Broken Rules

Chapter Twenty Eight

I peek open an eye just enough to notice the room is still veiled in darkness, but the sun is beginning to crest above the horizon. A soft bluish hue seeps through the blinds, gently illuminating the space. As I fully open my eyes, I find a baseball mitt resting on the nightstand and a Luke Skywalker action figure staring at me.

I blink again, momentarily forgetting where I am. I reach for my phone to check the time, but as I do, Wells pulls me in closer to him. His chest flush with my shoulders, his stomach to the small of my back, our knees tucked together.

"Go back to sleep," he whispers, husky with sleep. His arm encircles my waist, drawing me closer to him. I wiggle my body against his, reveling in how deliciously perfect this all feels.

I feel him hard against me, pressing into the curve of my ass and warmth spreads through my body. I push back into him, shimmying, trying to get closer. He grunts, as if it's physically painful, and a sleepy smile tugs at my lips.

"Fuck, Juniper," his arm around my waist tightens briefly before loosening. Slowly moving down, he slips his hand under the hem of my shirt and grips me where my underwear hugs my hips. He uses the leverage to pull my hips back into him, nudging harder, rolling into me.

This time I'm the one to let out a whimper.

My hand reaches up and twists into his wavy hair as he presses delicate, feather-light kisses along my shoulder. We keep this rhythm up, him rolling into me and me shifting back into him. To the point that I'm wide awake. Not just waking up, but fully alert, panting for breath, and a bit sweaty.

The hand gripping my hip relaxes and glides down gently, tracing once along my stomach, and then slipping it under the fabric of my underwear. He glides his fingers between me and we both groan when he feels how wet I am.

"Can I—" I hear him swallow, his voice still sleepy and rough, "Can I taste you?"

My thighs clench around his hand, at the question. A little taken aback, unable to find the right words to express myself because, yes, I do want that very much, but I wasn't exactly expecting it.

Not that I enjoy dwelling on Beckett at all, but during those two years we were together, I can count on one hand the number of times he ate me out. Apparently, in his mind, a blow job wasn't the same as going down on me.

I used to ask, but he'd always give me the hardest time about it, so I quickly stopped. And truthfully, he wasn't even all that great at it anyway, and I never actually came from his mouth on me.

"Do you, um," I begin, swallowing hard, "do you want to do that?"

"Do what?"

"I mean, you want to... You like to, um—"

"Taste you?"

"Yeah."

He pauses for a long moment and then huffs a laugh into the shell of my ear.