He pulls back so he can look down at me, his face serious and intense as he cups my face. "I mean it. Tonight, everybody's going to the Horseshoe, and so are we. Together. No more hiding."
My heart trips into my sternum. "No more hiding?" I echo.
"I want you. I want to be with you."
"Really?" I breathe.
"More than I've wanted anything. Let me handle the shit talkers and haters. Somebody says something to you, you tell me. I'll take care of it. I told you I needed time to think, and I did. And I decided I don't fucking care. Nothing else matters if I can't have you."
I'm so overwhelmed that I don't know what to say as he thumbs my chin. So I whisper, "Kiss me," melting into him when he does. My heart shoots confetti cannons with every heartbeat. And I pour my yeses into that kiss, all my hopes and dreams and joy.
Here in his arms, I know everything will be okay. Never will I be so safe as I am when I'm with him. And now, I get to have him, for real. All the time.
Mine, mine, mine, mine,my greedy heart murmurs.
When he breaks the kiss, I full-on pout like a brat. Chuckling, he thumbs my protruding bottom lip.
"Greedy."
"Your fault," I note.
"We need to go look at the house," he says, but he's staring at my lips. His hand moves to my breast and squeezes.
I make a needy noise when he rolls my nipple, my hips bucking into him. "Then you better cut that out."
"Fine. But later, I'm gonna fuck you up, peaches."
I know he means it too. A shiver works through me.
He kisses me hard but brief, then rolls away from me and climbs out of bed. "I'll make something to eat. Take anything you want for clothes--most everything's in the dresser."
I haven't moved, too busy watching him pull on fresh joggers, no underwear. They're kinda tight, outlining his half-hard cock, and I hope he goes commando all day. His hands freeze on the drawstring when he sees me watching him. The sheets are pooled around my waist, my chest bare, hand resting on my stomach. I must look like I'm starving, I'm sure, and not for breakfast. I mean, not unless breakfast is kielbasa a'la Greyson Mchotbooty. Serve it with a side of fertilized eggs and my buttered up, toasted heart.
He shakes his head at me. "Put something on before I have to fuck you again."
"Well, now I'm definitely not gonna mind you."
He laughs--I note that his cock is now fully erect and trying to fight its way out of his joggers.
"You're gonna kill me, peaches." He leans down to kiss me sweetly on his way out, giving one of my breasts a parting fondle for good measure.
I sigh when he's gone--I really thought I might've had him. I don't want to leave bed or deal with the house or life oranything. What finally motivates me is the thought of picking out something of his to wear. My heart flippy flops as I put on my glasses and climb out of bed, then pad to his dresser, opening drawers. One is just socks. Seriously, there are like a hundred pairs of socks, all of them paired up in balls like a psycho. Another small one is just underwear. They're folded. Maybe he's a serial killer.
I shrug. Honestly, if he fucks me for real first, I'll die happy. If he ever says he loves me, I'll have done it all. Peaked right then and there. I'd probably die anyway. He can chop me into bits and bury me under the house after that.
I grab a pair of his black boxer briefs and step into them, flipping the band a couple of times, moving on to the next drawer, which is filled with T-shirts. When I say filled, I don't mean like there are a lot. I mean not only are they folded, but they're stacked vertically so they can be flipped through like a filing cabinet. There have to be fifty tees in here. I open the drawer next to it to find another fifty. Flabbergasted, I start to go through them and quickly realize something that makes my heart ache.
He must have saved every tee that meant anything to him since he was a teenager. Or at least in college, since they're all extra-larges. Or he was a huge teen. God, I bet he was so hot. Every girl in town must have wanted to get with him. I wonderif he had a serious girlfriend? I wonder what he wanted, back then? What he thought his life would be?
I wonder how what he has measures up?
There are shirts from University of Tennessee, from Roseville high. Shirts dating back to the late nineties, championship baseball, town events. My hand pauses over a red one, and I pull it out, opening it up. The fabric is thick and soft, and at the neck are two little buttons like a Henley. The front saysRenegadesin a swoopy baseball font, and the back says COACH across the shoulders with the number seven real big beneath it. As I pull it on, I draw a long breath, inhaling that latent scent of him until I'm dizzy.
Then, I catch the smell of coffee and float in the direction of the kitchen.
He's standing at the stove, shirtless, with that ass in those joggers, hair all mussed and jaw all chiseled, looking like a dream. I'm on my way to wrap my arms around his waist, just a few feet away.
"Coffee's about ready if you--" When he sees me, he stops dead, the pan in front of him sizzling.
