Bad Girl Reputation by Elle Kennedy

“You’re killing me, Gen.” Evan growls the words at whatever he sees playing out on my face. His fingers bite into my flesh. “Don’t do that unless you mean it.”

“Do what?”

“You know what.” Holding onto my waist, he walks us backward toward shore. “You’re having fuck-me daydreams. I’m pretty much there, if you want to go again.”

“I didn’t say that.”

He presses himself against me, letting me feel him hard against my leg. “You’re a tease, you know that?”

“I do.” We reach dry sand. Standing there, we stare at each other, until a tiny smile tickles my lips. “You like it.”

Then I kiss his neck. His shoulder. Down his chest until I’m on my knees with his erection in my grip, stroking him. Evan runs both hands into his hair and drops his head back, breathing heavy.

When I don’t do anything, he peers down at me, his dark eyes burning with need. “Are you just going to sit there, or are you going to suck it?”

“Haven’t decided yet.” I lick my lips, and he lets out a tortured groan.

“Tease,” he says again, trying to thrust forward.

I tighten my grip in warning, but that just makes his eyes gleam brighter.

“More,” he begs.

“More what?” I use my index finger to draw teeny circles around the tip of his cock, prolonging his torture.

“More everything,” Evan chokes out.

His hips snap forward again, seeking contact, relief. Laughing at his desperation, I slide my tongue up his shaft and then take him in my mouth.

He moans loud enough to wake the dead.

There are things about Evan I’ve missed more than others. Getting wasted, blacking out, waking up in a random closet of some random warehouse wearing clothes that weren’t my own—I could live without some of those memories. But how he makes me feel when we’re alone? How he gives himself over to me, trusts me completely—I love this version of us. The good us.

I relish in the soft groans that vibrate in his chest and the tension tightening his muscles. The way his hands drop to his hips, then to my hair, as he resists the urge to thrust hard and fast, because one time I gently bit him in warning and now he lives in fear of me—just a little. It’s our game. I’m on my knees but he’s the one at my mercy. I make him feel only what I give him. The pleasure and anticipation. Slowing to prolong the experience, rushing to pull him to the edge of frustration. Until finally, he breaks.

“Gen, please.”

So I let him come, pumping him until he reaches his release. Then, totally spent, he slinks to the ground and tugs me to lie with him on the blanket.

We’re quiet for a while. Surrounded by the comforting darkness, surrounded by only the sound of the breeze rustling the palm trees and the waves rushing up the sand.

“Did I tell you my mom texted me?” Evan says suddenly.

It’s not at all where I expect his mind to go, and I hesitate to entertain the subject. Not because it bothers me in any particular way, but I know it tends to upset him.

“She wants me to meet her in Charleston. Make amends or whatever.”

“Does Cooper know?”

“Nope.” Evan stretches to clasp his hands behind his head, prone under the stars. His beautiful profile is strained when I turn to peek at him. “Last time she was in town, she stole his life savings.”

“Oh jeez. That’s rough.”

“He got most of it back, but … yup. Needless to say, he’s not rolling out the welcome mat for her anytime soon.”

“Do you want to see her?” I ask carefully.

Shelley is a sore spot for Evan and his brother, and always has been. Whereas I was relieved to finally be freed from the standoff of my failed relationship with my mom, I’ve spent years watching Evan get his hopes up that one day his mother will come to her senses and love him, then have them utterly devastated. I don’t share his faith.

“I don’t want to be made a fool of again,” he confesses. He sounds bleak, exhausted. “I know how I look. Cooper thinks I’m an idiot, that I don’t get it. I do, though. I understand what he does, but I can’t help that I don’t want to miss the one time she might mean it. Maybe that sounds stupid.”

“It doesn’t,” I assure him. Naïve, maybe. Wishful, yes. Both qualities I’ve never put much stock in. But not stupid.

“It’d be different if it weren’t just Coop and me, I think. If our dad was still around.” He glances at me with a sad smile. “I mean if he wasn’t an asshole. And if we had a bunch of brothers and sisters.”

“My mom had too many damn kids,” I interject. “Trust me, that didn’t make her a better person. I guess having my brothers around helped me to not feel so lonely in that house, but nothing fixes it when you know your mom doesn’t give a damn about you.”

It’s strange how saying those words out loud—saying my mother didn’t give a damn about me—brings comfort rather than heartache. I told myself a long time ago I didn’t need her love or approval or attention. That I wouldn’t waste my breath on someone who couldn’t be bothered. And I kept telling myself that until I believed it, entirely and without hesitation. Now that she’s dead, I don’t miss the wasted years or regret all the times I saved myself the grief of trying. The best gift we give ourselves is respecting our needs first. Because no one else will.