“You’re amazing,” he said.
“You make me feel amazing.”
His lips brushed my forehead, and before my sleep-heavy eyes finally closed, I saw satisfaction in his warm, dark eyes.
I laid on my back on the warm sand, feeling the surf rush up to my toes, then recede, cooling my overheated flesh.
My eyes were closed, and Cole was beside me, his fingers drawing lazy patterns on my skin, teasing my breasts, sliding down to my sex.
One finger slipped inside me, and I drew in air as heat from the sun and this man consumed me.
A shadow fell over me as he shifted, momentarily blocking the sun. Then he gently spread my legs apart, his palms stroking upward, the movement slow and teasing.
And then I felt the smallest flick of his tongue over my sex, but enough to make me arch up, wanting more. Needing more.
Dear god, he didn’t disappoint.
His mouth closed over me. His tongue teasing and tasting. Laving me, playing me, bringing me closer and closer and closer until—
It wasn’t him—oh, Christ, it wasn’t him.
Not Cole but Roger. Sixteen years old, with dark hair and droopy eyes and soft fingers that played with my sex, groping and exploring, as I lay there, frozen and scared and turned on, with all the sensations building and building inside me, but I had to hold them back. Had to keep quiet and still. Had to keep the secret because—
Because—
Because if I didn’t, then—
I came awake with a gasp, but kept my eyes closed.
I was on my back, my legs spread, and I could feel the warm heat of Cole’s tongue on my clit, teasing and playing. I wanted to pull him up, to cry out for him to stop.
I wanted to do that, but I didn’t want to explain. Didn’t want him to see the secret on my face.
And oh, dear god, as he played and teased my clit with his tongue, I couldn’t deny that I didn’t want to stop him because it felt too damn good.
So I stayed there, legs spread, Cole’s mouth so intimate upon me, his expert tongue doing amazing things, and the whole world reduced to this tiny point of pleasure that began as a single spot between my legs and would soon grow and grow until it had no choice but to explode.
And I would explode. I knew it. Hadn’t Cole taken me there already? Over and over and over?
I waited, letting it build, relishing the sparks, the growing culmination of this ultimate passion. I clenched my hands at my sides, silently willing myself to go over, because it was too big now to hold in.
And yet, just like in my nightmares, the explosion wasn’t coming.
I writhed against his mouth in silent demand, wanting, needing, and yet not finding. And god help me, I wanted to cry, because this was it—this was me right back again. Unable to get there. Unable to achieve. Unable to experience that last, final rush of pleasure.
Most of all, unwilling to explain to Cole.
So I did the only thing I could do. Something I knew how to do because hadn’t I done it with every boy I’d dated? Every boy who had wanted to get close?
I cried out. I arched up. I let my body shake and quiver. I brought my thighs together, as if in an effort to ward off the near-pain of too much pleasure.
In other words, I put on a hell of a show.
And then, when the performance was over, I gasped and sucked in air and rolled over on my side saying, “Oh, god, oh, god, that was—shit, that was incredible.”
“I’m glad you thought so,” Cole said, pulling me close.
I rolled over and buried my face in his chest, then snuggled close.