Chapter 22: The Wrong Mr. Right: Chapter 22

WE STEPPED in the front door of Wyatt’s home and slipped our shoes off. The air radiated with tension.

“Are you tired?” His hand came to my arm and he peered down at me, searching my face.

It was only nine thirty. I smiled and shook my head.

“Great. Go sit on the couch and I’ll bring you a tea.”

My heart squeezed. Staying over, him making me tea, dinner with his family, it was like I was his girlfriend. Like I was his. Like he was taking care of something precious to him.

Hannah, shut up, I told myself. It was just tea. Avery had made me tea before. It wasn’t a big thing.

I plopped down on the couch in Wyatt’s living room. His home was small and tidy, with sparse, minimalist furniture, and I got the sense he didn’t spend much time in the living room. He was either on the water, in his shop, or hanging out with his brothers. He had a TV though, and a few accent items like a sansevieria plant and a framed vintage surf poster. Perhaps Elizabeth had brought those over.

Wyatt returned from the kitchen with mugs of tea, and I remembered something Avery had said to me.

Tea is the least horny beverage.

I held back a snort. This cup of tea had dashed any hopes I had of Wyatt and I reenacting the what we had done in the tent. No one had an orgasm with a stomach full of Sleepytime tea.

“What are you snickering at, bookworm?” Wyatt set the mugs down on the coffee table and flashed me a curious look.

“Nothing. You want to watch a movie?”

“You’re not supposed to look at screens.”

My head fell back in exasperation. “You’re so stubborn.”

The corner of his mouth kicked up and he reached for the book I’d set on my bag. When he dropped down onto the other end of the couch, he pulled my pink-socked feet into his lap.

“Wyatt.” I raised an eyebrow.

He cracked the book open to where my bookmark marked the page and cleared his throat. “Watching TV before bed isn’t good for sleep anyway.”

And then he began to read my book out loud.

My heart melted into my chest. His bare feet rested on the coffee table and his free hand settled on my ankle in his lap. The way his sharp jaw moved as he spoke mesmerized me and I longed to run my mouth over the scrape of his stubble again, but then I’d have to move and ruin this perfect moment.

Wyatt’s lazy drawl put a new tone on the sweet romantic comedy. He made every sentence sound sexy, languid, and suggestive. In the scene he read, two teachers bickered with each other, and I smiled, watching as he read, listening to his low voice narrate. When his hand stroked my ankle, sparks of electricity shot up my leg.

The two characters began kissing frantically. His thumb stilled on my ankle and I froze, listening as he described the hungry, desperate, needy way the two characters touched each other.

My heart rate sped up and heat pulsed between my legs.

This book was supposed to be closed-door sex scenes, but now the male main character was sucking on the female main character’s tongue. My core throbbed at the memory of doing that to Wyatt and the tortured noise he made after. I had the urge to squeeze my legs together but held back. Wyatt continued reading about the characters now tearing each other’s clothes off as if it were nothing. Like he was reading furniture instructions.

This was a bad idea. A bad, bad idea. My toes curled and Wyatt glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, then down at my toes, and paused with a tight jaw.

He took a deep breath and continued reading.

God, he was so sexy like this. Before dinner, he had showered and put a bit of product in his hair and the dark blond looked so… unf. And his strong, tanned hands, one clutching the book and one making warm contact with my ankle. I remembered the noise he made when I ran my hands over his chest. How warm he was. He seared me, and I always needed more.

And that mouth. As he read the dirty words, his mouth turned up and his eyes grew heavy-lidded.

The ache between my legs intensified and I shifted. My foot brushed something hard in Wyatt’s lap and my breath caught. He paused, pressed his mouth into a firm line, and closed his eyes.

My body warmed from my core out and my blood surged with something bold. I twitched my foot against his erection again and his head fell back.

“Hannah.” His tone was warning, and his hand tensed on my ankle.

I bit a grin back and shivered. “What’s wrong?”

“You know what’s wrong.” He sounded like he was in agony.

Wyatt took such good care of me all day, even when I was pretty sure there was nothing wrong with me other than an ugly scrape on the forehead. My heart pounded in my chest.

It was time for me to take care of Wyatt.

“I’m tired.”

His head snapped up and he closed the book before tossing it on the coffee table. “Okay.” He nodded to himself. “Let’s go to bed.”

I snorted. The way he said let’s go to bed was the way someone would say Sure, you can pull my tooth out. It would hurt me, him acting this way at the thought of us going to bed, but his jaw ticked and his gaze dragged over me. He was turned on, same as me, but he was going to try to be a gentleman tonight.

He stood over me, raking his hand through his hair. His gaze was unreadable. “I would offer to sleep on the couch, but I want to be near you tonight. In case you aren’t feeling well or something.”

I nodded. “Because I hit my head.”

“Because you hit your head.” His voice was low and his gaze dark. He held his hand out. “Come on.”

We spent the next few minutes going through the going-to-bed motions: brushing our teeth, me taking out my contacts, changing into our pajamas. Wyatt didn’t wear pajamas, but I brought the tank top and short set from the night he crawled through my window, because I wanted to play with fire. He wandered through the house while I changed, locking the doors and turning off lights before I heard his footsteps past the bathroom door.

In his room, he laid in bed, shirtless with his arms propped behind his head. His gaze wandered down my pajamas. My nipples pinched and his nostrils flared. He groaned and closed his eyes with a pained expression.

I laughed.

“Fuck, bookworm, you’re going to kill me.” His throat worked as his gaze snagged on my chest, on the hem of my shorts, on my bare collarbone.

His bedroom was like the rest of his house—small, tidy, sparse, and masculine. Clean lines, like him. It even smelled like him in here, a masculine, fresh scent that made my blood hum. A book on his bedside table caught my attention.

“Pride and Prejudice?” I shot him a questioning look as I picked it up and studied the cover. My mouth opened to form another question but nothing came out.

He lifted one shoulder with a little smile. “You were right. It was good.”

My brows snapped together. Something sweet wrapped around my heart. “Why did you read it?”

His expression softened. “It’s your favorite. I wanted a peek inside that brain of yours.” He pulled back the covers and gestured for me to get in. “Come on.”

Wyatt read my favorite book. For me. If I thought too hard about that, I would… I didn’t know. It was just a book. Beck read the book, too.

But this was different. Wyatt was different.

“Did you like it?” I asked softly, sliding under the covers beside him. His arm tucked around me and pulled me to his warm chest and my breath caught.

It was me standing in Elizabeth’s kitchen all over again, seen and wanted and loved. My throat tightened and my hands came to Wyatt’s hard chest. I peered up into his eyes, so gray and kind and full of affection.

He nodded with a small smile. “Mhm. You were right about the scene with Mr. Collins.”

I pressed a soft kiss to Wyatt’s neck. He inhaled and his chest rose under my hands.

“We should sleep. Your head—”

“I think you should give me another lesson.” I brushed my lips over his stubble and he shuddered. “Professor.”

In a split second, I was on my back, Wyatt’s mouth pressing hot, fast kisses down my neck.

“You know exactly what to say to make me lose it,” he murmured against me, and I shivered again. His fingers found a tight nipple through the thin fabric of my top and I arched.

A soft whimper escaped me, and I reached for him but he batted my hands away.

“Not yet. Let me do my work.”

I smiled and his mouth covered mine, lingering a moment before his tongue coaxed me open. The slow glide of our tongues melted my brain like an ice cream cone in summer and I let my consciousness sink, sighing against him. Wetness pooled between my legs, warm and slippery, and after a few moments of us tasting each other, exploring each other’s mouths, me reaching for his length and him holding my wrists, finally, finally, he touched me.

“Oh, Jesus, bookworm, you are so fucking wet for me,” he rasped. I nipped his bottom lip. “I love how you get so worked up.”

His fingers slid over my center and my head fell back. More. I needed more. I pulled my shirt over my head and his mouth fell to my breast, tasting and rolling and tugging. A strangled noise came out of my throat. My core clenched around nothing and my hips thrust harder towards his hand, needing more.

“I love how soft you are.” His fingers found my clit and I moaned. “Mhm. Like that?”

I jerked my head in a nod. “Like that. Like that.” I was babbling but the heat coiled low in my stomach and I didn’t care. Wyatt’s hands on me made me mindless, and I didn’t want it to stop.

“Why don’t you show me your homework?” His voice was so low and soft. “Show me how you touched yourself after your date.”

A streak of self-consciousness shot through me, and I bit my lip and opened my eyes. Wyatt watched me with something dark and hungry in his eyes, and a cruel little smile on his mouth.

“I’ve thought about you touching yourself so many times.” His throat worked and he began to slide my shorts off. “Show me the real thing.” He lifted his gaze to mine. “Please, baby.”

My hand slipped to my center and I began to rub slow, soft circles on my clit while Wyatt watched with hungry fascination. The warm heat coiling around my spine and the intense way he watched drowned out my self-consciousness. I moved a little faster and pressed my lips together with a wince of pleasure as the pressure grew.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathed and pressed a kiss to my inner thigh. “You are so fucking gorgeous, Hannah. I’ve been thinking about this nonstop. I wanted you all day.”

“Me too,” I gasped. “You make me come so hard.”

Those were the magic words. He grabbed my wrist and pinned it to the bed. “Lesson’s over.” He slipped a finger inside me and began to work my center. He located that spot within me and white hot electricity shot through my limbs.

“Wyatt,” I gasped. My legs shook and everything seized with pleasure. I grasped the duvet. Wyatt’s gaze swung from where his fingers entered me to my face in fascination.

“I should draw this out and torture you for scaring me this morning.” His eyes seared me, half-teasing, half-furious. “I was so worried, bookworm. I never want to see you hurt. You’re too important to me.”

“Not hurt,” I gasped again, arching. I frowned and winced, it felt so good. All the waves of pleasure radiated from where his finger pulsed. My body squeezed him. “Doing just fine.”

He laughed low and pressed another kiss to my inner thigh. “I can see that. Now, what do you need to come?”

“More.”

“More what?”

My chest heaved as I pulled in deep breaths that weren’t enough. His finger slowed inside me with less pressure and I groaned with frustration. “Wyatt.”

“Bookworm, what do you need to come?” His tone was teasing and knowing.

A noise of furious anguish wrenched out of my throat. “Hand.” I held mine open on my stomach and he pressed his palm into mine.

His warm skin, the intimate contact of our hands pressed against each other, it did something to me. Anchored me. Connected us.

He ran his velvet tongue up my inner thigh, inches from where I wanted him. My head spun and my clit ached for friction and pressure.

“What else?” His voice was so low and controlled.

My head swam but he dangled what I needed in front of me.

“Mouth.” I heaved another breath and spared him a glance. His eyes were dark and heavy. “On me.”

A pleased noise rumbled from his throat. “I was hoping you’d say that.” His head dipped, he set his mouth on my clit, and my head fell back.

A string of words flew out of my mouth at the heat of his tongue on the bud of nerves. He worked my g-spot while I twisted and writhed on his mouth. My free hand came to his hair, and when all of that wasn’t quite enough, I set his hand that had been resting on my stomach against my breast. He pinched, I arched, he rolled, I whimpered. I tugged his hair and he groaned into me, increasing the speed at which his tongue slicked over me and burying his face further into my center.

Heat grew in my stomach, tightening and creating pressure. I was close. Close and yet I couldn’t completely get there.

“I love you under me like this, writhing and mindless,” Wyatt murmured against me. His breath tickled me. “I jerk off thinking about this, about how you taste and how you look when you’re about to come.” He sucked on my clit and I bucked my hips against his face with a cry.

“I don’t know if I can.” I could barely get the words out.

My body wound so tight it might snap, but there was something missing. Frustration flicked at my brain and distracted me.

“It’s okay if you can’t.” Wyatt licked me from entrance to the top of my clit and I let another breathy moan slip out at the electricity that shot through me. “This is for you, and whether you come or not isn’t important. Watching you react like this is making me fucking hard.” He did that licking thing again before adding suction to my clit and I whimpered. “We can do this for as long as you like.” His teeth lightly scored my clit and my eyes widened as I bowed off the bed.

Him taking the pressure off me, telling me it was okay not to come, it lifted a couple weights off me, and when he sucked harder on my clit, I forgot what I was thinking about. I forgot what I was worried about. My body was his to play with and my brain crackled with sparks. I filled his bedroom with my breathy moans while I ground onto his face and tugged his hair.

Regular me would die of embarrassment but horny, almost-there me didn’t care. I wanted to come.

“Yes, baby, yes,” he groaned when I pushed harder into his face. “Like that. Give it to me like a good girl. Come for me.”

And I did. I tipped over the edge and every muscle in my body tensed. I suspended in time as wave after wave rolled through me. Wyatt groaned and gave encouraging mhm’s against my folds as I shook under his desperate mouth. My hips bucked and when my thighs squeezed him, he moaned like I was the one giving him pleasure.

I fell back into the bed, heaving for air. He crawled up the bed beside me and pulled me into his chest, pressing kiss after kiss to my temple and cheeks and lips. His face was wet and something very bad inside me flushed with pleasure. I sunk into his warmth, my heart still thumping hard.

“You smell amazing,” I said, inhaling him.

One of his hands came to my hair and he stroked it, sending shivers down my back. “I love having you in my bed.”

He reached down to adjust his boxer briefs. They strained with his erection. He made a choking noise when my hand encircled him through the fabric.

I stroked him and he bucked.

His face contorted into a look of pain and he groaned as I explored his length. He was warm, rock hard, and heavy, and when I slipped my hand inside his briefs, his skin seared my hand.

“Jesus, baby.” He choked the words in my hair as my hand skimmed up and down, running my thumb over the swollen tip and dragging through the bead of liquid that had appeared there.

So many times, I had pictured Wyatt sinking this length into me, stretching me and making me feel amazing. I wanted to feel him shudder into me. I wanted us connected, experiencing it together instead of one after the other.

I wanted Wyatt to lose control.

I sat up and began to slide his briefs down, but his hands came to my shoulders and he pulled me back to him.

I gave him a questioning look.

“I don’t trust myself to be gentle with you.” He sucked a deep breath in. “I want you too much.”

Need sparked within me.

“You already made my head explode a few minutes ago,” I grumbled.

“I lost control there.” He grunted as my hand returned to his cock and began to stroke.

“Like that?” I watched his gorgeous face before running my mouth over his stubble.

He jerked a nod. “Just like that.” He grabbed my other hand and brought it to his sac, and when I squeezed lightly, he sucked a breath in. “Fucking hell, bookworm, I’m never letting you leave.”

His words washed through me and made my heart lift. I stroked him faster. I loved the noises that were coming out of his throat, loved the way I had complete control over his body. Watching his face, my head swam with power, pleasure, and desire. He opened his hazy eyes and watched me. Something sweet, twisting, and heavy struck me.

“Baby,” he gasped. His hand covered mine and he stroked himself faster with my hand, gripping tight. “Oh god. Hannah, you’re going to make me come.”

His eyes clenched closed, his mouth fell open, and he used my hand for pleasure. With a shudder and a groan, he spilled hot liquid all over our hands and his stomach while I watched in fascination.

He exhaled long and low. “Holy shit. You made me come so hard from a hand job.” He said it like he didn’t believe it and I beamed.

His grin was sluggish and lazy with the hint of casual cockiness, as always. He raised up and met my mouth. Pure affection and gratitude replaced by any urgency in me, and my heart expanded in my chest. His intoxicating scent teased me. The soft duvet brushed my bare skin, and his skin warmed me all the way to my toes. My brain hummed with comfort.

“I need to clean up,” he whispered. “One sec, okay?”

I nodded and he rose, stepping into the bathroom before returning with a washcloth. He shot me a wink as he wiped my hand off and I sighed.

When we crawled under the covers, he pulled me to him and I smiled into the pillow. My body tucked into his like we were made for each other.

“I’m falling for you, bookworm.” He whispered the words against the back of my head in the dark.

Alarm spiked in my brain. Those words were all I wanted to hear, so why was my chest tight?

“I’m falling for you, too.” I swallowed hard at the half-truth.

I wasn’t falling for Wyatt. I was in it. I was in love with him. The thought of him leaving—

“What are we going to do?” I breathed.

“I don’t know.”