In fact, there’s a good chance this preview is going to turn into a full feature film. One where Van Gogh sees things she’s never seen before. Me, on my back on this mattress, legs split like a hung jury, this man in between them, making the van rock harder than NYA when they play a sold out show.
His other hand travels down his abdomen, over his shirt, until the tips of his fingers meet the start of his pants. Weston slips a thumb beneath the waistband and pulls down, away from the shirt that’s slinking up, up, up too slowly for me to possibly see enough.
“Tell me when to stop,” he says in a low voice.
My eyes find his, defiant in my silence, and then crawl down his body as slowly as his did on mine. The way he soaked in my bare skin shamelessly, I pay it forward, doubled. I watch as his left hand brings that shirt higher, revealing inch by inch of tanned, toned skin covering more abs than I can count as my breath whooshes out of me.
Is he for real? Who does he think he is, a fitness influencer? Nobodyneedsthat many abs.
Why does he bother painting when he could sell shots of his muscles and never have to do a day of physical labor again? Better yet, maybe he could offer body shots off of that stomach?
One hand pulls down further on his pants, and a dangerous dusting of soft hair makes my lips part with a gasp of a breath I’m praying he couldn’t hear. I might as well have moaned “fuck me.”
This would be a good time to wipe my mouth in case any drool is getting out, but I’m too distracted. That hand with the shirt finally, finally clears his stomach, showing me his defined pecs—not a piercing in sight, and I’m almost glad. It would’ve been a desecration of his creator’s will to doanythingother than worship that chest with my own body.
The muscles beneath the golden skin that force my eyes to follow the hard lines down, down, across his chiseled abs, those indentations at his hips, to the rest of him he’s so clearly willing to show me.
“Are we even?” His voice has dropped dangerously low, to a timbre that makes me shiver as it scrapes across my skin. “I sawyour chest, you saw mine. Or would you like to have the upper hand here?”
My eyes are locked on his right hand, the way it’s dragging the waistband further down than I thought he’d go.
“It’s your call, darlin’.” He pulls my eyes back up to his, but my mouth is too dry to speak up.
This is a game of chicken where there are no losers if he just doesn’t stop the show.
I won’t call him on his bluff if he doesn’t call me on mine.
Proving how well he intuits me already, Weston takes the hint, hears the silent plea—maybe he smells the change in my chemical makeup, the way I’m ready for him, all bets are off, fuck my normal rules, I’ll bend them all to appease this growing need that blazes to life inside me every time I’m around him.
With his shirt held high, there’s nothing blocking my view from his entire lower abdomen, as he pulls the pants lower, lower, until I can see the base ofmuchmore than I showed him.
The stem of what would surely be the best ride of my life, given the chance.
My stomach drops into my core, thighs tightening, inner muscles clenching at the thickness I see there, the hint of what continues far, far below what I can see, if that girth is any indication of the length.
Is it my time to leave town yet?
Do I even need to wait for my last night?
This pull between us is intoxicating, a heavy presence in the van that makes the air thick as we stare one another down. I’m so desperate to explore it, I can probably talk myself into giving in now, instead of waiting until my van and I are ready to keep moving.
A visceral memory as a keepsake of this adorable town, the kind people in it, and the hottest man I’ve ever seen seems like a worthwhile compromise to my ordinarily stringent rules.Besides, I’ve avoided emotional attachment all this time. It should be no problem to keep my heart out of this equation, just like with all the other one-night stands, even if I am stuck here for another few weeks after the hookup.
Hooking up with him would surely be worth any awkwardness that lingered after the orgasms have faded.
My imagination runs wild with what Weston looks like beneath the remaining clothes, what he looks like hard and ready. How he’d look as he’senteringme, and that’s when my knees start to buckle.
I drop backward onto the bed, not entirely a conscious move, but fuck it. I’m ready to break some of my rules and take it there. Finish what his hands and both our eyes have started.
But the knock at the door might as well be the wet rag tossed over the budding flame. Or maybe an entire bucket of cool water, judging from the look on Weston’s face as he drops his shirt and yanks his pants back up in less than a blink when he hears Wyatt’s voice on the other side.
“Amelia, are you in there?”
The roar of the flame between us turns into a sizzle and douses out completely with a lackluster hiss.
SEVEN
WESTON
