around my dick? Pippa never got off, at least not with me. I couldn’t ever do that—please her. But I pleased Sunny. Relief relaxes through my chest. I did it. I fucking did it.
I pull back and sit on my heels. Sunny is living magma, all fire hair and flushed skin. Her tank top is hiked, revealing her concave stomach and the tiny mole next to her belly button. She draws her hands around her knees, locking her arms around them.
I don’t know what to do. She isn’t looking at me. I want to kiss her. I want to thank her. I want to fuck her. My fingers are still wet, and I make a fist before I do something stupid like slip them into my mouth.
“Well,” she says at last, “that was an unexpected surprise.”
“I’m sorry.” Because when I want something, people get hurt. “I…” I glance around at her small, messy studio. The front door is across the room. If I run out now, I’ll ruin everything.
But I will if I stay too.
Sunny
P retty sure that fancy green-tea mask was moot. I’m glowing all over. The throb between my legs lingers, the only sign what went down on my couch wasn’t a dream.
Behind my closed bathroom door, total silence reigns. Tanner’s been in there awhile. What’s he thinking?
I yank my skirt back on, pick up my underwear, ball it into my fist, and walk to the hamper beside my bed. It’s full, so I have to cram it in. I punch down the clothes, once, twice.
What the hell was I thinking?
Damn, I like butterflies as much as the next girl, but not in my stomach. Face meet palm. I seduced Tanner Green—maybe not a technical home run but pretty damn close to out of the park.
The strange vibe that’s always hovered between us was better locked away in an attic, wandering dusty halls and rattling the occasional chain. We could convince ourselves the curiosity was nothing but a trick of the imagination. But tonight that haunting little feeling went and became Patrick Swayze in Ghost when he gets behind Demi Moore on the pottery wheel and she’s all, Holy shit…Things just got real.
I glare at the closed bathroom door. Impossible to decorate this situation with my usual optimistic gloss when I don’t even know what this is. Maybe the time had come to bury the hatchet with Tanner, but did that really need to be in the form of him burying his fingers inside me?
No, no, it did not.
My windows are open, but the studio is somehow airless, overwarm, and I swear I can smell myself—my arousal or whatever—floating around the room like a telltale horny miasma. I’ve hitchhiked into my own alternate universe. What I need is a towel and a guidebook that says “Don’t Panic,” but I’m not starring in a fun-filled Douglas Adams caper. Go ahead and title my memoir Hitchhiker’s Guide to Making Bad Decisions Worse.
My phone rings on the dinette. Whoever it is can wait.
I pace the room and ignore the phone as whoever it is calls back like a persistent asshole. Instead I turn on my electric teakettle and wait some more. It’s been five minutes and still no sound. Should I knock and check on him?
My phone rings for the third time. Jesus Christ on a cracker . I’m sure news of the Great Sunny Letman Segway Accident has spread all over town, but I don’t want to rehash anything, at least not now, while I have this whole other unfolding crisis. I walk over to turn it off and my heart quickens when I see “Blocked Number.”
Mom?
As much as I don’t want to take this call, there’s no choice. Delilah and I rarely speak. She calls only on the rare occasions Hoss buys a throwaway phone, and he’d rather spend whatever few spare bucks they have on the necessities. Cozy things like bullets, assault-grade weapons, and bunker-building equipment. You know, because Armageddon could be right around the corner.
“Delilah, is that you?” I ask, walking out the front door. She’s always preferred me to use her first name, even as a little kid.
“Hey there, Sunshine.” She’s got the
I pull back and sit on my heels. Sunny is living magma, all fire hair and flushed skin. Her tank top is hiked, revealing her concave stomach and the tiny mole next to her belly button. She draws her hands around her knees, locking her arms around them.
I don’t know what to do. She isn’t looking at me. I want to kiss her. I want to thank her. I want to fuck her. My fingers are still wet, and I make a fist before I do something stupid like slip them into my mouth.
“Well,” she says at last, “that was an unexpected surprise.”
“I’m sorry.” Because when I want something, people get hurt. “I…” I glance around at her small, messy studio. The front door is across the room. If I run out now, I’ll ruin everything.
But I will if I stay too.
Sunny
P retty sure that fancy green-tea mask was moot. I’m glowing all over. The throb between my legs lingers, the only sign what went down on my couch wasn’t a dream.
Behind my closed bathroom door, total silence reigns. Tanner’s been in there awhile. What’s he thinking?
I yank my skirt back on, pick up my underwear, ball it into my fist, and walk to the hamper beside my bed. It’s full, so I have to cram it in. I punch down the clothes, once, twice.
What the hell was I thinking?
Damn, I like butterflies as much as the next girl, but not in my stomach. Face meet palm. I seduced Tanner Green—maybe not a technical home run but pretty damn close to out of the park.
The strange vibe that’s always hovered between us was better locked away in an attic, wandering dusty halls and rattling the occasional chain. We could convince ourselves the curiosity was nothing but a trick of the imagination. But tonight that haunting little feeling went and became Patrick Swayze in Ghost when he gets behind Demi Moore on the pottery wheel and she’s all, Holy shit…Things just got real.
I glare at the closed bathroom door. Impossible to decorate this situation with my usual optimistic gloss when I don’t even know what this is. Maybe the time had come to bury the hatchet with Tanner, but did that really need to be in the form of him burying his fingers inside me?
No, no, it did not.
My windows are open, but the studio is somehow airless, overwarm, and I swear I can smell myself—my arousal or whatever—floating around the room like a telltale horny miasma. I’ve hitchhiked into my own alternate universe. What I need is a towel and a guidebook that says “Don’t Panic,” but I’m not starring in a fun-filled Douglas Adams caper. Go ahead and title my memoir Hitchhiker’s Guide to Making Bad Decisions Worse.
My phone rings on the dinette. Whoever it is can wait.
I pace the room and ignore the phone as whoever it is calls back like a persistent asshole. Instead I turn on my electric teakettle and wait some more. It’s been five minutes and still no sound. Should I knock and check on him?
My phone rings for the third time. Jesus Christ on a cracker . I’m sure news of the Great Sunny Letman Segway Accident has spread all over town, but I don’t want to rehash anything, at least not now, while I have this whole other unfolding crisis. I walk over to turn it off and my heart quickens when I see “Blocked Number.”
Mom?
As much as I don’t want to take this call, there’s no choice. Delilah and I rarely speak. She calls only on the rare occasions Hoss buys a throwaway phone, and he’d rather spend whatever few spare bucks they have on the necessities. Cozy things like bullets, assault-grade weapons, and bunker-building equipment. You know, because Armageddon could be right around the corner.
“Delilah, is that you?” I ask, walking out the front door. She’s always preferred me to use her first name, even as a little kid.
“Hey there, Sunshine.” She’s got the
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