Page 7

Chapter Seven

I know something is off the second Whiskey texts and says he’s bringing Tasha and Peyton to our place for the night. It’s only ten or so, which means either Tasha went hard and got sick or something happened. The fact there’s no way in hell Whiskey is in any condition to drive is also a red flag, but I figure they called a ride.

Then I see that fucker’s truck in my parking spot.

It’s ironic that I take the stairs to give my heart rate a chance to settle down. Not only do I stand by my reasoning that cardio pulse is different from rage pulse . . . I’m betting on it. Because when I open this door and see—fuck, I don’t know what I’m going to see—I need to be in full control of my faculties.

The TV is on as I step up to my door, the familiar lull of late-night College Football Central running through predictions for next week. The door is unlocked when I open it, so I step inside to find Bryce sitting on the arm of our sectional sofa, Whiskey nursing a beer on the ottoman, and Peyton sitting on the chaise section with Tasha’s head in her lap.

“We opted for a slumber party?” I had three or four lines ready to go based on what the scene was when I entered. This one was the friendliest. It’s a good start.

Bryce gets to his feet first, stuffing his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. His shirt is stretched across his pecs, the damn buttons stretching like some Marvel hero in a poor disguise. Jesus, how is he bigger than me?

“Hey, man. I was waiting around until you got here. I’ll take off. See you at film review tomorrow?” He pulls his right hand from his pocket and holds it out. I eye it skeptically, briefly surveying the room, before shaking it.

“Yeah, at eleven . . . tomorrow. Uh . . . is everything okay here?” I glance around the room again as our hands part.

“Oh, yeah. Just your usual jackass thinking he can feel up Peyton on a dance floor?—”

“I’m sorry, what?”

My whole heart rate plan just went to shit.

Peyton slides Tasha’s head to a pillow and hops to her feet, stepping along the sectional cushions until she gets to the one closest to me. With her arms stretched out, she reaches for me, and I lift her up and over the back of the couch and rest her bare feet on top of my shoes. I’m instantly inspecting her for bruises or injury. She’s no longer wearing that pretty—and short—white dress. Her skin smells like milk and honey, so she must have showered before crawling into my sweatpants and her favorite Coolidge High shirt that she stole from her dad.

“Wyatt,” she says, clutching my face between her cool hands. I realize against her gentle touch just how clenched my jaw is. I meet her gaze.

“Caveman.”

I wince. It’s our term for when I get a bit overprotective.

She pulls her lips together into a tight smile.

“ Mmm hmm ,” she says as she nods.

Peyton runs her hand through my hair, stroking my cheek with her thumb, and for a brief second, I almost forget other people are in the room.

“It was no big deal. Besides, when Bryce stepped in, the guy practically showed himself out of the club.” Peyton’s eyes scan my face, but when our gazes lock, her hand falls away.

My jaw flexes.

“Bryce.” I repeat his name. Not loud. No anger, despite how much I feel. I had to say it, though, to make sure I heard her right. Not Whiskey, but Bryce.

The way her eyelashes flutter tells me she probably wishes she had left that part out. I wish she did too. But we don’t leave things out between us. It’s why I believe in us so hard. Still doesn’t make petty jealousy any easier to wear.

“I should let you guys get some rest. I’m just glad I was there.” Bryce’s hand pats my shoulder on his way out, and he looks toward my face, but our eyes don’t meet.

“Me, too,” I croak.

“See ya, Whisk,” Bryce says, pulling my friend out of his near nap across the room.

“Oh, yeah, man. Pleasure working security with you,” Whiskey laughs out.

Peyton follows Bryce out, sending him away with a quiet, “Good night,” before she shuts the door in his wake and twists the bolt. She turns to face me, leaving her back against the door, and everything in her eyes is telling me not to go there mentally. But I’m already there. In the jealous, I-hate-that-she-ever-kissed-that-guy, why-is-he-in-my-universe place.

“Welp. That’s my cue,” Whiskey says, grunting as he pulls himself up to stand. He flips open the top of the ottoman to pull out a blanket, then sets his beer on the side table before spreading it out over Tasha. I’d love to tease him about how he’s already doting over her, but I’m too focused on the tightness in my stomach and the fact I can still smell Bryce’s fucking cologne.

“Good night, you two.” Whiskey lifts his brows as our eyes meet on his way to his bedroom for the last time.

Tomorrow, we haul his boxes to Tasha’s and bring here the rest of Peyton’s clothes and some of her appliances, along with her pots and pans. The purple velvet couch that Peyton bought last year is her parting gift to Tasha.

“So . . . do we want to talk about whatever this is?” Peyton taps the center of my chest and glances toward the door, where Bryce’s ghost still lingers. At least, for me.

“Talk about it in your room, you assholes,” Tasha groans from the couch, pulling one of the cushions down to cover her head.

Peyton tilts her head toward my room, and I follow behind her as she pads her bare feet along the wooden floors. She walks straight to my bed, plopping on the end and folding her legs up as she stares at me, eyes wide and blinking with certain hope that I’ll say something smart. I shrug and lean against the door, dropping my hands into the front of my hoodie.

“You know I love you, and only you, right?” Her head falls to her right shoulder as she speaks, her mouth pulled into a pouty frown that I think is meant to show care and sympathy, but somehow only makes me feel like an idiot.

“You know it’s not about that. And you know this is all me, in my head, and has nothing to do with you at all, right?” I step into the middle of the room, pull my sweatshirt off, and toss it toward my closet, dropping my hands in the front pockets of my jeans. I swear, Bryce made me feel underdressed.

“I do,” she says, reaching out her hands. I kick my shoes off and move toward her, stopping when her palms slide into mine. I rub circles with my thumbs on the backs of her hands as I chew at the inside of my cheek and search for the words that can explain the noise in my head.

“I need you to know one thing, and that’s it. If you hear me out on this and maybe understand it, I promise I’ll try my best to keep this version of caveman in check.” My eyes flit up to meet her soft, doe-like gaze. Her tongue peeks out from between her lips, and it clears all my thoughts away for a moment because she’s so fucking cute. A part of me wants to abandon this effort to be the mature guy who can talk about his feelings and instead push her on her back and bite that tongue. I decide it’s best I look down at the floor until I get this out of my system.

“Bryce being here, the whole competition for football thing, playing time, him being—” I waggle my head but keep my eyes down. “Good, I’ll admit. He’s more than good. And all of it has been harder than I thought it would be.”

“I know—” she starts.

I lift my gaze and pull my lips in tight when our eyes meet. I shake my head slightly and she bites her bottom lip, letting me finish.

“I can handle the bruised ego when it comes to football. I’m strong enough for that. But when it’s you?—”

“Wyatt,” she whispers my name. Her legs unfold as she tugs me close enough that she can press her chin into my belly and stare up at me.

Every day that passes, I swear she grows more beautiful. The girl I fell for in high school is becoming this force—this woman with an incredibly wide smile, with cheeks that wear the sun, and golden hair that frames her face like a queen. And she is a queen— my queen. I cup her face with my hands, weaving my fingertips into her hair line as she blinks up at me.

“It’s not that I don’t like that Bryce was the one to step in tonight and be your hero. It’s more that I hate it wasn’t me.”

She blinks at me slowly, her mouth stretching into the barely-there grin of hers that I love so much.

“I understand,” she says, her voice a little rough, but her eyes wide and locked on mine.

“Thank you,” I say, drawing my hands along her jawline until my right thumb reaches her mouth. I brush the pad along her bottom lip, and she parts her mouth open a hint as a tiny breath escapes.

I lift her chin more and run my thumb back across her skin, and this time her lips part fully, suckling my thumb and holding it briefly between her teeth.

“I get a little feral at the thought of some jerk touching you, you know,” I say, and her lips smile around my thumb.

“You’re mine,” I add.

“I’m yours.”

She brings her hands up over her head, and I take her hint, gathering up her T-shirt before lifting it over her head. My eyes drop to her perfect round tits. I love every curve of her body, but the way her breasts alone make me hard is some kind of sorcery. As her hands fall to the button of my jeans, I move mine to her hard nipples, rubbing a thumb over each as she works to unbutton then unzip the front of my jeans.

“What do you want?” I love asking her this. I love that she tells me.

“This,” she says, tugging my jeans down my hips enough to free my cock from my boxer briefs.

She smiles up at me as her hand wraps around the base, then she leans forward and takes me deep in her mouth. The sudden shock of it nearly knocks me off balance. As it is, my head falls back and my eyes roll.

“Fuck me,” I groan.

“You will,” she says, sucking me as her hand slowly strokes my length.

I open my eyes to the ceiling and focus on the feel of her soft lips as they close around me and slide toward my body, her tongue swirling around my tip.

“Yeah, that fucking part is going to have to happen now,” I say, ready to come already.

I drop my chin and take a step back so my dick falls from her mouth. The way her lips glisten, the bottom one swollen—plump— yeah, this isn’t going to last long.

I nod toward the bed, and a devilish smile pulls up the corners of her mouth as she leans onto her elbows and backs away from me.

I step out of my jeans and boxers before crawling on the bed, caging her hips between my arms. I kiss her tummy, tonguing the diamond stud she wore tonight in her belly button.

“This one’s my favorite,” I say, looking up at her with hazed eyes.

“I know,” she smirks. “I was hoping you’d see it, along with those.”

I drop my gaze back to her pelvis as I slide the sweatpants down her hips. There isn’t much to the delicate panties other than some intricate deep red lace, but against her milky skin, it’s like a Christmas bow wrapped around snow.

“These are new,” I comment.

“ Mmm , yeah.” She writhes under my weight. I tug her pants lower, pressing my mouth over the silk strip that covers the thin line of hair above her pussy. I nip at the fabric with my teeth, pulling it away slightly before growling and looking up at her.

Her head falls back with laughter.

“You’re like a bull, Wyatt Stone. So predictable. All it takes to get you to do what I want is wear some red.”

She’s not wrong

“And what do you want?” I ask once again.

She lifts her head just enough that her eyes meet mine, and her expression grows serious.

“I want you to fuck me.”

My cock flexes at her demand. I roll the panties over her hips, and she works them down her body, parting her legs as I sit on my knees between them. I guide my cock into her fast, driving deep inside as I brace myself above her. The gold chain she bought for my last birthday dangles against my chin, and I take it in my mouth, giving me something to focus on other than coming. I need this to last. She feels too good.

Peyton grasps at the blanket beneath her, her fingers clutching it in her fists and pulling it close as I’m relentless with my hips. She lifts to meet every thrust, our bodies slamming into one another with a sense of urgency until her mouth falls open and she begins to whimper.

I move my right hand to her ass, pulling her up and into me every time I rock into her. She wraps her legs around my waist, urging me deeper, so I lift up on my knees and hold her hips as we fuck. We’re so loud there’s zero chance that Tasha and Whiskey aren’t hearing this. Hell, Bryce might be hearing us from his truck miles away. Good, I hope he does.

“Yes, baby. Please, baby. Wyatt . . . oh, my God, Wyatt . . .” Peyton’s body quivers as her orgasm takes over. I hold on long enough for her to fall limp from overstimulation, then I pull out and my cum covers her belly. I empty myself on her skin, painting her with proof that she is mine and only mine. Like a fucking animal. And when I fall onto the bed next to her, our arms and legs tangled, her hair stuck to the side of my chest, she rolls her head to meet my drunken stare.

“There’s my caveman,” she coos.

I pound my fists to my chest and smile on the side closest to her. She giggles, and it’s the greatest sound in the world.