Ready and Abel
Zoey
There have been nights where I have fantasized about being with Abel to the point where my mind has been completely convinced of the event—my body, however, has been slow to believe. Tonight, I’m up for making both my mind and body aware of the fact as Abel and I make this forerunning fantasy of mine the gospel truth.
My fingers shake as I spin the knob to the tiny boathouse. I have never been nervous about a thing in my life, and here my hand is shaking. It’s not nerves, though. It can’t be. I’m simply shaking to have this man, this beautiful sculpted piece of flesh, this angel, this devil in disguise that crawled up this mountain just to be with me. My body heats as I switch on the lights—a sophomoric blunder, and for a moment, I consider switching them right back off. As much as I hate to admit it, a pitiful part of me has waited to be rescued ever since my parents up and vanished. Cinderella Complex, my college roommate called it after a bourbon-sponsored confessional. She was right, of course, which was easy for her to peg, considering she was a psych major. She graduated last spring, and I hear she has a job in hotel management. I’m glad the degree came in handy for her.
“Would you like something to drink?” I head straight for the wine. The truth is, I’m partaking whether or not he decides to join me. Hell, I’ll just have enough for the both of us.
Abel catches me by the waist and spins me into him, trapping me there with those heavy bottom-of-the-ocean eyes. “If we’re doing this, it has to be sober.”
I give a halfhearted attempt at swallowing down the lump in my throat.
“The sketches?” His brows flex as if calling out my perverted mind.
“Oh, right.” I break free from his grasp and make a beeline for my supplies. Damn hormones have me scattered all over the place. Have I actually abandoned the vino for a man? My knees wobble as if shouting the answer from my weak sinews. “Just go ahead and”—I look up and startle as Abel takes his shirt off one button at a time—and with me all the way across the damn room. Normally, I complain about the boathouse being the size of a shoebox but, at the moment, it feels like an oversized palace. Every inch feels like a mile. “That’s perfect.”
His fingers work down the front of his dress shirt, slow and easy, but those day-glow eyes never take themselves off mine. It’s as if he’s testing me—calling me out on my little girl playground games to see if I’ll bite. And as much as I want to prove him wrong, step up to the sexual plate, something about this entire scenario feels off. Abel is the hunter tonight, and those are shoes I usually demand to fill.
My heart races as his chest is exposed, bronzed from an early summer. And just like that, he drops his shirt behind him like a seasoned stripper. Abel is beautiful, inside and out. Those masses of sheer granite he calls arms look thick and strong enough to hold up the mountain—to hold me all night if he had to. That broad chest with just the right peppering of hair to remind you this isn’t some prepubescent boy you’re playing with has my panties melting like cotton candy. My entire body electrifies at the sight of him. I’ve seen Abel in less than this, but something about having him here on my home turf, looking like a fantasy come to life, with that ready and willing look in his eye— I’ve all but turned into a stumbling virgin on prom night.
“How’s this?” He holds his arms out like a dare. His entire body glows a warm shade of bronze against the background of the stark white walls. Abel is a work of art, a statue bathing in the moonlight of the gods, a sculpture that my hands demand to worship.
“Per”—a breath hitches in my throat—“perfect.” I snap up a few charcoal pencils, my kneaded eraser, and flip open the largest of my sketchbooks to the first blank page. My hand smooths over the soft parchment as if it were his skin. “Go ahead and take a seat.” I glance to the bed uncomfortably. The thing about the boathouse is that it was never intended to hold company. There is a bed—a meager full-sized mattress at that—a table with two chairs, one of which is currently defunct with a bad wobble. The bathroom walls are so thin—the door is more of a formality—no tub, an unforgivable sin in my book, and a toilet that might as well be in the sink. But for whatever reason, it still feels as if Abel McCarthy were in a different universe.
“How do you want me?” he rumbles it low, erotic, and that tension deep down in my gut tightens like a coil.
I swallow down the knot building in my throat. I want him every which way. However, the missionary position might be a good place to start. At the end of the sexual day, I’m an old-fashioned girl at heart.
“On the bed.” It comes out parched, and I clear my throat. “I mean, you can sit across it if you like.”
Abel hops on, landing on his side. Those signature McCarthy dimples of his digging in as if he’s enjoying the fact I’m suddenly flustered.
“That’s great.” My cheeks heat a severe shade of crimson as I cower my way to the edge of the bed and begin sketching his form onto the blinding white page. I’ve sketched my fair share of people—wearing far less than he is at the moment, and yet my hand trembles as I feather the pencil across the page as if someone held a gun to my temple. I’m assuming we’ll get to the nude portion of the evening before long, and I’m hoping it’ll be me evicting his clothes with my teeth.
“It’s nice like this.” His voice resonates, deep and rich, vibrating across the bed and strumming its way to the inside of my thighs. “Seeing you in your element, I mean. You’re glowing.”
My face blooms with heat ten times hotter than before. “It’s just stifling in here.” I wipe my brow with my arm before pressing through this ridiculous newfound embarrassment and sketching his form twice as quick as before.
“Maybe you’re overdressed.”
I blink up at him, the pencil slipping from my grasp. “Are you propositioning me?” Holy hell, it’s happened. Abel McCarthy has reached the sexual brink, and he’s ready and ripe for the picking. And here I’ve reverted into a clumsy thirteen-year-old who’s suddenly face-to-face with the hottest boy on campus. What’s a naughty schoolgirl to do?
A smile twitches on my lips, but I’m too selfish to give it. My entire body breaks out in chills as our eyes lock.
“I’m sorry.” He winces as he falls back onto his elbows. “I shouldn’t have gone there.” He glares at the ceiling. “Maybe I’d better go.”
“No!” I slink next to him, knocking my sketchpad and supplies to the floor. “I mean, I need you. You’re my model, remember?” My knee grazes against his bare skin, setting off a wave of shivers in me. As much as I’d like to think I’m in the driver’s seat, I’m not anywhere near the steering wheel. Abel is driving this train, and I don’t think I’ve been this shaken in years—if ever.
He leans up and buries those monster blue eyes in mine. His hand strokes my hair, and every follicle tingles as it comes to life.
“I’m not being too much of a gentleman.” His dimples dig in as he frowns, a neat trick I’m not too interested in seeing him repeat.
A fist the size of the boathouse settles in my throat, and I manage to push through it. “A true gentleman gives a girl what she wants.” I pull his arm over my waist, swiping my finger over his lips. “And right now, this girl wants you.”
His lids lower just a notch, any trace of a smile, of anything affable melts off his features as he sees me through a lust-driven lens. “What are we doing?”
“You do like to analyze things from every angle, don’t you? You really are such a lawyer.” A laugh lives and dies in my throat. My chest lands inches from his, rising and falling as if I ran a lap around the lake. “You always need the rules laid out for you. We’re doing something reckless, something wild, some good old-fashioned fooling around.” Is that all I want from this beautiful man? My eyes fill with moisture, and I blink it away. “We draw the line in the sand at a relationship. We’re both adults.” My fingers glide through his hair as I give a little tug. “It will be paradise.”
