Chapter 12

SOPHIE

The moment the screen door clicked shut, Phil had no way left to pretend he did not know why Sophie was there. She had said it outright in the garage, blunt enough to knock the air out of him: she wanted him. Not Gemma, not a ride, not another fake question about her car. Him. And now she was inside his house with flushed cheeks, an overnight bag, and the same heat in her eyes she had been throwing at him for weeks across the workbench. The problem was not confusion. The problem was that Phil wanted her too, and wanting her did not erase the rest of it. Sophie was eighteen. Sophie was Gemma’s friend. Sophie had crossed his threshold like all those fake car questions had finally turned into the only real one.

“House is a mess,” he muttered, but stepped aside anyway. Sophie brushed past him, smelling like coconut sunscreen and something warmer underneath. He noticed—couldn’t help it—how the denim shorts rode up when she took the stairs two at a time.

“Bedroom’s cleaner,” he found himself saying, and immediately wished he could bite the words back. But Sophie just laughed, tossing her hair over one shoulder.

“Your place isn’t messy,” she said, fingers trailing over a framed photo of Gemma at thirteen, braces gleaming. “Just lived in.”

Phil grunted, pushing open his bedroom door with more force than necessary. The overhead light flickered on, revealing a queen bed with military-tight corners and a nightstand cluttered with carburetor parts. “You know where the bathroom is if you—”

Sophie stepped past him, footwear discarded somewhere between the door and the edge of the rug. She climbed onto the mattress with a quiet sigh, knees sinking into the quilted coverlet. When she looked up at him, the nervous energy from the porch had melted into something slower, deliberate. “You gonna stand there all night?”

He exhaled through his nose, watching as she stretched out on her side, one arm propping up her head. The tank top rode up, exposing a sliver of tanned stomach. Suddenly he noticed something. “Sophie. You’re shaking.”

She blinked up at him, the faint tremor in her shoulders betraying her. “Am I?” A laugh, too light. Her toes curled against the quilt, pink polish chipped at the edges. Phil crossed the room in three strides, the bed dipping under his weight as he sat beside her. He reached out, thumb brushing her wrist—her pulse fluttered like a trapped bird against his calloused skin.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, low and graveled, “and we stop everything. No questions.” Sophie’s breath hitched. She twisted toward him and surged up, one hand fisting in his work shirt as her mouth crashed against his. The kiss tasted like salt and strawberry gloss, clumsy with nerves. Phil grunted, catching her by the hips as she nearly toppled them both backward.

She broke away panting, cheeks flushed. “I didn’t come here to stop,” she muttered against his lips. Her fingers worked at his buttons with more determination than skill. Phil caught her wrists, holding her still long enough to search her face.

“You sure?” His voice came out rougher than he intended. Sophie huffed, shaking her hair out of her eyes. “Jesus, Phil—yes.” She wriggled one hand free to yank her tank top over her head, the fabric catching on her earring before it landed somewhere near the nightstand. The sight of her—small, sun-kissed, a lace bra slightly crooked—knocked the air from his lungs.

He exhaled through his nose, slow, before cupping the back of her neck and pulling her into another kiss. This one was slower, deliberate, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips until she moaned and opened for him. Her hands scrambled at his belt buckle, nails scraping denim. Phil chuckled against her mouth, guiding her fingers with his own until the metal gave way. “Easy, kid,” he murmured, nipping at her jaw. “We got all night.”

Sophie’s breath stuttered when his palm slid up her ribs, thumb brushing the underside of her breast. She arched into the touch with a whimper, her hips canting against his thigh. Phil groaned, rolling them until she was pinned beneath him, her legs falling open instinctively. The heat of her through their clothes was dizzying.

One hand tangled in his hair as she gasped, “Fuck, your mouth—” when he ducked to lick a stripe up her throat. He could feel her heartbeat rabbiting against his lips, the way her body trembled when he sucked a mark just below her ear. She smelled like summer and sweat, and when he dragged his teeth over the sensitive spot behind her earlobe, her thighs clamped around his hips hard enough to ache.

Sophie’s fingers fumbled with the clasp of her bra, frustration mounting until Phil reached back and unhooked it in one smooth motion. The lace peeled away, revealing small, pert breasts tipped with pink nipples already pebbled tight. He didn’t touch—just stared, drinking in the way her chest heaved—until she squirmed. “Phil,” she whined, hips lifting off the bed.

He palmed one breast and squeezed it gently. “Tell me what you want.” His other hand slid down her stomach, pausing at the waistband of her shorts. Sophie’s breath hitched, her nails digging into his shoulder. “You,” she gasped. “Your cock, please—”

Phil groaned, burying his face between her tits as he popped the button of her shorts. The zipper sounded obscenely loud in the quiet room. He dragged the denim down her hips, revealing damp lace panties that clung to her folds.

Sophie kicked the shorts the rest of the way off, her legs falling open in silent invitation. Phil traced the soaked fabric with a fingertip, watching her hips jerk. “Fuck,” she whimpered, arching off the bed when he pressed down.

Phil hooked a finger under the lace and dragged it aside, revealing her glistening pussy. The sight punched a groan from his chest—she was already dripping, her folds flushed pink and swollen. “Christ, Sophie,” he rasped, dragging his thumb through her slick and circling her clit. Her hips bucked violently, a choked cry escaping her lips.

“More,” she gasped, fisting the sheets. Phil obliged, slipping two fingers inside her with ease, the wet heat of her clamping down around him. Her back arched off the mattress, a broken moan tearing from her throat as he crooked his fingers just right. “Oh fuck—right there, right—” Her words dissolved into panting as he added a third finger, stretching her gently, his palm grinding against her clit with every thrust.

Sophie came with a strangled cry, her thighs clamping around his wrist as she shuddered through it. Phil slowed his movements, letting her ride it out before withdrawing his fingers with a filthy, wet sound. She whimpered at the loss, her chest heaving as she blinked up at him through dazed eyes. “Don’t stop,” she slurred, reaching for his belt.

Phil caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm before shifting down the bed. He hooked her legs over his shoulders, nosing through her curls before flattening his tongue against her pussy in one long, slow lick. Sophie’s hips jerked, her fingers tangling in his hair as he lapped at her, savoring the taste of her—salt and sweetness and pure teen. He flicked her clit with the tip of his tongue, grinning against her when she yelped.

Sophie’s thighs trembled against Phil’s shoulders as he worked her over with his mouth, alternating between broad, languid strokes and quick, teasing flicks of his tongue. Her breath came in ragged gasps, fingers tightening in his hair each time he sucked her clit between his lips. “Oh god—Phil—I can’t—” she babbled, her hips rolling helplessly against his face. He hummed against her, the vibration wringing a sharp cry from her throat as her back arched off the bed.

When she came again, it was with a broken sob, her body seizing as he lapped her through it, gentling his touch only when her legs began to shake too violently to hold up. Phil kissed his way up her stomach, lingering over the flutter of her ribs, the rapid pulse at the base of her throat.

He allowed her some time to recover, giving her the chance to make the next move.

GEMMA

The bedroom smelled like pine soap and old paperbacks, the blinds half-drawn to let in slanted afternoon light. Paul deposited her on the edge of the bed with a gentleness that made Gemma’s chest ache—like she was something precious, something worth handling with care. She stretched one leg out toward him, the white sneaker dangling precariously from her toes. “Undress me,” she ordered, tilting her chin up. “And start with the shoes. I like... rituals.”

Paul’s fingers trembled as he unlaced Gemma’s trainer, his calloused hands moving with deliberate slowness. The shoe hit the floor with a soft thud, followed by its twin. He peeled her sock off one foot, then the other, exposing her toes—painted a glossy pink that was chipped at the edges from cheer practice. The scent of warm skin and salt hit him before he even lowered his mouth. His tongue dragged along the arch of her foot, tasting the faint tang of her sweat. She gasped, her toes curling reflexively against his lips. “Fuck—yes!” she breathed, fingers twisting in the quilt beneath her.

Paul groaned against her skin, his grip tightening on her ankle as he sucked two toes into his mouth, swirling his tongue between them. Gemma arched off the bed with a whimper, her thighs clamping around his shoulders. “I knew it,” she panted, watching him through half-lidded eyes. “You do have a thing for feet.”

He didn’t deny it—just hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her shorts and tugged them down in one slow motion, his breath hitching as the fabric slid over her thighs. The scent hit him first—warm skin, the musk of arousal. Gemma lifted her hips to help him, her smirk widening when his fingers faltered against the lace.

She shuddered, her head falling back as he leaned in, his breath hot through the fabric. “Fuck—” she gasped, fingers twisting in his hair when he dragged his tongue along the soaked lace. Her thoughts dissolved into a moan as his thumbs hooked into the waistband, peeling the panties down her thighs with agonizing slowness.

The cool air hit her skin just before his mouth did—wet, open-mouthed kisses trailing up her inner thighs, pausing to nip at the delicate skin where her legs met her hips. Gemma’s breath hitched when he finally reached her core, his tongue pressing flat against her folds in one slow, deliberate stroke. “Oh, God!” she whimpered, her thighs trembling around his ears. “Paul—please—”

But he took his time, his hands gripping her hips to hold her still as he explored her with lips and tongue—teasing, tasting, savoring every hitch of her breath. When his tongue flicked over her clit, Gemma nearly sobbed, her back arching off the bed. “You—you’re killing me,” she gasped, her fingers tightening in his hair.

Paul chuckled against her, the vibration sending another shockwave of pleasure through her. “Patience,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh before dragging his tongue through her folds again. “Good things take time.”

Gemma groaned, her head falling back onto the pillows. She’d never been touched like this—like she was something to be worshipped, savored. Most boys her age just fumbled and rushed, but Paul ... Paul knew exactly what he was doing.

Her breath caught when his fingers joined his tongue, one thick digit sliding effortlessly into her as his mouth closed around her clit. Gemma cried out, her hips jerking against his face as pleasure spiraled through her. “Fuck—fuck!” she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders. “I’m—I’m gonna—”

But Paul didn’t let her finish—just curled his finger inside her and sucked her clit into his mouth, and Gemma shattered, her orgasm crashing over her so hard her vision whited out for a second. She came back to herself panting, her thighs trembling around Paul’s ears, his tongue still lapping gently at her oversensitive folds.

Gemma lifted her head, blinking down at him through sweat-damp bangs. His lips were slick with her, his chin glistening where she’d soaked him. The sight sent another jolt of heat through her. “Now,” she murmured, sitting up on unsteady arms. “Take my shell off.”

Paul’s fingers hesitated at the hem of her garment, the fabric thin from too many washes. He swallowed hard when Gemma lifted her arms, letting him peel it off over her head. His knuckles brushed her ribs, his breath catching when the fabric caught for a second on her bra.

Paul exhaled sharply, his fingers tracing the edge of the lace where it cupped her breasts. “Jesus, Gemma,” he muttered, but he didn’t stop, his thumbs brushing her nipples through the fabric. Gemma gasped, her hips jerking involuntarily.

The thong was barely there, a scrap of lace riding high on her hips. Paul’s gaze dropped to it like a man staring at the edge of a cliff.

Gemma hooked her fingers into his belt loops, tugging him closer. “My turn,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to the hollow of his throat. His pulse jumped under her lips. She worked his shirt buttons one by one, her mouth following her fingers—kissing each new inch of skin as she uncovered it.

Her fingers worked the last button of Paul’s shirt loose, her breath hitching as she pushed the fabric over his shoulders. His chest was soft—a gentle swell of middle-aged comfort dusted with graying hair—but his arms were thick with the kind of strength that came from years of lifting lumber. She traced the line of his collarbone with her tongue, tasting salt and sawdust, before nipping at the spot where his neck met his shoulder. Paul groaned, his hands tightening on her waist as she dropped to her knees.

The belt buckle was stubborn, her fingers clumsy with anticipation. Once opened, Gemma deftly removed his pants, her cheeks flushing when Paul chuckled above her. “Patience,” he murmured, brushing a thumb over her bottom lip. She bit it—hard enough to make him hiss—before finally yanking the belt free. She took his pants off, and she saw the strained outline of his cock beneath cotton briefs.

Gemma exhaled shakily, pressing her face against the damp fabric. He smelled like sweat and soap and male. Her fingers hooked into the waistband, dragging his underwear down. Paul’s cock sprang against her cheek, hot and heavy, the tip already glistening.

“Fuck,” she breathed, wrapping her fingers around the base. It was thicker than she was used to, the veins standing out under her touch. She licked a stripe from root to tip, savoring the way his stomach muscles jumped. Her tongue started to swirl around the head.

Paul groaned, his fingers tightening in her hair—not guiding, just holding on as she took him deeper. Gemma’s lips stretched around him, her tongue pressing along the underside as she bobbed her head. His hips jerked involuntarily when she hollowed her cheeks, her nose brushing the coarse curls at his base.