Стейси Кестуик - Wet

His words had me balancing on the edge, ready to fall, and the light scrape of his thumb over my clit was all I needed.

I bucked in his arms as he held me to him, my long, low moan smothered against the hard muscle of his shoulder.

As aftershocks rocked my limp frame, he lifted his hand to his mouth, licking my wetness off his fingers, his eyes bright and his body taut underneath me.

“I hope that sweet body of yours is ready for me, Sadie. Because I haven’t even started yet.”

Tapping out the final few keystrokes, I finished the setup of my new Facebook page for Paper Plane Photography. A couple of posts with recent images highlighted the scope of services I offered. Cody’s cake smash at West’s grandmother’s house, the headshots from the realty company, a black-and-white photo of the line of a woman’s bare back — a cropped view from a boudoir session from one of Aubrey’s friends, the engagement session. I left out the wedding I did six weeks ago because as lucrative as wedding photography could be, I didn’t want to immerse myself in that genre again. Thinking about it still brought back too many painful memories of my time in Nashville with Asshole.

Switching back over to my personal page, I scrolled through the last month’s worth of posts, reliving the events in reverse, starting with a few days prior.

A picture of a frayed hammock under the moss-draped oaks edging the shoreline.

West and I had lounged there for hours the other day, too lazy and too comfortable to get up and go out, positioned head to toe so he could rub my feet. We’d shared silly anecdotes from our childhoods and even discovered that one of my brother’s friends was someone he knew from college. I’d moaned my pleasure as he’d dug his thumbs into the arch of my foot and squirmed against him, my calf rubbing against his groin where my leg had rested between his. Teasing him, I’d arched my back and rotated my hips, pressed against his swelling length with my foot.

Holding my ankle, he’d dug a Sharpie out of the pocket of his shorts and drawn on my sole. A sun on my big toe, waves on the ball of my foot, and a heart with an arrow through it on my heel. My breath caught when I saw the heart.

We hadn’t said the words, not out loud, not to each other. I didn’t know if I was there yet. But I was getting closer the more time I spent with him.

The more I ached when I wasn’t with him.

“How am I supposed to get that off?”

He’d pointed at the beach. “We’ll take a walk. The wet sand will — what’s that word girls use? — exfoliate it or something.”

It’d taken two miles to erase the sun and the waves. The heart had lingered, and I’d traced it with my finger that night before I went to bed, smiling like a loon.

Two-and-a-half weeks ago. A picture of him standing beside his old truck, a small Grady White on the trailer behind it.

He’d motored us through the creeks one afternoon, and a pair of dolphins, leaping out of the water and splashing back down, performed a show only we saw. A pop-up summer rainstorm caught us off guard, so we anchored in a sheltered cove and made love behind a veil of raindrops, the rocking of the boat dictating the rhythm, slow and steady and as endless as the tide.

When we’d gotten back to the boat ramp at dusk, West had put me to work. After backing the truck into position, I’d taken over the driver’s seat. The window was down, and I’d been waiting for him to tell me when to pull forward. The boat ramp was crazy steep, and I hated knowing the exhaust pipe was almost underwater. Standing next to the boat, knee deep in the water, he’d yelled and waved for me to go ahead, so I’d punched the gas pedal.

And the truck peeled farther down the ramp. The ocean lapped the tailgate as I slammed the brakes and then threw the truck into drive and jerked forward again, stopping partway up the incline, my knuckles in a death grip on the steering wheel.

A white-faced West had approached me, set the emergency brake, and pointed wordlessly to the passenger side. Sliding across the bench seat, I’d faced him wide-eyed.

He’d cut off my whispered apology, his words clipped and abrupt.

“You backed over my shoe. You about ran me over. I think I’ll take over now.”

Later that night, I’d apologized again, my lips wrapped around his cock.

He forgave me. Twice.

Three weeks ago. Feeding doughnuts to the gulls with Rue.

I’d tragically forgotten about half a box of glazed, and we’d walked the block to the beach, tossing stale pastries in the air as the birds flocked around.

Three-and-a-half weeks ago. A panoramic of the Water’s Edge entrance .

That was the day Grady delivered the news that officially began Paper Plane Photography. I’d been chosen to shoot the stills for the ad campaign for the newest Water’s Edge property opening in Grand Cayman six weeks from then. It was a huge assignment — three weeks on-site, and I had some artistic control. I’d been shocked, stunned, grateful, excited. I may have cried in Grady’s office, turning my face away to look out the floor-to-ceiling window at the ocean. He may have pretended not to notice.

Four weeks ago. The sunrise from West’s balcony.

A new comment under the picture caught my attention. Aubrey telling the world, “I love that particular view.”

I froze and checked the timestamp.

Earlier fucking today.

Unable to help myself, I clicked on her name and navigated to her page, creeping through her endless parade of toothy selfies.

I stopped and scrolled back and forth. There were three of West on there from the last month. All in public, at casual restaurants I recognized. He’d mentioned working on gala stuff more in the last few weeks, but I hadn’t realized he’d been meeting with her . One was him in profile, leaning back in a chair, one foot resting on the opposite knee. Another was taken at the Wreck, the pile of peanut shells in front of him an indication of how long they must have been together. Most recently, four days ago, was at Starbucks. Two cups of coffee sitting next to each other, their names scrawled on the cardboard, his big hand wrapped around the one labeled his.

I closed the laptop. It didn’t mean anything. Well, it did, but not like that. Being the main sponsor of the gala was huge for his growing business, considering it was the biggest social event of the year on Reynold’s Island. He had a lot riding on it, and the fact that it was being held on his grandparents’ sprawling estate only made him more anxious to have everything go well.

I knew he was nervous about it — about proving himself, especially to his parents, who would be flying down for the big event. He’d tried to brush me off that day in the hammock, telling me he didn’t get nervous. But his hand had gripped my foot as he’d said the words, and I heard the hesitation in his voice, his usual cockiness missing.

Still, it rankled that he hadn’t mentioned the meetings with Aubrey, even in passing.

“So are you and West official now, or what?” Theo asked around a mouthful of glazed doughnut. We were walking up the driveway to West’s house, where the Fourth of July barbecue was already in full swing. I was contributing a couple boxes of Krispy Kreme’s to the event, and Theo had insisted on sacrificing one for quality-control purposes.

I slipped my sunglasses on, stalling for time.

Were we? We hadn’t had that talk yet, but I wasn’t seeing anyone else, and most nights found us sharing the same bed. Work had been good for West the last few weeks, and a lot of nights, by the time he knocked on my window, it was too late to do anything but fall asleep wrapped in each other’s arms. Usually, he was gone before me in the morning, a paper airplane left behind on his pillow with his daily note to me. If for some reason we slept apart, I found the plane tucked under my windshield wiper.