Bad Girl Reputation by Elle Kennedy

I breathe out his name because I can’t take the static anticipation a moment longer. I just want him already. I need him to put me out of my misery.

Evan glides his hand up my spine, under my shirt, to unhook my bra and let it slide down my arms. I grab his hand, guide it to my breast. Still, he stubbornly refuses to move.

“Why are you teasing me?” I demand.

“Because I never want this to end.” His thumb brushes over my nipple in the most feather light of caresses.

I groan my desperation and buck against him, grinding on his dick.

Chuckling softly, he brings his other hand up and clasps both breasts now. “Better?”

“No,” I mumble. “You’re still not moving.” And the feel of his entire length lodged inside me, completely motionless, is a new form of torment. No oxygen is reaching my lungs. My skin is on fire, and I’m close to self-combusting.

“Breathe.” His voice is soft in my ear, his fingers playing with my nipples. “Take a breath, baby.”

I manage a shaky inhale, and just as the air fills my lungs, Evan withdraws slowly. I’m mid-exhalation when he slides back in, sending a wave of sensation through my body.

My head drops back on his shoulder, experiencing every inch of him. Pleasure tingles in my nipples and tightens my core as he moves inside me, slow and deliberate. When I can’t quell the need alone, I move his right hand between my legs.

“I’m close,” I whisper.

“Already?”

“Feels too good.” A ragged breath slips out. “Missed having you inside me.”

That earns me a satisfied growl. He runs his finger over my clit. Gentle at first, then more insistent when I moan for him. It isn’t long before I’m shaking, leaning against him for support as the orgasm sweeps through me.

“You’re gorgeous when you come,” he rasps against my neck.

As tiny flutters of pleasure continue to dance inside me, Evan bends me over the desk. He takes my hips with both hands and pumps into me with strong, forceful thrusts. Just the right intensity. Having me like it’s his last night on Earth.

I twist my head to look at him, floored by the raw need darkening his eyes, the blissed-out haze. When our gazes lock, he stills, groaning through his climax. He runs his hands up my back, soothing my muscles, laying kisses across my sensitive flesh. I’m sated and spent, panting, when he steps away to throw out the condom.

“I’m gonna grab a Gatorade,” he says, biting his lip as he stares at me. “Then we’re doing that again.”





CHAPTER 25

EVAN

“So there’s something I need to tell you,” Shelley says after our waiter seats us at a table overlooking the water. It was her choice to have dinner at this upscale restaurant, and as I pick up the menu and get a look at the prices, I’m already assuming I’ll be the one footing the bill.

More than that, I’m now suspicious as hell, because any time my mother starts a sentence with “there’s something I need to tell you,” it’s usually followed by the confession that she’s skipping town again, or she’s broke and needs cash. This is only the second time I’ve seen her since agreeing to give her another chance; last week we had lunch near the budget hotel where she works in housekeeping. She didn’t hit me up for money during that meetup, but I shouldn’t have presumed it’d be a lasting trend.

Catching my wary expression, she quickly waves a hand to dismiss my concerns. “No, no, it’s nothing bad. I promise.” But she doesn’t elaborate. Her cheeks turn a little pink.

“What is it?” I push, only to be interrupted by our server, who returns to take our drink orders.

Shelley requests a sparkling water. I ask for a pale ale, which could end up being a risky move depending on Shelley’s news. This past week, though, I’ve been testing myself to see if I can live that cheesy motto I gave Gen at the party last week: Learn to embrace moderation. I’d never push alcohol on Genevieve when she’s hellbent on sobriety, but, personally, I’d like to be able to have a beer or two at poker night without worrying about taking it too far.

“You know how I’ve always loved doing my hair and makeup and that kind of stuff?” Shelley shifts awkwardly in her chair, one hand fidgeting with her water glass. “Pretty good at it too.”

“Yeah … ?” I don’t know where she’s going with this.

“So, well, I was talking to Raya … you know, that coworker I was telling you about last week?”

I nod. “Right. The chick with the psycho toddler who killed their goldfish.”

Shelley sputters with laughter. “Evan! I told you, baby, that was an accident. Cassidy’s only three. She didn’t know fish can’t breathe out of water.”

“Sounds like something a psychopath would say.”

My mom lets out a loud snort that causes the couple in the neighboring table to glare at us with deep frowns. The woman is wearing a string of pearls and a high-necked silk blouse, while the man’s rocking a polka-dot ascot. I’m surprised they don’t go all out and shush us. They look like shushers.

Shelley and I exchange an eye roll, a moment of shared humor that makes me falter for a beat. This is a whole new mother-son experience for us. I mean, having dinner on the waterfront, exchanging conspiratorial looks about the uptight patrons next to us. Laughing together. It’s surreal.