Page 93 of Sour Notes

My vixen likes a little pain, huh?

I bite down harder and her breath catches when I suck her skin. She buries her hand in my hair, gripping it tightly to anchor herself while she grinds faster.

Fuck, she’s gonna make me blow my load if I’m not careful.

Her chest heaves, enticing me to tug one of the leopard print cups to the side, her tit spilling out, and I finally see the sexy piercing I felt at Halloween.

I’ve been dreaming of this piercing.

As she arches her back, I trap that naughty bar between my teeth, gently tugging before sucking her nipple into my mouth.

The sound she makes is so fucking hot, I almost spill right there. Sucking harder, I grind my dick into her, dry humping—or wet humping, since we’re technically in a pool—like a teenager with his first crush.

Her breaths quicken and her eyelids fall shut. My girl’s gonna come so good and I’m not even inside her yet.

RIIINNNG.

The sound of the damn room phone shocks us apart. Mia’s eyes snap to mine, morphing into horror.

“Fuck. I’m so sorry, Swayze.”

She doesn’t give me a second to respond before hurriedly scrambling out of the pool and running inside to answer.

That does it.

That phone’s swimming with the fishes tonight.

21

MIA

What am I doing with my life? How am I fucking it up so badly?

Ok. Fine. I’m being dramatic. But I’m allowed to be. This is my safe space, and it’s been violated.

By sexy man muscles.

And dirty words.

And he reads my freakin’ articles.

Nothing about this is supposed to be real. He’s my fake boyfriend and that’s where he’s supposed to stay.

But apparently the sight of him in swim trunks does it for me.

Reeeally does it for me.

There’s no addendum to our rules saying dry humping is permissible if we’re horny, but apparently that’s what we do now, given the morning we just spent in the pool. And now, ironically, I’m on my way to go full Demi Moore in Ghost with my Swayze draped around me fondling clay? The universe is having a whole ass laugh at my expense. I’m sure of it.

My Swayze?

This Swayze. Jesus. Not mine.

Him.

The guy currently gripping my hand so tight it’s cutting off my circulation, if the pins and needles stabbing my arm are anything to go by.

We’re in a minivan winding down the cliff with the rest of the family laughing and joking around us, but Swayze hasn’t said a single word to me. I’d be worried he was a wax model stand-in if his jaw wasn’t ticking.