Page 67 of Wild Rivals

When I’m left in nothing but my cotton bra and G-string, I can’t help but wish I was wearing something sexier.

“Come here,” I whisper, afraid that if I talk too loudly, he’ll leave.

A muted thrill runs down my spine when he moves, each step excruciatingly slow until he’s within touching distance. I reach for him, the tips of my fingers brushing against the material of his T-shirt before he pulls it over his head with one hand and drops it to the floor with mine.

He watches me, and although goosebumps feather across my skin, it’s the look in his eyes that makes me want to cry. I’ve seen a lot of that look—sympathy—since my dad died. It started with the EMTs when they arrived, and I couldn’t stop trembling as they tried to save Daddy’s life.

I don’t want to see it on Wyatt’s face. I want to pretend that these past few weeks haven’t happened, that we’re the same two people we were when we first slept together. That I’m who I was back then.

God, I hate who I am now. I’m so broken.

What’s more, I hate that I don’t know how to put myself back together again.

I press my body against Wyatt’s, determined to replace the sympathy with something I can handle. He doesn’t stop me and I lift onto the tips of my toes, and cup the back of his head, applying a light pressure, and drawing him toward me.

He meets my mouth halfway. His kiss is tentative and I hate it. I hate that he’s holding back, that he’s treating me like I might shatter.

I pull away, breathing against his lips as I say, “Come on, Wilde. Fuck me.”

He tenses under my touch. After a beat, he dives a hand into my hair, tugs my head back with a gentleness that contradicts the ticking in his jaw. He steps in even closer. “Don’t ever call me that again, Mad.” His chest heaves. “Got it?”

Fear should skate down my spine, but I’m too numb to feel much of anything.

When I don’t reply, he adds, “You call me Wyatt, or I don’t fucking touch you.”

A whimper slips free from my lips before I press them together and jerk my head in some semblance of a nod.

The hand in my hair loosens its grip and he massages the spot, silently apologizing for having hurt me. He didn’t. If anything, I can see how much I hurt him by calling him that when so much has changed between us.

Wyatt dips to kiss me, and this time I let him set the pace before wrapping my arms around his neck and sinking into him. He lifts me into his arms as his tongue sweeps into my mouth. His pace is slow and languid, like he’s savoring every second. It feels different to all the other times, but I don’t know if it’s just me or if he actually cares.

When we reach the bed, he sets me down gently, forcing me to release him as he straightens. Wyatt stands over me, looking like a god with the daylight streaming in from the open curtains behind him. His eyes hold mine, and he reaches for his belt, finishing the job I started downstairs. The leather whooshes through the loops of his jeans, the sound filling the room and mingling with our breathing. There’s an intensity swirling in his gaze that I’m not sure I can handle right now. It’s soft and makes me want to hold on to him as if he might belong to me.

I lift onto my elbows as he drops the belt to the floor and starts working on his jeans. Shaking my head, I remind myself that this is just sex, and that I’m probably imagining the look in his eyes.

When he’s left in only his black boxer briefs, I crawl across the bed, coming to a stop in front of him. My pulse stutters at the base of my throat. I want to press myself to him and cry, but I know I can’t. Instead, I sit back on my heels and stare up at him as I run a finger over the bulge of his hardening cock. He doesn’t stop me.

It’s just sex.

I don’t get to have him outside of this.

Without breaking eye contact, I reach into his boxer briefs and wrap my hand around his hard length. Wyatt hisses through gritted teeth, and out the corner of my eye, I notice his clenched fists.

“Maddie,” he warns.

I stroke him. The first few times I’m testing his restraint, and memorizing the way he feels in my hand. If this is the last time, then I want to remember him forever.

Needing more, I push his underwear down his legs until I can’t reach anymore. His cock juts out, hard, hot and heavy in my hand. There’s a light sheen on the tip and I lean forward to flick my tongue over it, the taste of his pre-cum salty and addictive.

He groans, and when I stare up at him, he’s got his eyes closed and his head tilted forward. This is how I’ll remember him. His features tensed even as his strong body is relaxed under my touch.

I circle the tip of his cock with my tongue before taking him into my mouth, watching his face for signs that he’s enjoying this. The head of his cock hits the back of my throat, and I gag before recovering and bobbing my head a couple of times. I lose myself in him, the action quieting my mind until all I can focus on is the taste of him. My hand moves like it knows what he likes, gently squeezing his length as saliva pools in my mouth and runs down my chin.

All too soon, Wyatt gathers up my hair before pulling me back and off his dick.

His voice comes out in a low grumble when he says, “If you want me to last, Mad, you’re going to have to stop that.”

I wipe my mouth and chin with the back of my hand and pout but ultimately release him. My need to have him filling me is greater than my desire to bring him to completion with my mouth.