Page 36 of This for That (The Edge of Retaliation 1)
Tanner rubs slow circles over my clit, gently massaging it. Lightning bolts of pleasure rip through my body and I whimper, clutching him. He slides that finger up and down, soaking it in my arousal and using that to make it feel even better as he strokes and teases. I’m going to lose my mind. This is a far cry from the fumbling horror job I had when I was younger. Tanner knows exactly where to touch and how to touch.
I drop my head into the crook of his neck as the pleasure starts to build, getting higher and higher as his finger rubs at the sensitive bundle of nerves between my legs. As it builds, I forget where I am, I forget everything, and let my body truly dive into the feeling.
“Tanner,” I gasp into his shoulder as the pressure gets a little stronger, and I can’t hold back the orgasm a second longer.
I cry out as pleasure grips my body and takes me to places I never thought possible. My whole body trembles, my legs clench either side of his, and I can’t stop the soft moans escaping my lips as I relish in the feeling consuming my body.
I come down slowly, and Tanner doesn’t stop until I do. When he removes his fingers from me, he brings them up between us and slides them into his mouth. I’ve never seen something so damned erotic in my whole life. I watch as he cleans me off him, and then murmurs, “Waitin’ for the moment that’s my mouth between your legs.”
Good lord.
This man is going to be the end of me.
I just know it.
“HI,” I SAY, STARING at the girl in front of me. She’s wearing an apron and staring at me like she’s bored and waiting for me to give her an order so she can go home. “Are you Amber?”
I’ve come to this café because I found out that a friend of Celia’s works here. It took a little digging to find some of them. I had to go to her old school and act like I was writing an article on her to honor her memory as the seven-year anniversary of her death is coming up, which is actually true.
Google only had so much information. I’m guessing the family wanted their privacy, which is understandable, so there were only basics on there. She has a mom and a dad, a brother, a sister, all of whom are not named. Her parents were simply referred to as Mr. and Mrs. Yates. I get that; they went through enough without having their names tossed around for everyone to see.
Thankfully, the school she attended was in the information when they did a memorial for her.
So it was a start.
I went to the school. I spoke to a few people, and luckily for me, the principal was the same one who was there six years ago. He was a chatty fellow, and more than happy to talk about Celia and what a great student she was. I mentioned her friends, and he willingly handed over some names; it wasn’t hard to find them after that. I’m certain he probably shouldn’t have given me their names, but hey, who’s complaining?
After that, I tracked down Amber Rays. She was the only friend who still lived around here. I found a few people by that name, but after a swift Facebook search, I figured she was the one who looked closest to Celia’s age. Luckily for me, in her information, she has her place of work—a café about twenty minutes from where I live. People really should be more concerned about how easy it is to find information these days.
I wouldn’t put a single thing on Facebook. Hell no. It’s so easy to find out the things you want to know with little to no effort. That shit scares me. I’d rather people didn’t know anything about me.
“Yes,” Amber says bringing me back to the here and now. She’s a pretty girl—short but lean with long brown hair tied up on top of her head and pretty brown eyes.
“Is it possible you used to be friends with Celia Yates?” I ask her.
Her face falls, and she looks sad, which tugs at the pain in my chest I try to push down furiously every day.
“I haven’t heard that name in a few years,” Amber says. “I feel bad. Like . . . I almost forgot.”
Poor girl. I didn’t mean to raise bad feelings for her.
“I’m sorry,” I say genuinely. “So you two were friends?”
“Yeah,” Amber tells me, then narrows her eyes. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m a friend of hers, too. Well, more like a cousin, if you will, but friends all the same. I’m doing up a memorial for her seventh anniversary, and I wanted to chat to anyone still in this area who used to know her. She used to mention your name; I hope you don’t mind that I looked you up.”
