I swallow. “I can?”
“Yeah. I liked it when you inked me. I want more.”
“I would love to give you another tattoo,” I tell her, and I can’t resist. I thread my hands through her hair, grab hard on the back of her head, and pull her in for another kiss. This time, I lead. I inhale her, savor her, run my tongue along her sexy lips, then crush my mouth to hers, hearing her whimper as I kiss her deeply. I want to kiss her so hard and so fiercely that it erases every other kiss she’s had, every memory, every client, every moment with another man. I want to brand her with my kisses, mark her as mine, make her lips all red and swollen, so everyone knows I’m the only one allowed to touch her, the only one with permission, the only one she’s ever wanted.
We kiss like that for hours, or maybe minutes, and she’s wiggling against me, and sighing into my mouth, but then her hands are back on my chest, and she pushes me away. A firm clear push.
Her nimble little fingers sneak their way down to my ribcage, to the new fresh art on my body. Three trees, twined together.
“Your trees,” she says, ginger with her touch, even though it doesn’t hurt. “You had them done today.”
“Yeah, I did.”
“They’re beautiful. And they’re perfect, because a tree can be many, many things. But it is always, forever and ever, the symbol of life,” she says with a kind of reverence as she stares, mesmerized, tracing the outlines on my flesh.
Life. It’s what’s happening now. It’s the real, scary, dangerous, amazing possibility in front of me. There are no guarantees. I don’t know what happens next or tomorrow or in a week or a month. With all my other women, I knew what they were. They were temporary. They were pills, they were bottles, they were long, slow hits on a pipe. Some left you high for hours, some for days, the rare few for a week or more. But you always came down. You always found another. I kept painting over all the vacant corners in my heart, a new coat, then another, then I’d try for one more.
But now, I don’t know what’s going to happen.
And I have to be okay with that. All I know is this moment, this night, is the closest I’ve ever come to magic, and I want to feel every second of it.
“Your turn,” I say, grabbing her hip, tugging at her shirt. “Let’s take your shirt off.”
“Why, I thought you’d never ask,” she says, playfully, and in seconds she is shirtless too.
God, she’s breathtaking. She has the most beautiful body I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen plenty. But no one can hold a candle to Harley. I could say it’s her breasts or her belly or her legs. But it’s not. It’s the tiny mole on her right shoulder. It’s her elbow. It’s her ragged cuticle. It’s the slim white scar on her kneecap from field hockey. It’s every part.
“I have no choice. I have to take your bra off,” I tell her, then loop my hands around her back and undo her bra, letting it fall to the floor. I cup her breasts and she gasps. I knead them and watch her reaction as she closes her eyes and her head falls back. Her lips are parted and she breathes out hard as I run my thumbs over her nipples. Reflexively, she moves closer, shifting her hips, and I don’t know how the hell I’m going to hold out, because I love everything about how her body reacts. I want to know every inch of her. I want to kiss her from head to toe. I want her under me, on top of me, beside me. I want to drown myself in her scent, in her taste, in her.
I bury my head between her breasts, licking and kissing and squeezing, and her hands shoot up to my head. Her fingers grapple through my hair, and she tugs my mouth closer, and I go with it. I give her what she wants. More of my mouth, kissing and flicking her pert nipples, until she’s panting harder, and I can’t fucking wait anymore.
I’ve gone six months without tasting her on my lips, and I want to be drenched in her right now.
I pull back, plant a quick kiss on her lips, then trail my tongue along her jawline up to her ear. “Let me go down on you.”
She doesn’t answer immediately. Then quietly, in a small, squeaky voice, she says “Okay.”
But she’s all monotone and she doesn’t sound into it. I give her a sharp stare, tilting my head. “Okay? That’s it? Just okay?”
“Trey,” she says, and her voice is shaking.
“Trey what?”
“Do I have to spell it out?”
“No. I mean, maybe yes. I just want to make sure you want it.”
“It’s hard for me to say what I want,” she says, turning her head, and flinging her hand over her eyes.
I gently remove her hand. Kiss her eyes. “Hey. It’s okay. I’m sorry. I don’t want to pressure you.”
“I want it,” she says. “I want you. It’s just that I’m not used to wanting it. Okay? I don’t know how to ask for it.”
I grin. I can’t help myself. “This is how you ask for it. Trey, I’m dying for your face between my legs. Say that.”
She narrows her eyes at me and huffs.
“Just try,” I say softly, nuzzling her neck.
“Why?”
“Cause it’s so fucking hot to hear you say that I think I might come just from hearing you say that.”
She smacks my shoulder. “Jesus.”
“I’m sorry, but you’re insanely hot, and I’m dying to taste you and I know you’re not vocal or into saying what you want and that’s fine. But fuck, Harley. I’ve never wanted anyone like this. And I could spend all night touching your body. And it’s not because you’re hot or beautiful. Because you are those things. It’s because you’re you. You’re the girl I want. You’re the girl I want to be with. You’re the girl I’m crazy for.”
She inhales sharply. “Trey,” she whispers. I meet her eyes, they are fiery and wild, but tentative too. Then she pushes through. “I’m dying for your face between my legs,” she says in a broken little whisper, so low it’s almost inaudible, but I hear every delicious word and they set me on fire.
I undo her jeans, pull them off quickly, then tug off her panties. I don’t even have time to admire them. I have a mission and I’m going for it.
My whole body is a live wire right now. I am consumed with nothing but desire for her. My bones, my blood, my nerves are all firing at mach speed with the need to have her. Of course, I’m pretty sure all the blood in my body has been diverted to one place and one place only because I am too hard for words.
But fuck words.
It’s time for action.
She trembles with anticipation and looks at me with desire, want and the tiniest bit of fear, but I know she’s not scared of me. It’s the fear of letting herself feel that’s gripping her. But I am going to make her feel everything. I place my hands on her knees. “I’m going to spread your legs now,” I tell her.
“Okay,” she says with a twinkle in her eyes, giving that lame-ass word right back to me. But her okay doesn’t bug me now. Because her body has made everything clear. She’s so ready, she’s beyond ready, it’s like she’s fucking glistening for me, and I can not wait to taste her.
She lets her legs fall open, and that’s it. I’m fucking done. I kiss the inside of one leg, from behind her knee, up her thigh. She shivers, the soft little hairs on her leg stand on end. Then I switch to her other leg, inching closer, and she’s already breathing harder. Her hands search for me, her fingers lacing through my hair as she tries to pull me in.
“Do you want me to lick you, Harley?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to taste you now?”
“Yes,” she says again, her voice nearing a beg.
“Do you want me to make you come on my tongue?”
“Yes, please,” she says, and that last word has several syllables as it turns into a long, low moan of pleasure as I bring my lips to her. To where she wants me. God, she tastes fucking amazing, and I have missed this, I have dreamed of this, I have jerked off to this many, many times. And now I’m back in the promised land, where I want to be. I want to have her, to kiss her, to do everything to her with my mouth. To feel her body move and arch against my face.