart, blowing them to smithereens. I buck my hips into his palm.
“Be a good girl,” he growls, taking a single finger and tracing my clit. “Use your words.”
“Your hand. Inside me. Please,” I gasp out brokenly, my spine writhing in pleasure as he tends to the outer lips.
His sturdy hands come up to slowly roll down my leggings, leg by leg, taking his time to watch the way I unravel for him. Once he gets me out of those circulation-cutting death pants, there’s no pretense or light teasing when he plunges two fingers in, the squelch of my arousal the only sound to be heard over pants and labored breaths.
“Fuck, you’re so wet. And it’s all for me. That painful throb in your pretty cunt, the gush on your legs, that’s all mine, Faye.”
Kit spirals his fingers around, flutters them against my swollen walls, experiments with a fast and slow pace as he studies the contortion of my face, my greedy moans, the way I rut my hips for more friction. He helps me wrap my legs around his torso, bringing me so impossibly close to him that he’d be balls deep inside me if his cock was out. I can feel his thickening length, and no matter how hard he tries to keep a straight face, rapture nearly pulls his grimace into a grin.
His thumb circles my drenched flaps, and he drags his nail in a figure-eight, evoking waves of tingles that crash through me, like the rippling of water after a stone has been dropped into its depths. My legs shake uncontrollably, and the pleasure is so intense it’s almost painful. With no pillow or mattress to grip onto, my fists find tufts of carpet, though it hardly anchors me. I’m floating higher and higher into the sky, with no intention of finding my footing on Earth.
Kit brings his digits to his sensual mouth, opens, and sucks, not caring to silence the loud noises pouring out of him. I don’t miss the uncharacteristic whimper in the back of his throat as he slurps up my juices. He looks like the epitome of perfection, smells like masculinity in its rawest form. I can’t believe this is finally happening. I’ve waited so long for this moment, and it’s better than any melatonin-laced dream version of him I could’ve conjured up.
