His lips meet mine and his hands travel under the baggy layers of his shirt and sweatshirt, gripping my sides with a reverence that makes me feel claimed. I’ve never been someone who has ever wanted to be a possession. I want to be a strong, competent, capable woman, never needing anyone, especially not a man to make me feel whole, or of merit, certainly not a possession, but the way King handles me like I’m necessary for his own survival, makes me want to be every title, every significance to him, because he’s become so many of mine.
King’s hands trail higher, tracing the line of my bra and then over my clavicle, making me shiver and shift with impatience.
“I told you I’d make you remember. I didn’t rush this then; I sure as hell don’t plan on it tonight.”
“King.” My voice is quiet, nearly uncertain of what all I’m about to reveal. “I remember that night with such perfect precision. I have several notebooks of you that I will never be able to show others.”
The air between us thickens with the magnitude of my admission. “For months, I was desperate to find out who you were. Charleigh and I asked so many people about you, about your tattoos, scars. I couldn’t forget any of it. It was as though I was constantly reliving that night. I never expected you to walk through that door. I was so upset with you…” I’m not sure what I’m about to admit. That I was angry with him because he was even more attractive than I had managed to remember? That I felt used? Embarrassed? Elated? Terrified that he had forgotten me?
“You felt everything shift,” King says, tightening his hold on my waist where his hand rests just below my ribs. “I’m pretty sure it took me a week to convince myself it was really you.”
I’m tempted to tell him how much he means to me, but I don’t know how to unwrap my words from my lust. We slept together twice that night. I had laid in bed completely naked, tracing lines and scars over his body while laughing and revealing secrets about myself I’m fairly certain I didn’t even know about prior to that day. But it’s far more than that. I know King. While that night back in July was void of inhibitions and packed with trust and comfort, I now realize that part of that was simply an image that we both created and fostered. While neither of us has any idea what would have happened had his number not rubbed off or had Kenzie not meddled, I feel that we never would have become what we are today. I know how much he loves his family, the extents he would go to for his friends, and how much attention he’s been paying to me when I never even knew.
My hands glide over his chest covered by the thin barrier of his T-shirt as I take a step closer to King and slowly tilt my head, smiling as I do as if to pronounce my intentions. The right side of his lips rise with the uneven smile I now consider mine, and his head tilts forward, his chin tilting to prevent another collision. Our lips move slowly, tracing over each other with the intention of imparting every detail of this night to memory. With each ridge my hand travels over, the muscles in my stomach get tighter. King’s hands are stretched wide as they travel under the cotton layers. I feel the pads of his fingers pressing into my skin like they don’t want to let go, and the reverence they possess as they slide across my ribs, my stomach, my lower back, making me move even closer to him, knead my fingers deeper into his skin, press myself flush against him. It elicits a groan from King that I trap with my mouth.
His hands are spread against my back, searing their memory into my skin while mine run over his shoulders, tying him to me as our tongues trade promises.
King releases me slowly, sliding down my sides and fisting my sweatshirt and T-shirt together. His tongue presses more firmly against mine, the stubble on his chin deliciously sharp as his head moves forward with the intensity of his kiss that only lasts a moment before he draws back and pulls the shirts from me in one fluid motion.
The lighting is muted, yet King stares at me as though I’m a fine painting being showcased with impeccable light. As his eyes slowly trail down my body, I step forward and place a hand on his chest and tilt my head forward. King leans his upper body back and rips his own shirt free before pressing his warm chest against mine.
His lips graze against mine, but before I’m able to kiss him back, his hands are gripping my thighs, encouraging me to lift them to wrap around his waist. Thoughts of being too big, heavy, and awkward for this to happen make an ugly appearance that King amplifies by bending and not giving me the chance to consider things. My knees bend only out of the absurdity that comes with seeing them both sticking out at uncomfortable angles. He carries me through his bedroom door, where we’re encompassed in darkness.
King’s lips are leaving hot paths along my jaw and down my neck that I can’t reciprocate because my mouth is level with his forehead. I’m considering ways to convince him to set me down that won’t require words, when his hands shift, one running a teasing trail up my spine and stopping on the clasp of my bra. His mouth doesn’t leave my skin, licking, sucking, tasting as his fingers deftly release the clasp in a single motion. The magenta fabric slides down my arms, resting in the crook of my elbows. His tongue traces a line to the hollow of my collarbone, sending my heels to dig into his sides and my head to draw back. King’s hand rests on the bare space between my shoulder blades, and as his teeth graze over the tender skin that follows my collarbone. His hand slides down my shoulder, taking the strap of my bra with it so it hangs from just my right wrist, and his palm covers my breast, lifting the weight and compressing as his fingers glide back down to my nipple, and run over the sensitized peak with just enough pressure to make my thighs constrict.
“There you go, baby. That’s my girl.” His words are quiet and throaty, and his lips tickle the bottom of my ear as they’re spoken before he slowly runs his teeth along the same area. His fingers compress more tightly, tugging on the tips of my nipples as his teeth catch the very edge of my skin, creating a sensation I didn’t know my earlobe could produce. My hands run up through his finger-length hair, my nails lightly scratching his scalp, pulling him closer to me. I want King to do that to every inch of me.
His hand returns to my back and his lips to my neck, distracting me from the fact that we’re moving until he’s laying me against a down-feather comforter that sinks under my weight. King slowly stands, pulling my bra completely free and discarding it somewhere in the dark room. I can barely see his silhouette, let alone his expression, as his fingers brush from my shoulders, over my breasts, and along my stomach, to the elastic bands of my sweats and underwear. I can’t recall which pair I wore today, but it doesn’t matter. They, along with my pants, are gone with a second that stretches as King’s hands push them down while his palms glide down the outside of both of my legs, continuing all the way to my toes. His hands create a new path on their way up, gliding over the tops of my legs, over my stomach, and slowly over my chest before coming back down, where his hands trail the insides of my legs. My hips lift inadvertently with his touch. King’s hands stop on the inside of my thighs, his fingers massaging the skin as he hums a quiet approval and drops his head to kiss me. “Every inch of you is beautiful. Every. Inch. Don’t hide from me, Lo.” His fingers slide up, running along the area where I am now in need of his touch. My hips lift again, a quiet gasp breaking through my lips with relief and desire. Too quickly, his hands fall back to my thighs and continue their journey to my ankles, returning along the underside of my legs and clenching both butt cheeks before moving around to my stomach and tracing up along my breasts. This time, he doesn’t continue up to my neck; he kneads both nipples with enough pressure I’m confused if it hurts or feels like nirvana.
My breaths come out shallow and uneven as he applies more pressure, my body writhing under his touch. He stops, and my throat groans with protest.
“King.” I mean for his name to serve as a warning. A threat that he can’t stop at this point because I feel the buildup like a punch to my stomach.