“Your handprint on my ass?” I asked in a half-gasp.
“Fuck yes, babe. Fuck,” he said. “I don’t want you to be able to walk for days after I’ve finished with you.”
I worked faster and faster. Something peaked inside of me, and everything was hazy. My orgasm came harder and faster than I’d expected it. I couldn’t even stall it out. It was a tidal wave. Everything in me contracting and releasing all at once.
I moaned out my orgasm as I came undone.
“Oh fuck, fuck,” he said. “Did you just come?”
“Yes,” I gasped.
And then I heard him grunt on the other line as he came undone. We weren’t in the same room. We were miles apart. And yet it was like having him emptying himself inside of me all over again.
“That was…wow,” he finally said. “I came hard.”
“Me too,” I whispered, slow and sleepy. I crashed back on the bed, curling into a ball. Sleep crept up on me out of nowhere. I hadn’t even been tired before.
“You sound tired,” he said.
“Mmm.”
“Did I fuck all the anger out of you again?”
I merely swatted at him as if he were there and not on the other end of the phone. “Shush you.”
He laughed softly. “Good. You’re my good girl. Now, get some sleep. Dream about me.”
I didn’t even have it in me to contradict him. I was definitely going to dream about what had just happened.
Part III
I Hate You, I Love You
18
Piper
Hollin was a problem. I hadn’t heard from him since our phone sexcapade, but I couldn’t stop thinking about him. In fact, I couldn’t stop dreaming about him. As if his last command had lingered long past that first night. Hung on by a thread strung between us that I didn’t understand in the slightest.
I’d done everything that I could to not think about him. I’d gone for a run with Blaire, who’d looked at me like I was nuts since I hated running. I’d worked myself to the bone. I’d even volunteered to handle the weekly booth at the Lubbock Farmers Market.
Sinclair Cellars had a permanent booth at the market. Usually, we rotated who was in charge of it. We each took a weekend and blocked it out on the calendar. But when one of our workers, Eliza, had tried to get out of going so that she could see her boyfriend in Amarillo, I’d jumped at the chance to do anything but sit around and obsess all Saturday morning.
Eliza had promised to take one of my shifts to repay me. My dad had asked me if I was feeling well. I’d ducked my head and acted like everything was fine. I couldn’t explain anyway.
So, that was how I was standing in the brisk April morning weather with a Sinclair Cellars jacket tight around my shoulders, waiting for the sun to break through the unusual morning clouds. Lubbock had sunshine ninety percent of the year, and I never looked forward to the weird gloomy weather in the spring.
The best part of working the booth though was seeing all my friends and regulars of the winery. We brought six of our most popular wines—three red and three white—and gave out samples all day. People stopped by for tasting and to purchase wine and Sinclair Cellar apparel. Today, of all days, Peter had agreed to show up to help me.
“You never work the booth,” I accused.
My twin brother rolled his eyes. “I do, too.”
“When?”
“When Dad makes me work it with him.”
I snorted. “Naturally. So, why are you here today?”
“Dad made me work it with you.”
“Of course he did.”
“Hey, haven’t you missed me?” He hip-checked me as he pulled out another bottle of our merlot, uncorking it like a pro.
“Sometimes. What have you been up to anyway? You and Chester too busy to hang with the likes of us?”
“Chess and I are too busy having sex,” he deadpanned.
“Good for you.”
“I’m kidding,” he said with a laugh and then added, “Sort of.”
“Typical.”
Peter worked for Sinclair Cellars when he was in between his other gigs. He was a freelance writer. He did whatever work he could, but he always enjoyed working on comic books. He’d designed his own when he was ten and never broken the habit. His collection of comics was utterly impressive. But sometimes, the writing jobs were outstanding, and sometimes, everything dried up. He had to be in a bit of a desert if he was here with me today.
“No writing jobs?” I guessed.
He shrugged. “It’s a volatile market. I’ll get more work soon. But…I’m thinking of asking Chess to move in.”
“Doesn’t he already live there all the time?”
“Well, yeah, but officially.”
“That’s great. You never got there with Jeremy,” I said of his last boyfriend.
“Definitely not. We would have killed each other. And Chess is brilliant and stable and out to his parents. So, it’s going good.”