My breasts spring free, heavy and aching, my nipples hard, begging to be touched and tasted.
“Fuck,” he curses, his eyes glued right to them. “Sorry. That’s all I seem to be able to say.”
“It’s alright.”
“It’s not very classy.”
“I don’t need classy. I just need you.”
That seems to unlock something inside him. Or unleash.
Either way, he’s ripping off his own T-shirt and giving me an insane view of his chiseled abs, his killer man V, the bulging muscles in his shoulders and arms, his pecs with his tight brown nipples, and all his delicious veins. He’s completely hairless. I know he gets it waxed off. I know a lot of intimate things. But it doesn’t make him less attractive. Knowing them is sweet. It’s like being entrusted with his secrets.
He strips off his leather pants, tugging and cursing at them under his breath. My shorts come off so much easier. I undo the button and zipper, and they fall down my legs.
I should be stopping this, not mewling, whimpering, and arching my back like I’m riding one massive hormonal wave that I have zero control over. But then there’s all the buts.
Buthe’s a great kisser.
Buthe smells like leather and bergamot, a little bit of oranges, almonds, and the sugary breakfast cereal he eats every single morning without fail.
Buthis hair is just starting to spring back from the wig, and since it was damp under there, it’s now curling in the most adorable way.
Buthis eyes are the most alluring green. Mint in a rolling meadow of wild grass.
Buthe’s beautiful the way everyone knows, and the ways they don’t. He doesn’t make country music, but it’s still just the chords and the truth for him.
Buthe’s fun and unpredictable. He dresses in leather pants, a wig, and a fake beard just to come and apologize.
Buthe’s a great, great kisser with ridiculously kissable lips,andhe tastes like mint and redemption.ANDthe red leather pants,ANDhis soft curly hair, and those green eyes, and allof both our histories crashing right into this hurricane of a moment.
He’s there, getting on his knees, gliding me around to face the island, and kissing along the insides of my thighs, so near to my yellow lace panties. All I can do is throw my head back, close my eyes, and pray this moment never ends.
If there were ever one moment that could be paused and framed, I’d like this to be it.
Minus my panty choice. They’re not a nice yellow. Or a nice lace. They’re more like the last thing I had in my drawer because I still haven’t unpacked my bags from the tour bus, even though it’s been a week.
Denial? Probably. Wounded, screaming, horrible pain that I couldn’t acknowledge? Unpacking my bags feeling very much like I’m unpacking all that? Probably. Probably all of that.
“Jack,” I whimper, twisting my fingers through his soft hair, barely hanging on already. “You’re going to destroy me.”
“Jack?” He looks up at me, a half smile of amusement tilting his lips.
God. Those. Lips.
They’regoing to destroy me.
“Do you prefer Jackson?”
“I prefer whatever you want to call me. No one calls me Jack.”
“I know.”
“No one calls me Jackson either. I hate it.”
“I know that too.”
“Nothing makes me want to morph into a monkey and fling poop more than that.”
