I gladly help her when she fists the back of my shirt and hauls it over my head. A new wave of goosebumps spreads with the cool draft of the room brushing my exposed skin.
I want her. I’ve wanted her like I’ve never wanted anyone or anything else before. I know so much of that has nothing to do with her touch. It’s been difficult for me to let people in. To get past ever feeling worthy. She—this—makes me feel worthy.
“You’re amazing,” I say—out loud, I think. Every touch is magnified and I’m drowning in it. Her hands slide through my hair again, tugging at the strands and tipping my head back. I can feel the vibration of the groan that accompanies the other sounds she is pulling from my body. Probably a heavy exhale and a choked version of her name when I discover she’s removed her shirt. Her bare breasts press against my chest, and I lose control, wrapping my hand around the small of her back. Fusing us impossibly closer.
She runs her tongue from my clavicle up my neck, and it’s my turn to thread my fingers in her hair. I might be abiding by her rules of no looking or listening, but I sure as hell am not keeping my hands to myself anymore. She doesn’t stop me either. Even when I use them to guide her face closer until our lips touch. She opens for me, invading my mouth with hertongue and my lap with her hips rocking. A new wave of arousal zips up my spine.
I’d be perfectly content kissing her all night. It doesn’t need to go any further than this. But the longer our kiss goes on, the more urgent it becomes. She finally draws the headphones off at the same time I open my eyes. We’re inches apart, sharing each other’s air, when I finally get to read her face. She’s more serious than I thought she’d be.
“Everett,” she whispers.
“Yeah?”
“There’s so much more to you than how you hear. You deserve not to let that hold you back anymore. You’re perfect just the way you are.”
27
SUMMER
His lips crash against my mouth the moment I’m finished speaking. They’re no longer nipping and teasing, they’re hungry for more—a confirmation that he must have liked what I said. That I made him feel seen for who he is. I want him to believe it.
He grips me by the waist and spreads me out on the comforter beneath him. Our hands, our hips, everything is fighting to get closer.
A choked “I don’t want to stop” flees his mouth.
“Then don’t,” I say, pushing on the waistband of his sweats. He’s hard as stone above me, and all I want him to do is bury me with it.
He props himself up on his elbows, sweeping away the tangled hair that’s fallen in front of my eyes. “I don’t have anything.”
“You don’t?” Not that I care. I don’t need him to have a condom when I’m already covered in that area. But I expected a famous musician—even one who lost his fiancée nine months ago—to be prepared. To have a cornucopia of women knocking down his door.
“I’m a single dad with no time. I haven’t been with anyone.” He creates a little more distance between our bodies. “Have you?”
“No,” I’m quick to reply. “Not since Brian. And I’m still on the pill.”
“Okay.”
“Okay. So, can we please stop the torture now?”
“You’retortured? I didn’t see you in a pair of headphones.” His lips close around the shell of my ear.
“You didn’tseeanything,” I tease.
“Exactly” is the last thing he says before he’s giving me another heady kiss and stripping off every other layer of clothing left between us.
He climbs on top of me and settles between my thighs. I reach for him, dragging his stiff cock exactly where I want it. My hips buck as it passes over my clit.
A throaty chuckle rumbles in his chest. “I knew you didn’t need anyone telling you what you want.”
He’s right; I know exactly what I want.Him. On his back with me straddling his waist.And that’s exactly what I do. He rolls with me until I’m above him, lifting up on my knees and sinking down on his length.
“I wantthis.” I clench down around him, and he hisses, eyes going to where we’re joined.
“Fuck, you’re so tight.”
A small part of me registers that those words are coming fromRhett Dawson. I’m being intimate with a man who has women shimmying their cleavage in his direction every time he walks by them. He could have anyone. But the greater part of me recognizes he’s here withme, givingmethis version of himself very few people know. That’s what makes this—him—more. More than one night with a famous musician. More thanall the words he hears and the ones he won’t. He’ll always be more to me than five weeks.
Tight bands of muscle tense in my thighs from the endless loop of circles he’s been drawing with the pad of his finger. Round and round and round until I wind so tight I’m chanting, “Don’t stop.” I wanted this to last. Wanted to take my time. To know what else draws out a choked version of my name from his mouth besides my bare chest. I’m not ready for this to be over yet, but my body is screaming to let go.
