Chapter 22: Not Slow

Cal had left a note on the refrigerator door.

It said: GONE CLIMBING UNTIL SUNDAY. DO NOT CALL. THE MUSTARD IS YOURS.

I read it twice, and then Sadie was behind me in the kitchen doorway with her duffel still on her shoulder.

She had come straight from the station.

Her hair was damp from the rain.

She was looking at me, and she did not look away.

"He's gone until Sunday," I said.

"I read it over your shoulder."

"So we're alone."

"Wyatt." She dropped the duffel. "Please don't be slow about it."

I crossed the kitchen in two steps and put her against the wall.

I kissed her hard enough that her head tipped back, and she made a sound I felt in my knees.

Her hands went into my hair, and she kissed me back for all of the eight days.

"Rule one," I said, against her mouth.

"Repealed."

"I wasn't asking."

"Good."

I pulled her sweater over her head.

Under it was a plain cotton bra, and I unhooked it one-handed and dropped it on the floor.

Her breasts were warm in my hands.

When I closed my mouth on one nipple she swore and pulled my hair.

I got her jeans open, and she stepped out of them and her underwear in one motion.

Then I lifted her onto the kitchen counter.

My bad hip hated it, and I didn't care.

"I want to taste you," I said.

She looked down at me, flushed to the throat.

"Yes," she said. "Please."

I knelt on the linoleum and put her thighs over my shoulders.

She was soaked already, hot and slick, and she smelled of rain and soap and her.

I licked her once, slowly, from the bottom to her clit.

She jerked and her heel hit my back.

"God, Wyatt."

I did it again.

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