Page 36 of The Worst Kind of Promise
“Do you seriously need me to elaborate?”
“Shit. Fuck. No.”
I feel him pull out of me hastily, the warmth of his body tapering in the cool atmosphere. Although he’s only a few inches away, it feels like an ocean separates us—one too tumultuous to cross. He takes a second to compose himself, to catch his breath, and I slide to the edge of the bed where he stands, his inflated cock in his hand.
“Are you sure?” he asks, giving his length a firm rub.
I lean back on my palms, my breasts jiggling from the movement. “Kit, I’ve never been surer of anything.”
He mutters something under his breath, and then the latex is off in one fluid motion, discarded somewhere on the floor to be dealt with later. The contour of his muscles tense in the ochre sunlight of the afternoon, his hungry gaze roving over me, memorizing me, as if he’s seeing the real me for the first time.
With a one-finger touch, he guides my chin down, positioning himself to get the best angle—which shouldn’t be hard given I’m right at the height of his hips.
My mouth waters like it’s a goddamn Pavlovian response, desperate to taste him. He pumps himself hard and fast into his fist, and he roars through his orgasm in one final thrust, the first splash of cum hitting my right cheek and webbing down the side of my face. Then stream after hot stream splatters my nose, runs into my mouth, and dribbles down my neck in runnels. The entire room is bathed in his smell as ropes of his arousal slide down the tops of my tits, mixing with the sweat already there.
And when his groans subside and the heat on my skin cools just a bit, I open my eyes to find his muscular, glistening body heaving from the exertion, limp cock hanging against the inside of his thigh in contentment. He’s looking at me like there’s no one else on this planet that’s worth gracing with his gaze, like I’m the answer to every desire and question he’s ever had.
He then takes his pointer finger and presses it gently against my sternum, tracing an obscure shape into the thin glaze of cum on my breasts. “You’re incredible, Faye Hollings.”
I can’t believe I just asked him to do that. I’m not a crazy person in the bedroom, at least, not before the rape. Vanilla is safe, good, reliable. But this—everything with Kit—tests the boundaries I’ve set for myself and obliterates them completely.
I dazedly look down at whatever it is that he decided to write on my chest, and I can just faintly make out the shape of a K.
“Really?”
“I’m a man of my word,” he replies smugly, sucking the excess seed off his finger before plying me with a crop of kisses. His mouth envelops mine, as do the words of praise he whispers into the slim canyon of space between us.
In that moment, the expiration date I put on our summer fling begins to fade. I don’t want Kit for the summer. I don’t want to sneak around with him for the rest of my life. I want him forever, out in the open, guilt-free. The taste of him, the scent of him, the essence of him—it’s mine. Not shared by my trauma or my past. It’s mine, right here and now, in the present, and maybe in every parallel universe.
14
A GAME OF CAT AND MOUSE, WHERE I’M THE MOUSE
FAYE
If it wasn’t for the bruises on my breasts and thighs, I would’ve thought sex with Kit was nothing but a wet dream. It took me thirty minutes to cover up the mauve markings, and even though a pool party isn’t a party without thepoolcomponent, I made a vow to myself not to tread any bodies of water in fear that I’ll get bombarded with questions pertaining to the identity of the vampire who sucked the life out of me.
I’m in a good place right now. Better than good. Kit’s made me happier than I’ve been in a long time. And he’s shown me how fun sex can be. Roughness isn’t always a bad thing, not when it’s consensual between both parties. There’s something about his possessiveness that makes me want to embrace my own sexuality.
I can’t stop thinking about how life-changing yesterday was, and that includes the consequences. People do bad things all the time, right? Way worse than keeping an itty-bitty secret from your brother.
I’m just trying to avoid a fight. Fears haven’t stopped filling my head. What if I ruin Hayes and Kit’s friendship? What if I somehow ruin the team dynamic? Hockey is both of their lives, and what I just did could destroy all of that.
Yet despite the guilt, all I can think about is the next time I get to be alone with Kit.
The party’s been in full swing since one, the bass from the stereos and the ruckus from hundreds of voices shaking the foundation of the house. It would be an understatement to say I’m brimming with nerves right now. Nerves about seeing Kit. And not just any Kit, but ashirtlessKit. A shirtless Kit is an Avengers-level threat for women everywhere.
Kit is an attractive, competent, talented, and wealthy guy who women have fawned over probably long before me. After all the time we’ve spent together—after being with the KitIknow—I forgot about the other side of him that’s projected to the public. The playboy hockey player who has a new flavor of woman more often than a person changes their bedsheets.
Great. Now I’m worrying about where we stand.
When I step out of those sliding glass doors, feeling overly naked than I already am, I’m greeted by the picturesque scene of rotating twenty-somethings talking, kissing, or swimming. From my first once-over, I can make out a few familiar faces from the hockey team, but I can’t pinpoint the identities of the plethora of coeds filling up the spacious backyard.
The surface of the pool glistens from the sweltering sun, refractions of light branching out in aqua ripples, only occasionally splashing against the edge of the sodden concrete. The vibrant shade of the grass matches the saturated color of neighboring trees, their leaves flitting about and casting shadows, boasting a plushness only achievable through generous increments of rain. The humid air snaps around me, and even though I’m shaded by an overhang, I can feel the heat beating on my skin, already slicking me in a fine sheen of perspiration that my deodorant is actively fighting against. With gales of wind comes an enticing waft from whatever meat product is cooking on the grill.
You’d think that Kit would be easy to spot in a crowd given his size, but he’s not. Or he is, but he just isn’t here right now. I’m about to turn tail and search inside when a hand clamps down on my wrist and pulls me into a death grip of a hug.
“Faye!” a disembodied voice squeals, squeezing me even tighter. I’m pretty sure my heels lift momentarily off the ground.
