Love Song(83)
“That’s it,” I urge. “I don’t come until you do.”
The noises she’s making are a goddamn symphony. I want to record them, listen to them when I’m alone, inject her melody into my blood.
I don’t know how I’m managing to stave off my release. My balls are aching, so tight they’ve damn near disappeared. Every drop of blood in my body is concentrated in my dick. Her pussy feels so good surrounding me, it brings black dots to my vision. I resist the urge to thrust upward and fuck her senseless. This is her show, her pace, and I’m just lucky enough to be here.
But then she lets out an anguished moan and bends over me again, her lips finding mine in a desperate kiss before she says, “Stop holding back.” She buries her face in my neck. “Fuck me back, damn it.”
The plea breaks the dam inside me. I lift my hips and drill into her hard, drawing a choked groan from her lips. Meeting her thrust for thrust, all I can hear is the sound of the rain on the walls and roof and Blake’s sweet moans and hushed gasps. And then finally, her hoarse cry of release as she comes all over my dick.
It’s the permission I need to let go. My fingers dig into her waist as the orgasm shudders through me and spills into the condom.
As my heartbeat regulates, I realize the storm has calmed as well, the thunder trailing off into distant grumbles. Rain still taps the windows, but it’s quiet, lazy almost. Even the darkness has lifted, the afternoon sun peeking back out and spilling shafts of gold light through the cracks of the lighthouse.
The storm is over, but Blake doesn’t seem to notice. She’s lying on top of me, nestled close.
I was wrong. There is something otherworldly about this lighthouse.
Her.
Description
An image of a piece of lined paper with a handwritten poem titled "Lightkeeper". The text includes verses about the ocean, storm, and a lighthouse. There are handwritten edits: "Calling" replaces "Guiding", "Rain on the windows" is inserted, "they know" replaces "like it knows", "AND" is added, "waves" is added near "sea", and "whole" is crossed out. The paper has hole punches on the left side indicating it is from a notebook.
Description
An image of a piece of lined paper with the continuation of the handwritten poem from the previous page. The text discusses remembering kisses and the lighthouse. There is a side note "cut this? might be overkill" next to a stanza about leaving the lamp burning. There are scribbles at the bottom left.
Chapter 28
BLAKE
WYATT SAID SEX WOULD CHANGE everything. He was right. It has.
Because now it’s all we do.
Two, three, sometimes four times a day. It’s an obsession, a drug I can’t get out of my system, and I know he feels the same intoxicating pull. We spend most of the time in his bed or mine. Or on the dock. The boathouse. The boat. The kitchen counter. Pretty much anywhere the security cameras don’t cover. Which means all doors, entrances, and property boundaries are off-limits, but that’s fine. We don’t need to fuck on the front porch or against the back doors. Plenty of other surfaces to go around.
It’s been a full week since we rode out the storm in the lighthouse, and these days, it would take extraordinary measures to lure me out of bed. I don’t even think you could pay me. We’ve barely left the house since except for a couple of trips to the library and one lunch with the Spencers.
When they found out Wyatt and I have been hooking up, Little Spencer shrieked so loudly, everyone on the patio thought he was getting attacked. Of course, the Spencers insist that this “love connection” was Darlie’s doing.
“We told you,” Big Spencer said smugly. “Darlie loves love. She wants everyone to have the happy ending she was deprived of.”
“Well, there’s lots of happy endings happening over at our place. Two this morning alone,” Wyatt replied with a cheeky wink, at which point I punched him in the arm while the Spencers howled.
Tonight, we’re in Wyatt’s bed. I’m naked and sprawled on my stomach near the foot of the bed, because that’s where he was bending me over when he made me come so hard, I almost blacked out. He’s got his boxers on as he sits at the headboard, leaning against a mountain of pillows and strumming his guitar.
My eyes flutter closed as he sings, his husky voice echoing through the bedroom. This song… Wow. The lyrics are hauntingly beautiful.
It takes a second for me to register what the song is about, and when it hits me, my eyelids pop open. “You’re singing about the lighthouse.”
He nods, looking uncharacteristically bashful. It’s adorable. “Is that all right?”
A smile tugs on my lips. “Of course it’s all right. Nobody’s ever written a song about me.”
“Who says it’s about you?” he taunts good-naturedly. “Could be about the other ten girls I’ve fucked in lighthouses.”
“Oh really?”
I lazily shift onto my side, and those green eyes home in on the breast that’s now exposed. My nipple tightens under his thorough appraisal.
“No,” he finally says, his eyes softening. “You’re my only lighthouse girl.”