From the “safety” of her lawn, the woman keeps antagonizing Rose, “I’m sure she’d prefer you to force her to the car.” Her husband is calling her to come inside.
Connor speaks fast in French, and he ends up carrying Rose in his arms.
“Put me down, Richard,” she snaps.
“I’ll put you down if you can tell me the first twenty digits of pi,” he says casually, only about ten feet from the Escalade.
“3.14-I-fucking-hate-you,” she practically screams. I’m surprised she hasn’t bitten him yet.
“Incorrect.”
Rose huffs, “Why can’t you be angry? They called me a—”
“I’m livid,” he says, letting some of his emotion deepen that word. “You just can’t see it, and I’m not showing it in front of these people so you can go to jail.”
I speak up. “Sounds smart to me.”
Rose lets out a growl. “Don’t compliment him.”
“Well, I’m definitely not going to compliment you,” I retort. Connor sets Rose on her feet beside the passenger door.
When Rose notices the babies in the car, she swats Connor’s arm. “You woke up our daughter? Are you insane?”
“I assure you, my sanity is more intact than yours tonight.” And then they both start talking in French again, shutting us out of their conversation. Whatever. I’m used to it.
The front door to the house slams closed, cementing the fact that the girls got off the hook tonight. But Lily and I stare up at that damn window again, and the two teenagers are still there, snickering.
I flip them off.
Lily notices it and copies the gesture. With both hands. From Lil, in a Marvel onesie with a feather headband hooked around her wrist, it’s hardly threatening. But it’s goddamn adorable.
I feel like we’re seventeen again.
The best seventeen. Where every time I stared at Lily Calloway, I wanted to drop to my knees.
But I can’t ignore the chill in the air. The eerie presence of what may come after tonight. Whatever it is—I just hope we all can handle it.
{ 39 }
LOREN HALE
Almost three weeks into Lily’s celibacy period, and I’m feeling the effects. I step into the shower, expecting to do nothing else but wash. Then subconsciously, I mentally file through an image of Lily last night. She grinded against me, digging her pelvis into mine, on impulse, but she rolled over and controlled her urges on her own.
Still, I remember how she scooted her ass into my cock. And I just wanted to slip right inside her.
Christ. Standing naked underneath the shower water, my dick throbs, screaming to be rubbed out. I haven’t masturbated yet. I thought it was only fair since Lil’s not allowed （ever）。 I didn’t realize it would be this difficult. Going from fucking multiple times a day to nothing at all.
I feel like I’m walking a mile in Lily’s shoes.
I lean my shoulder blades against the tiled shower wall and shut my eyes. My brain has warred against me. All I see is Lily lying naked, with her legs spread open, begging for me, clutching the sheets like she may touch herself if I don’t hurry.
And when she stares at my hard cock, her pussy starts to soak. She cries and pleads.
I rest my head back, my hair wet. The longer strands stick to my forehead.
I’m torturing myself. She’d want me to jerk off. She’d feel guilty otherwise, but I’m going to feel like an ass if I do it. I just hate that she can’t touch herself but I can. Beads of water drip off my eyelashes as I think.
Screw this. She’s in the nursery right now. She won’t even know.
I grip my shaft, and the touch instantly pulls me out of my confliction. My lips part, and I stare up at the ceiling. I stroke my length, every nerve amplifying the sensations. I continue the movement, harder and determined.
I imagine Lily.
She has the “I have to come right now” expression, an urgency that always makes me push deeper. I ram between her legs, and her fingers dig into my back like she might fall.
“Lo!” she cries.
What gets me off most are her reactions, not our positions. She writhes beneath me, delicate and ravenous. She wants to be filled so deep that she can’t see straight, and it’s written all over her face.
In the shower, my strokes quicken and I let out a gruff noise. God I want to fuck her. I want to feel how wet she becomes just by looking at me. To thrust until she clenches around me. It drives me over.
“Christ,” I groan. Here in the now, I release, so rapidly that I let out a staggered breath. My hand keeps moving, milking the orgasm for all its worth. I lean my head back against the wall again, taking a moment to come down.