Nor does he look the least bit unhappy when he shucks his khaki shorts and stands there tenting his St. Patrick’s Day boxers.
I’d laugh at the boxers, but there’s nothing funny about how hard he is.
No, that’s just plain intriguing. And arousing.
“You’re up,” he tells me, handing me my three darts.
“I’d say you’re up.”
“Recurring problem around you.”
“My nipples are commiserating.”
His eyes go dark. I turn to take my first throw, and he brushes my hair off my neck and presses a kiss to my nape.
Oversensitive aftershocks from his touch ripple across my skin. The dart doesn’t even reach the wall.
“Do that again,” I whisper.
“Ah-ah. You need to take something off first.” His breath is hot on my ear, and he follows the chastising with a nip to my earlobe that has me whimpering in pleasure.
“Shoe,” I say, holding out my foot for him.
He bends and obliges, pulling off my boot. “Cheater,” I whisper when my sock comes off too.
“Just saving us some time when you miss again.”
I line up for my shot, and he lines his erection up with the top of my ass, then dips his head to nibble at the crook of my neck while I fire the dart.
“Bullseye,” I gasp.
“Bullshit,” he says with a chuckle.
“But I hit the board.”
“Barely. Gotta lose something, Ellie. It’s the rules.”
“Fine. You may remove my other shoe.”
God, this is fun.
He obliges again, and this time, he doesn’t let my foot go until he’s kissed a path from my ankle bone to my knee.
“Cheating,” I gasp.
“Well, yeah,” he replies with another smokin’ hot grin.
This is the side of Wyatt I’ve overlooked for years. The fun, playful side. He’s always been obnoxious and buttoned up and stiff, perfect for a military career, but that’s not all there is to him.
I could throw my last dart before he tries to distract me, but what’s the fun in that?
And sure enough, as soon as he’s straightened and behind me, his hands are on me again, this time high on my waist. “Need pointers?” he asks.
“I think you’re already giving me pointers.” I arch into the bulge against my lower back, and his breath hitches.
“I’ve been giving you pointers all day, but you haven’t noticed.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“You gonna throw that last dart?”
“Debating if I want to hit a bullseye and make you lose the shirt.” It’s so freaking right here in his arms.
“Not the boxers?”
“I’m a big fan of anticipation.”
“You’re a big fan of torture.”
“That too.”
He nuzzles my neck again. I toss my last dart, and I don’t even care where it landed, because now I can turn in Wyatt’s arms and kiss him.
I know this might be a mistake, but if I don’t have Wyatt, I’m going to die.
So I’ll either die because the universe is a dick and doesn’t like us together, or I’ll die because I can’t have him.
I’d rather go out happy, thank you very much.
“Want—you,” I whimper into Wyatt’s kiss.
“Never knew—needed you—so bad,” he gasps between kisses as he tugs at the zipper on the back of my dress.
And I get a sudden chill, because this is where it started.
In a basement.
Without thought.
“Ellie?” Wyatt murmurs, his hand stilling.
“Can we really do this?”
“Yes.”
“But should we?”
He threads his fingers through my hair and presses that thick bulge into my belly. “What are you afraid of?”
He asks it like whatever it is, he’s going to leap onto his magical unicorn and ride it into battle and slay my fears. “That we’ll break,” I whisper.
“Or maybe we’ll finally get it right.”
“What if the house burns down?”
I feel his smile against my lips. “The house is not going to burn down.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Neither one of us were in the right headspace for this six months ago. But now? Today? You didn’t look at your ex once during the reception. I wasn’t there for him. I was there for you. Deny it.”
I open my lips to do just that, but I realize he’s right.
I forgot Patrick was even there.
“I just didn’t want you to feel self-conscious.”
He chuckle-snorts, and I giggle, because we both know I wouldn’t stroke his ego.
However, my fingers are trailing down his pecs and abs looking for something else to stroke.
“Do I need to get a bullseye to get this dress off you?” he asks.
“No, you need to pull the fucking zipper down.”
“Now?”
“Yes, please.”
“Look at you, using your manners and everything.” He tugs on the zipper once again, and cool air hits my back.
I push his shirt up, revealing that chest that I could spend days exploring, and my nipples pull so tight I feel it in my clit when he reaches behind himself with one hand to pull the shirt over his head and the rest of the way off.
He brushes my dress off my shoulders, and then I’m standing there, in just my panties, while he whispers my name in sheer reverence.
I step out of the puddle of fabric, and he snags it, tosses it on the pool table, then scoops me into his arms and lays me on it.
I tip my head back and laugh, because my brother would kill me if he knew what we were doing.
Wyatt hooks his thumbs in his boxers and pulls them off in one smooth motion, and all thoughts of anything except him flee my mind. He disappears, ducking beside the table, and I whimper.
“Condom,” he says, returning to crawl onto the pool table with a foil packet in his hand.
“This thing won’t break, will it? That would be awesome. Death by sex on a pool table.”
“I got a private Bro Code show with this as their stage once,” he replies. “It’s solid.”
“Ew. Maybe we should move to the foosball table. It’s clean, right? Bumpy, but clean?”
“Have you met your brother? He licks his players for luck.”
We both crack up.
But only until he dips his head to tease my nipple with his tongue.
Then nothing’s funny.
But everything’s perfect.
Right.
Glorious.
“My turn,” I gasp when he pinches my other nipple. “Roll over.”
“No.”
“Wyatt—”
“I love that irritated note in your voice. It makes me so fucking hard.”
I look down as he pushes up onto all fours, and whoa.
He’s definitely hard.
“C’mon, Calamity Ellie. Tease me.”
I push him onto his back and twist, and my stupid leg twinges. But before I can moan, Wyatt kisses me and gently caresses my leg and hip. “What’s more comfortable for you? A bed?”
I shake my head, because dammit, I still want to be the kind of crazy that has sex on pool tables. And it’s not the table. “I don’t know. Just—I don’t know how I bend best.”
He grins like that’s a challenge. “Then let’s start with what we know works.” He leans me back again and kisses me, and his long fingers trace a path over my hip to my panties.
I gasp as his knuckles graze the cotton over my clit.
“But you—haven’t—not—”
“I have a few years of taunting you to make up for,” he says as he moves to kiss a path down my jaw to that sweet, sensitive spot at the base of my throat.
“I was—you were—oh, god, Wyatt.”
“I’m going to take your panties off.”
My yes comes out garbled as he peels the waistband down over my hips, taking special care around my scars, kissing my breasts, my belly, all the way down until he’s nipping at my inner thigh.
My pussy’s aching. “Touch me,” I gasp, widening my right leg.
“Soon,” he says, still pressing soft kisses on my sensitive skin.
“Now.”
He kisses lower on my leg, heading for my knee. “If you’re in that much of a hurry, maybe you should touch yourself.”
He lifts hooded eyes to mine. Touch yourself, Ellie. Turn me on by touching yourself.
I hold his gaze while my fingers drift between my legs to stroke my slick folds. “Like this?” Oh, god, that feels good, but it’s not enough.
“More,” he rasps out.
I flick at my clit, and my legs open wider, because it’s not enough. “I want you,” I tell him.
“Say it again.”
“I want you.”
“Say my name.”
“Wyatt, I want you.”
Finally, finally, he crawls back up my body until his sheathed length is pressing at my entrance. “Here?”
“Yes.”
“What about tomorrow?” he’s teasing me, gliding his thick head along my seam. “Will you want me tomorrow?”
I grasp his cock and stroke him, and oh, so hard, like iron, and I can feel his pulse in the thick veins circling him. “Tomorrow—argue with you—at breakfast—over toast,” I gasp. “Next week—fighting—who pays for dinner.”
“And next month?” he asks, finally, finally inching inside me toward that needy emptiness that might be in my pussy or that might be in my soul, spreading me and teasing at how well he’ll fill me when he gives me everything.
“Next month—surprise you—on a Tuesday—on my knees.”
“Fuck, Ellie.” He shoves deep inside me, and I cry out in relief at being connected to him. “I don’t want to let you go.”
“Then don’t.”
“You feel so fucking perfect.”