Back then, he’d come to school bruised and bloodied, and I’d patch him up behind the bleachers.
But these were not drunk losers. They were real-life mafia goons. They were armed, and the threat was more than a busted lip or bloody nose.
I saw what they did to him that night when he ended up back in my path, under my care in the emergency room.
I should be scared. I should think of Laddie and walk away at least until he clears things up.
But I want this. I want him so badly.
This kiss is slow, deep, and dizzying, and it burns all the way to my toes. We sway to the quiet rhythm of the music, bodies brushing, breaths tangling.
My hands start on his firm, solid biceps, then explore up his arms, around his shoulders, down the hard lines of his back, until they reach his waist.
His muscles flex under my touch, warm and solid, and it’s suddenly not enough to feel him through fabric.
Ineedto see him.
I reach for the first button of his shirt and begin working my way down slowly. With each one undone, more of him appears.
He’s broader now than when we were eighteen. There’s more hair on his chest, more strength in every line of him. When I slide the shirt off his shoulders, I actually gasp, and he gives me that crooked little smirk, eyes dark with desire.
I can’t help touching his chest, his shoulders, the ridges of his abs.
He’s perfect.
Completely unfair. Even the faint trail of hair leading down beneath his jeans makes my mouth watery.
“I need more,” I whisper, my voice rough with want as I fumble with his belt, the button, then the zipper.
He kicks off his shoes, steps out of his pants, and for a heartbeat we’re both still, the air between us buzzing. My cheeks burn as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxer briefs.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
In this moment, he is both a new man I barely know and a young man I knew better than anyone.
I nod, and he slides the last of his clothes down those long, muscular legs.
My breath catches, my mouth goes parched.
He’s hard, thick, smooth… somehow even bigger than I remember.
“Your turn,” he murmurs, stroking himself slowly, just like I’ve seen him do on the phone. The sight alone makes my pulse trip over itself.
I bite my lip, trying to calm my nerves.
I’ve shown him everything before, but this feels different.
More raw.
More real.
My hands tremble as I start to move, but he steps in, close enough that I can feel his warmth. His free hand slides up, pulling the pins from my hair, letting my curls tumble loose. He cups my cheek, leans in, and his teeth graze the edge of my jaw.
“I want to see you naked for me,” he breathes in my ear, and it causes a full-body shiver.
I peel away my denim jacket, my shoes. I slip the straps of my dress over my shoulders, then slip the soft fabric over my breasts, belly, and hips. It falls to the floor without a sound.
I’m in a nude, lace bra and thong; these slips of lace are the only armor I have left.
