Page 14 of Hate You More

We’re both wet from the pool, and no one else is home as I set my palms on either side of her thighs. Leaning in, I use my teeth to untuck the towel at her chest.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Just makin’ my mouth water.”

“Troy!” She sounds scandalized. Looks fuckin’ delighted.

“Baby, I’m not thirsty for soda anymore.”

“What is it you want?”

“Just a little taste.” I ghost my knuckle over the hard pebble of her nipple. Swallow her sigh as I pinch it.

“Here?”

“Well, yeah. If you want my mouth on you.”

“You take it off, then.”

“The beauty is in watching you do it. For me.”

There’s nothing coy in the way she arches as she reaches back. The tie comes loose, and the tiny triangles of fabric fall away.

Like metal shavings to a magnet, my hands mold to the shape and heavenly weight of her. She stifles a moan as my thumbs glide across her hard nipples and the way she looks at me . . . like flint to tinder.

I bend, my tongue a hot lick to the pale underside of her breast. Her moan echoing through the space as I press my teeth there, then suck the hardened bud into my mouth.

“Oh, God . . .” She anchors her hands in my hair as I deliver a languid lick, a sharp suck.

“You’re gonna let me fuck these,” I whisper.

“H-here?”

“No, baby. I told you, I’m thirsty.” My fingers skim lower over the softness of her hips, down to the V of her bikini. “I love your tits, but this piece of skin right here”—I circle the inside of her thigh—“it drives me crazy.”

“My leg?”

“So pale and so silky. It’s like a secret you keep.” I hook my thumbs into the bikini bottoms and pull the damp fabric down her legs. She makes a tortured little noise I could bottle as I ease her knees apart. “You’re so pink and perfect.” I give a low hum of appreciation as I press my thumb to her, exposing the soft rise of her clit.

“Oh Lord.” Clara falls back on her palms, her wet hair almost touching the countertop. My mouth fucking waters for a taste as, like a penitent, I drop to my knees in front of her.

At the first brush of my tongue, she cries my name, her body bowing.

“So fuckin’ thirsty,” I growl, loving her clit with my tongue. One last look at her beautiful face before I bury myself in the velvet depths of her.

“Fuck!” I drag myself back from the past, and I push away from the sink, ignoring the tile samples, the brochures, and the swatches laid out on the island. “Motherfucker.” I swipe my hand through my hair, then yank open the fridge. Reaching for the milk, I guzzle it from the carton like the heathen I am. Like the heathen she made me. I stomp across the space, back to my laptop.

I don’t think about her in those terms. Not anymore.

This is not the start of an obsession. Not again. I just know that Clara Forbes was not born to serve beers or hors d’oeuvres. Not in this universe.

So I pull my laptop closer and do what I always do when I can’t figure something out. I run scenarios like a threat model. I’m not saying I consider Clara a threat exactly, but her appearance is an anomaly that warrants investigation.

Tech isn’t my area of expertise, but I’ve hung out enough with the tech geeks to have gathered the gist of this. The questions to run:

What is she doing?

What could go wrong?