She’s a lost woman trying to do her best in trying circumstances, and there goes my cock once again. Effort is sexy.
She’s leaving, dumbass. Don’t go there.
I did the romp-in-the-sheets-with-my-best-friend thing once already.
Didn’t end so well.
And now it’s been two years since I’ve had sex, which high school me would’ve choked and died over, and I’m not jumping into bed with the first woman who stares at me like she wants to lick chocolate out of my belly button.
She might think I have a nice ass, but what else do I have going for me?
Hi, I’ve been in love with someone I can’t have for yearsisn’t exactly a turn-on.
“You have a birthmark in the shape of a mountain on your neck.” She shifts, unhooking one arm to touch the side of my neck, and a full-body shiver travels from my scalp to my nuts. “I have one in the shape of Dolly Parton’s profile on my shoulder blade. I hate it. It reminds me of how much we get judged for what we look like.”
This is practice. This is practice for when I step back out in the dating world. “Maybe it’s your own profile.”
She snorts softly, her breath tickling my neck. “I’d rather have Dolly. She went for what she wanted no matter what anyone said or called her at the time. She was the real deal. She’samazing. I’m just ... trying.”
“So you love-hate your birthmark?”
“I do.”
“Why not call it being in the shape of someone else you love for your own reasons and just love it without complications?”
“It’s very distinctive.” She releases me to step just far enough back that she’s still in my space bubble without actually touching me, though I swear I feel her belly still pressed against my erection, and she tugs at the collar of her shirt. “Want to see?”
Before I can answer, she pulls the shirt down her shoulder, revealing smooth, barely freckled skin over firm muscle, with a birthmark that she must cover with makeup on a regular basis, because I’ve looked at alotof her pictures, and I’ve never noticed it before. Her shoulder blade is a work of art, and I have zero doubt she’s spent years of her life sculpting it.
“Ah, yeah.” My voice is husky, my whole body tense, and my cock aching.
This isn’t attraction, I tell myself.
This is my body’s reaction to being near a woman who’s offered to help me get back in the dating game, who meets all the standards for beauty in the world, and who happens to currently look like she needs a hero.
I’m nothing if not a sucker for a damsel in distress. “That’s definitely Dolly Parton,” I finish.
“Right? I told you so.”
“How about these?” I brush a thumb over the freckles on her cheek as she turns back to face me, andbingo.
They smear.
It’s chocolate.
I smile. “Ah.Notfreckles.”
Her blue irises have disappeared behind her pupils. “Oh God, seriously?” she whispers. “How bad is it?”
I lick my thumb—not bean paste, that’s for damn sure—and swipe it over her cheekbone. I’m not taking advantage of touching her delicate skin. I’m not. I swear. “I’ve been around worse.”
Her voice drops to a whisper. “I sincerely doubt that’s true, and I say that as someone trying very hard to not be an egotistical drama queen.”
“Just chocolate.” I lick my thumb again. It’s subtle, but yeah, that’s the good stuff. “Goodchocolate.”
Her tongue darts out and swipes over her bottom lip. “You can tell me if it’s not good. I can take it.”
“Ah, look at this. You’ve got some on your ear too.” I need to back away. Right now.
