Chapter 9: What the Loft Heard

"One night," I said. "Then you tell me."

"Yes."

"Then come up."

I took his hand and walked backward up the stairs, and the fourth one creaked under both of us.

The loft was dark except for the yard light through the window.

I turned around at the foot of the bed and pulled his shirt up over his head.

He let me.

His chest was broad and warm and scarred in places, a long white line across his ribs, a mark on his shoulder.

I put my mouth on the scar by his collarbone.

He breathed in sharply.

"Kaitlyn."

"Quiet."

"I've wanted to do this since the first time you came to Mom's. You wore a yellow dress and spilled gravy on my sleeve."

"I remember the gravy."

"I remember the dress."

He found the hem of my scrub top and lifted it, slowly, and then there was nothing to be slow about.

My bra went. His shirt was already on the floor, and my pants followed it.

He knelt at the edge of the bed and put his face against my stomach.

His hands held my hips.

His mouth went lower, and I put my fingers in his hair and held on.

He kissed the inside of my thigh and I felt him smile.

"You're shaking," he said.

"Keep going."

"Tell me what you want."

"Your mouth," I said. "On my pussy. Now."

He made a low sound, and he did it.

His tongue was hot and slow, then not slow. He found my clit and stayed there, and I said his name once, loudly, and put my hand over my own mouth.

"Don't," he said into me. "I want to hear you."

I took my hand away.

The sounds I made then were not ones I knew I had.

My legs started to shake. He held them open with his big hands and kept his mouth working, and I felt the coil in my belly pull tight.

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