TESSA EVER AFTER by Brighton Walsh
In this grippingly emotional New Adult novel from the author of Caged in Winter, what you want isn’t always what you need…
Jason’s been living (and loving) the rich playboy lifestyle for five years, but now his parents are pressuring him to get involved in the family business. The last thing he wants is another obligation, but when his best friend moves out of state and asks Jason to look after his sister, he can’t just say no.
Tessa had to grow up way too soon. After dealing with the aftermath of her parents’ deaths, then becoming a teenage mom, she knows the meaning of responsibility. Which is why, at twenty-two, she’s looking for so much more than a party boy. She’s looking for someone who can stand by her and her daughter…forever.
A relationship between them is doomed from the start, but who says they can’t have a little fun? But as Jason gets closer to Tessa—and her daughter—fun starts to turn into something else… Something Jason’s not sure he’s ready for.
The word isn’t out of her mouth before I lean down, her face cupped in my hands as I press my lips to hers. And her lips—Jesus, her fucking lips. They’re soft and warm, and she doesn’t hesitate to move them along with mine. With a groan, I press into her farther, trapping her body between mine and the wall, and Christ, she feels good. Her hands finally come away from the wall and press into my sides, her fists bunching up the material of my shirt, and I want more. I want to feel them against my skin, all over my body. I want her gripping and grappling and scratching. I want her teeth marks on my shoulder and scratches from her nails down my back. I want her moaning and writhing and panting and crying out my name. I want to sink into her, to feel her pussy pulsing around me, to see what she looks like under me as I fuck her.
I pull my mouth away from hers and kiss my way across her cheek to her ear. I trace the shell with my tongue, loving her moans of encouragement. “How much, Tess? How much will you give me?”
“What?” And I can’t deny how much I love the raspy timbre of her voice, the breathless and almost confused way she answers. Like her mind is focused only on the responses from her body. Like I got her so worked up, she can’t comprehend a simple question.
I pull back to look at her face. “How far do you want this to go? Can I take you to your bedroom?”
Her eyes go wide and panicked for a minute, and I rub my thumb along her jaw, soothing her.
“All right, no bedroom. It’s okay. I won’t push.” I press a quick kiss to her lips. “I can do a lot in a hallway.” With a smile, I duck down, sucking on the skin of her neck, and her head falls back against the wall again, her hands pulling me to her.
“No sex,” she says, and I don’t know if it’s my ego imagining it or not, but it seems like she has to force the words out, as much to warn me off as to remind herself of it.
“No sex,” I repeat, nodding, already leaning in for another kiss.
She mirrors my efforts, her tongue searching for mine even before I can coax her mouth open. The sounds she makes, the way she moves her body against mine gets me harder than I can remember being in a long time. And I don’t know if it’s the taboo of this—if it’s because I’ve finally got someone who’s been off-limits for so long in my hands—or if it’s simply Tess.
Our height difference makes it awkward to kiss her and grind up on her in the way that makes her moan, so I reach down and grip the back of her thighs, lifting her up and against the wall as I guide her legs around my hips. With one hand gripping her ass to hold her up, the other trails up her leg, not stopping when I get to the material of her too-short dress now bunched around her hips. Knowing the only thing keeping me from her pussy is the thin scrap of lace I feel against my fingers makes me groan and press against her harder, my hips swiveling and trying to find the right rhythm that gets her exactly where she needs to be.
This is what I’m good at, what I’ve always been good at. Finding what makes a girl moan, scream, melt into a boneless heap under my hands. What gets her off. And while I want to do all that with Tessa, too, before it always felt like a duty. Like the least I could do for these women who agreed to spend nothing more than a night in my bed was to make sure they had a good time while they were there.
But with Tess . . . with her it’s so different. For one thing, I want so much more than a single night. I think I could spend days studying her body and not grow tired of it . . . not grow tired of her. And for another, I want to get her off. I want to give her pleasure, to see her come apart in my arms, to know I’m the only one making her feel like this.
I want to feel her soft and warm and wet, slip my hand under the material of her panties and make her come around my fingers. I want to pull the top of her dress down, put my mouth on her tits, suck her nipples until she screams, but I don’t want to push her too far. Instead, I grip her ass in both hands and press my cock against her, moving until she gasps against my mouth, her eyes heavy and sleepy-drunk as she stares into mine. She’s restless against me, her rhythm long since lost, her body seeking the release it desperately wants.
Against her mouth, I say, “Come on, baby. Let go. Just let go. Let me make you come.”
And even though I had it in my mind that I wasn’t going to, that I didn’t want to push, I move my hand up to the top of her thigh and slide my thumb over until it slips just under the material of her panties. She’s wet and smooth and Jesus Christ, I’m going to come in my goddamn jeans like I’m an inexperienced teenager again.
She tenses, gasps, then moans, and it doesn’t take more than a brush of my thumb against her clit before she comes, her head thrown back, her neck exposed, her chest heaving.
The complete and utter satisfaction I feel at being the one who was able to do that for her should embarrass me, but I can’t seem to muster up any shame. I love the fact that I got her off with little more than a swipe of my thumb against her and a few kisses. The thought of what she’ll be like when I’ve got a bed to work with, when I’m able to use my fingers and my tongue and my cock, sets my head spinning.
This is usually when I start thinking about my next conquest, already bored with the girl I’d just made come, but the thought of not doing this with Tess again makes my chest twist. And I realize with panic that I’m not bored. Quite the opposite.
I could see myself doing this for her every day for a month and not tiring of it. And that’s scary as hell.
Brighton Walsh spent nearly a decade as a professional photographer before deciding to take her storytelling in a different direction and reconnect with writing. She lives in the Midwest with her husband and two children.