Page 35 of Moto
Kayla laughs. “You want to make up fake stories about ourselves?”
“Why not?”
“Seems deceitful,” she jokes.
“Only if you try to pass them off as real.”
Kayla pauses, looking at me quizzically.
“What did I say?” I question her.
“Nothing.” She shakes it off as if she’s being silly. “I could use that beer now.”
“Coming up.” I use her knee as leverage to stand—and as an excuse to touch her—before I creep into the dark house and hear Reese sleeping soundly. I swipe two more bottles from the fridge and sneak back out like Ethan Hunt just stole some highly classified intel.
I sit down next to Kayla, making sure our bodies touch. I pop open her beer first then my own. To my satisfaction, she doesn’t try to shift away or break our physical connection.
I’m still in my scrubs, so the thin material makes it easy for her warmth to seep through. I can’t see much of her face anymore, as the sky has turned black, but the backcountry is dark enough for the moon to illuminate our silhouettes in a silvery-gray shadow. It’s late June, so the temperature will stay comfortable well into the night.
“So you going to tell me a story?” I ask Kayla.
“Mmm, I don’t think I like the idea of fake stories. I think I’ll keep it real instead. I’ll remember what you told me about Reese and try to cut him some more slack.”
“Just Reese?” I tip my beer back, letting the tangy taste wet my taste buds.
“Dev,” she says my name softly, almost fatigued. Maybe I’m weighing on her. Maybe I’m finally wearing her down.
“Kayla,” I respond firmly as I inch closer to her. “Why do you keep fighting it?”
“Because,” is her weak response.
“That’s not a good enough excuse.”
“I know.”
At least she owns up.
“Do you have any idea what I want to do to you? How good I can make you feel?” I rasp in her ear, wanting her irrepressibly. Wanting her to want me irrepressibly. A reel of dirty images runs through my mind. Mainly of me licking her pussy right here on this stoop.
“I have an idea.” She shivers.
“You have no fucking idea.” I go in for the kill, but the second our lips touch, Reese’s groggy voice calls out for her.
She jumps, her work instincts kicking in.
“Fucking Reese,” I mumble irately.
“Coming!” Kayla yells back. Before she bolts into the house, she places one finger to my lips. “Dream about it,” she whispers.
“I’m tired of dreaming.” I look up at her, grabbing my crotch, the pulse in my cock thumping.
Kayla wants me to dream about her?
I already fucking do. Every painful night.
11
Kayla
