Then pleasure.
Then back to the wide shot as he drives into her again and again.
Skye doesn’t close her eyes. Or look away. Or get off the couch.
She watches carefully.
Interest spreads over her face—the kind she gets when she’s watching a great movie—then it shifts to something better.
Desire.
“I… Uh…” Her eyes flit to me then they’re back on the screen.
“You like it?”
“It’s um…” Her voice gets stronger. More confident. “Yeah.”
“You want to keep watching?”
She turns to the TV as the male model pins the female model to the bed. “Um…”
I need to lead this. “Come here.”
She nods okay. Turns enough to shift into my lap. Fuck, it’s the perfect position. But it’s no good. It means she can’t watch.
“Turn around.” I tug at her skirt.
She shifts off my lap. Pulls her skirt up her thighs, over her ass, all the way to her waist.
My fingers curl into her panties. Slowly, I peel them to her knees.
She kicks them off her feet.
I pull her into my lap. Slip my hand between her legs.
She’s already wet. Ready. Needy.
I stroke her anyway. Softly. So softly her groan is more whine than anything.
“Forest,” she breathes. “Please.”
“Please what, princess?”
“Fuck me.” She rolls her hips, grinding her ass against me. “I want to come on your cock.”
My balls tighten.
“Please.”
How can she be so demanding and polite at the same time? It defies reason.
I want to make her come first. To make her come until she can barely breathe.
But my body disobeys my mind.
It needs her now.
It needs the two of us connecting.
As one.
It’s ridiculous—I haven’t wanted that in so long—but I do. I want it with Skye.
I want everything with Skye.
She shifts onto the other couch cushion. Her hands go to my jeans. Her eyes meet mine.
She holds my gaze for a moment, then she watches herself unzip my jeans.
I do away with my t-shirt. Lift my hips enough to push my jeans and boxers to my thighs.
Her gaze flits to the screen for a moment. Then she turns to me. Crawls into my lap.
Her knees plant outside my legs.
Her thighs squeeze my hips.
Her fingers curl into my neck.
Slowly, she lowers her body onto mine.
My cock brushes her cunt.
Then she takes me deeper, deeper—
Fuck.
My eyes close.
Pleasure floods my senses.
And something else too. This satisfaction. This wholeness. Like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
This is more than her coming on my cock.
It’s her body against mine.
I knot my hand in her hair then I pull her into a slow, deep kiss.
Her lips part for my tongue.
Her hips shift.
She raises herself up then drives down on me again.
I slip my hands under her dress. Use one to guide her. Bring the other to her clit.
I rub her softly.
Then harder.
Higher.
There.
She groans against my mouth. Drags her teeth against my lip.
I keep that same pressure, same speed.
She drives down on me again and again.
We kiss hard and deep.
Our bodies know something our minds don’t.
She’s mine.
I’m hers.
We stay locked together—kissing, groaning, moving together—until she’s there.
She pulls back to groan.
Her nails dig into my shoulders.
They rake against my chest.
It’s hard. Aggressive. Hot as fuck.
It pushes me to the edge.
I pull her down on me again.
Again.
Then I’m there, groaning her name as I spill inside her.
She waits until I’m done, then she collapses on top of me.
I hold her close.
We catch our breath together.
And, for one moment, I know.
Whatever happens later, this is perfect.
I need her to be mine.
Forever.
I need to give her everything.
Always.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Skye
After, we shower together, clean up—somehow, there’s melted green tea ice cream everywhere—watch one of my favorite movies.
It’s considerably less erotic but amazing in its own way.
Forest doesn’t even complain it’s all dialogue, no action. He keeps his arm around my waist, holds me close.
We sleep together in his queen-sized bed.
I wake up in his arms.
Sure, there’s a lot of ugly shit on the horizon.
But this, right now—
This is perfect.
For a few days, I avoid the upcoming disaster.
I hold film screenings in my parents’ living room. All Linklater. Then Jim Jarmush. Nicole Holofcener. Ava DuVernay.
I only break to fix dinner with Dad.
Or to text Forest—as long as it has nothing to do with Mackenzie and her wedding.
When my package of swimsuits (and a check for $2500, half upfront—I guess Forest’s negotiation went well) arrives, I run out of excuses.
There’s barely a week until the wedding.
Until Forest breaks down crying because he’s really losing Mackenzie this time.
Or until he realizes he’s over her.
Until he’s all mine.
Either the worst thing in the world or the greatest.
No pressure.
Uh…
Well, I need her help with the pool either way. I don’t want to be her friend. Or her confidant. Or her anything.
But I do want this favor.
I can talk to her.
Really.
I fix another matcha.
It fails to inspire courage. Or constitution, really. It’s not that I’m scared to talk to my cousin.
It’s more all the hate in my stomach.