“Parker, please,” I pant deliriously as heat gathers in my center and threatens to engulf me, my hand fisting the bed covers at my side, not knowing what I need but knowing only he can give it to me.
He lifts his head, his eyes impossibly dark with desire, his lips swollen from our kisses. "Tell me what you want," he rasps.
"I want…" I lick my lips, my heart racing so fast. "I want more."
"Then I'll give it to you."
Before I can respond to that, his hand slides down between us, reaching the waistband of my denim shorts and popping the button off. Then it’s inside and cupping me through my damp panties, making me suck in a sharp breath.
"Already wet, huh?" he chuckles. But he doesn't give me a chance to be embarrassed about it. Because he’s already pulling my underwear to the side, and placing his fingers right there.
"Fuck," he mutters just as a soft moan spills from my lips. My eyes are squeezed tight, my back bowing off the mattress as he circles his thumb over my clit over and over. "So goddamn beautiful." His lips sucks on my exposed throat, heightening the pleasure rocking through me.
I feel him everywhere—his lips nipping at my skin, his fingers rubbing at the most sensitive part of me, his body pressed against mine. It’s too much, the intense sensations coursing through me building me higher with each kiss, each touch, each stroke.
When he presses a finger inside me, I lose it. "Oh my God!" I scream as waves and waves of unbelievable pleasure assault me, blackening my vision and firing up all my senses.
"That's it, baby. I got you." Parker never lets up. His fingers continue to rub and stroke and thrust inside me, sending me over the edge again and again and again until I can't take it anymore.
By the time he’s done, I’m a sweaty, trembling mess, my legs practically jelly.
But damn if I won't let him do that again in a heartbeat.
CHAPTER 25
Sawyer
My head is resting on Parker's chest, and I’m listening to the steady rhythm of his heart as his fingers gently comb through my hair. We’re still in his bed, refusing to leave the comfort of his room.
I’d stay here with him the whole day if I could. I've never felt so content as I do in this moment.
I blame Parker and his skillful mouth and fingers. Remembering the feel of them on me sends electric heat settling low in my belly. I can't wait for the next time he gets to do that to me again. And next time, I'll make sure to return the favor since he didn't even let me. He just took care of my needs.
If it didn't make me feel like a lucky girl, I don't know what would.
"What are you thinking?" Parker's voice is gruff, as if he hasn't used it for hours.
Just you and your magical hands. "I'm thinking about my short stories."
His fingers remain still on my hair. "Short stories? Are those what you've been working on in your laptop?"
I didn’t have any intention of telling him—I just found myself blurting it out—but I don't regret that I did. Lifting my head to meet his probing gaze, I nod. "Yeah."
He plants a kiss on my nose. "Tell me about them."
"Well, um, I'm writing short stories to build my portfolio. You know, for college applications, since I plan to take up creative writing. I've already managed to finish a few. I'm thinking I can write another three or four."
"Will you let me read them?"
My eyes widen and when I speak, my voice comes out as a squeak. "You want to read them?"
"If you'll allow me, then yes. But even if you don't, I'm sure they're all great just the same." The corners of his mouth quirk up. "You're the daughter of a bestselling author, after all. Did he inspire you to write?"
I let out a sad smile. "Maybe my Dad has something to do with it, but no, he's not the main reason why I decided to be a writer, too."
"Your mom," he guesses correctly.
I move my head back onto his chest. "When Avery and I were kids, she'd tell us stories every night. Stories that didn't come from books. Mom wanted to be original so she made her own. And her stories were elaborate and full of adventure and I always looked forward to them. Her elaborate stories got me into reading and eventually made me want to create stories of my own. I was twelve when I wrote my first. It was a cheesy love story between a princess and a knight, but Mom loved it. She was the only person I'd allowed to read it, and she agreed to keep it a secret. But she encouraged me to keep writing. To pursue it if I wanted to. She said she'd support me one hundred percent and joked that she'd give me creative ideas if I'd ever run out."
Even now that she's no longer here, whenever I feel like I can't write, Mom's words flash through my head. It’s all the motivation I need.
"Your mom sounded great."
A tear streaks down my cheek. "She really was."
"I wish I could say that my mother was the same." There’s humor in his voice, but there’s a wistful tone to it, too.
Parker wants to downplay Dianne's state. Like it’s not a big deal. But I see how it affects him. I know how it crushes him to see a practical stranger in his mom's body. It’s a burden to him every day.
"She'll get better," I assure him even though it sounds like an empty promise.
He doesn’t agree with me. Instead, he crashes his lips over mine and maneuvers me underneath him in the same breath, robbing me of any thought.
Minutes, maybe hours, pass as we lie in his bed and languidly kiss. My lips feel raw and swollen, but untangling myself from
