He bites me harder. My flesh stings. Fuck. That hurts. But I need it. I need him marking me.
His nails dig into my skin.
He drives into me with a hard, steady thrust. "Say my name."
It rolls off my lips as a groan.
"Again." He drives harder.
I groan his name again.
Deeper.
Again.
Deeper.
My words are messy mumbles. The world is a messy mumble. Pleasure and pain and need and desire and satisfaction and secrets and honesty all rolled into one.
"Fuck, Iris." He pulls back. Untangles our bodies. Nips at my neck and shoulders.
"Please." I'm achy without him. Empty. "Come inside me. Please."
"You first." He brings his hand between my legs. His thumb brushes my clit.
Fuck, that feels good. But I need him inside me. I shake my head. "Please, Walker. Please." My voice breaks into a whine. "I need you inside me. Please."
His teeth sink into my shoulder.
I take his wrist and place his hand on my hip.
He brings the other to my waist, pins me to the wall, and drives into me with one steady thrust.
He does it again.
Again.
I close my eyes. I soak in every ounce of him.
A few more thrusts and he loses control of his breath.
He groans. Shakes. Pants.
He goes harder. Too hard. I'm smacking into the wall. It hurts. But then it's still not hard enough.
I rock my hips to meet him. "Come for me, baby." The words fall off my lips seamlessly. That's what he does to me.
He lets out a low, heavy groan.
He drives into me again. Again. Again.
He tugs at my hair.
With his next thrust, he comes. His teeth sink into my neck. His hips rock against mine. His cock pulses inside me.
He spills every drop.
"Fuck." He drags his lips over my neck and shoulders. His breath stays heavy. Needy.
He brings his hand to my chin, turns my head.
My lips find his.
His tongue slides into my mouth. Dances with mine.
His fingers find their way down my stomach. My pelvis. There.
He rubs me with his index finger.
He brings his hand to my breast and toys with my nipple with his thumb.
Fuck. That feels good.
I kiss him harder.
Deeper.
I push every other thought away.
Tension builds between my legs. I'm already so close. So desperate for release.
His tongue slides around mine.
His fingers brush my clit.
His thumb makes circles around my nipple.
There.
All that tension in my sex builds to a fever pitch. It knots tighter and tighter and tighter.
Everything releases.
I groan against his lips as I come.
Pleasure spills through my pelvis, stomach, thighs.
I bring my hands to his hair.
Kiss him harder.
Pull him closer.
Soak up every drop of him.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Iris
Our takeout and sci-fi marathon is too perfect.
As is Walker's attempt at teaching me how to stir fry.
And the second lesson, where I actually get it.
And our third time out surfing. And the fourth. I actually know what I'm doing. It's fun. It's thrilling. And he's there, with me, on his board, showing off in that Walker kind of way.
And the next week, fucking and cooking and eating and binging on TV at my place
And the one after, hiking and surfing and coffee drinking and fucking everywhere.
And the week after.
And the week after…
We make each other laugh and smile and moan and it's perfect.
Then Dean texts—how the hell did Dean get my number?—to get me in on a surprise party for Walker's birthday next week.
And I make up a plan to tell him.
Not because he needs to know.
Because I believe the past is the past.
Because I believe he'll stay.
Because I can finally look at myself in the mirror and see a whole person.
Not at his birthday. Not at a party.
After finals. When we celebrate. When we go out to the beach to take in a beautiful day.
That's when I'm going to tell him.
It's a few weeks away. And maybe I shouldn't wait.
But I need it to be right. I need it to be perfect.
The bell rings.
Sun streams through the sliver in the door frame. It's the middle of the afternoon. Walker is supposed to come in for his shift. That was the only way to make this plausible.
Dean and I decided a blindfold and an I'm surprising you, baby, just follow me would be too obvious.
Well, Dean complained that it would be too disappointing. That any follow me surprise should lead to dirty sex, that no matter how fucking awesome this party could be, it could never compare to fucking in some shady bar.
And… well, I agree.
A Converse clad foot plants on the mat. Walker's sneakers. And that's his leg. I think. It's hard to tell his calf from any other muscular, skinny jean clad calf.
Someone nudges me.
Someone else whispers.
My heart thuds against my chest. Did I drop too many hints? Is this way too obvious? Effort is more important than surprise. What matters is that we care enough about Walker to plan this. What—
The light flicks on.
Walker blinks hard—that light really is bright.
"Surprise." Someone yells it. Then everyone is yelling it. I'm yelling it.
The door swings shut behind him.
He looks around slowly. "Fuck, can't believe I didn't see that coming." His eyes lock with mine. "The blinds are never down in June."
I mouth do you like it?
His lips curl into a smile. His eyes light up with something dirty and devious. An I'd like you naked in my bed a hell of a lot better.
"Dean, you're so good at planning shit." Dean mimes offense. "I'm so fucking lucky you're my friend."
Leighton laughs. "No one has ever said that."
He looks to her with faux offense. "That hurts, Leigh. That cuts me deep."
"Uh-huh." She taps her heeled sandals together—she's sitting on the counter.
Dean is leaning against it, next to her. Ryan is on her other side, with his usual glum look. Well, he looks a bit less glum than usual. I'm pretty sure this is happy by Ryan standards.
"Thanks." Walker smiles. "You're the best." Walker offers a high five.
Dean takes it, pulls him into a hug, pats him on the back. It's not one of those guy hugs where they seem afraid to get too close.
They're comfortable. Like brothers.
Walker steps back. Looks to me.
I motion to the room. Go ahead.
He nods and moves on to thanking/accepting Happy Birthday's from everyone else. Brendon and Kaylee are here. As is Emma and a male date. Or maybe a friend. It's not clear from the way they're standing. He's cute, but he seems a little uptight for her.
There are another half a dozen people I don't know—plus Sandy and John. Dean really went all out. He is a good friend. A great friend even.
Dean nudges Leighton with his shoulder. "You want a drink?"
"You have anything good?"
"You think I'd skimp for Walker's birthday?" He folds his arms. "I only have good shit."