by Jo Raven
I botch the line of her thigh and blot it out with the special eraser. Fuck, fuck. My hands are shaky.
“Where did you learn to draw?” she asks, and I pause, the charcoal gripped in my hand.
“Learn?”
“Yeah. Who taught you how to draw?”
“Nobody taught me.” I shade in her hair, a storm cloud around her face. “Z-man takes a look at my drawings from time to time, gives me suggestions.”
“You’re self-taught?”
I glance up from the pad, blink at her. She looks startled. After what I told her last time we met, I thought it was clear my past wasn’t all special tutors and expensive lessons. Fuck, does she even know or guess I never finished school?
“Sorry,” she whispers, bites her lip—goddammit—and wiggles on her knees. “Didn’t mean to break your concentration.”
Is she kidding me? She intrudes on every thought and every wish that goes through my mind. I gaze into her denim-blue eyes, and I have visions of us tangled in my sheets, of me licking the sweat off her thighs as I bend between them, of her crying out my name—
The charcoal falls from my fingers and crashes to the floor with a sound like a bomb going off.
The fuck.
I leave the piece lying there and tear off the drawing, let it drift down to join the charcoal. I need something softer to nail her expression, the heavy-lidded bedroom eyes, the parted lips, the contrast between her dark halo and her sky-hued gaze. Soft and nervous, sexy and unsure, I want it all.
At least I’ll have her on paper, so I can look at her long after she’s gone from my life.
***
“You finished?”
“Hm?” I shade in the outline of her mouth, then glance up at her. “What?”
She’s leaning back, hands gripping the headboard, her white blouse riding up to reveal her bellybutton, and I shift uneasily in my seat. My balls ache with the need to come. I’ve been hard for… how long now? Hours. Hours spent staring at her, fantasizing. Wanting her.
I wonder briefly if chronic boners can prove fatal. It sure feels like it. I’m hard for her, but inside my resolve is weakening, softening, and my heart is pounding as I look at her.
So fucked…
“I said, have you finished with the drawing?” She wrinkles her nose. “You’ve been staring at it for a while now.”
Damn cute. I try to find words. Language fails me, so I grunt, and I hope she takes it as a yes.
“You probably want to do other stuff,” she says, sitting up, tugging on her blouse, and my eyes follow the way it molds over her lush curves. “Eat lunch, meet with friends. I don’t know… Stuff.”
She’s leaving.
I’m on my feet before I realize and walking over to her, the drawing pad and pencil thudding to the bare floor.
“Haven’t finished.” Not done with you.
“But I thought you—”
I sink down on the bed and lick my lips. I feel like a wolf licking his chops. I’ll scare her if I keep this up, so I scramble for an explanation.
I can’t. Can’t explain it even to myself.
So instead I lift my hands to her shoulders, skimming over her slender collarbone.
“What…?” she begins, and I shush her.
“One more drawing,” I say and grip the straps of her top. “Is this okay, Embers?”
I wait until she nods, and when she does, my fucking breath catches.
Shit, I’ve been dying to do this, to stroke her soft skin, to see more of her. She’s watching me, a blush coloring her cheeks, and my dick twitches in my pants. I’ve never felt so close to coming only by cupping a girl’s soft shoulders and staring into her eyes, so clear you’d think the darkening blue in their depths is her soul.
Time slows as I tug the straps over her arms, and her double-layer, satiny top slips down to her waist, baring her upper body to me.
Holy fuck. I thought she’d be wearing one of those strapless bras underneath… Nope. No bra. And goddammit, she’s fucking beautiful. More beautiful than I imagined her to be, and that’s after jacking off to the image of her. But her tits, man… Round and larger than I thought they’d be, crowned with rosy nipples that are hardening as I watch, rising to peaks.
“Jesus, girl,” I whisper, my pulse pounding until I think my heart will break out of my chest. “You trying to kill me or something?”
“You’re the one who wanted to take it off,” she murmurs, and damn, her voice, low and silky, wraps around my raging hard-on like a ribbon, pulling and tightening.
“I was. I am. I mean, I want it.” Hell. I need to grab my drawing pad and pencil, but as she draws a long breath, her tits rise and fall, and I can’t… Fuck, I don’t know if I can keep away.
I don’t think I can.
I thought I could. Guess I was wrong. Wouldn’t be the first time in my life.
“JJ.” Something dark flares in her eyes.
She wants this. Wants me, and the knowledge slams into me so hard I think I’m gonna come just from that. Don’t know why the fact this specific girl wants me gets me so turned on. But oh man, it does.
The trick is not stopping to question why she’d want someone like me, if she has realized what I am and what I’ve been. Question what she really wants from me. ’Cuz that’s shifty ground. Quicksand.
I bend over her. I run my mouth over the juncture between her shoulder and neck, where her pulse jumps, and she moans, her nipples hard against my chest as she shifts on the mattress.
I’m panting, seconds away from pushing her on her back and slamming into her. Or going down on her. Or sucking on her tits until she comes from that. Whatever she prefers.
“What do you want?” she asks again, more softly, and this time I give in.
“I want you,” I say and lay her down.
Chapter Thirteen
Amber
Wow, I think as my back hits the mattress and Jesse Lee leans over me, hands planted firmly on either side of my head, his wide mouth crooked in a half smile. I don’t know when I stopped trying to resist him and gave myself up.
He screws girls for fun, Amber. What are you doing? Are you out of your mind?
Maybe. Probably. Hell yes. But I want him too much. Could be if I sleep with him I’ll get over him. God knows the handful of times I’ve been with a guy in the past had me running for the hills. No reason why it should be any different now.
Although I don’t want to run. Not from him. He’s fun and kind and fascinating and oh God, so gorgeous.
Holy crap, Amber.
I should hold out, I should keep away from him—only I can’t. Not when he’s so close I can smell his cinnamon scent blending with the musk of his arousal, when I feel his erection pressed on my thigh like a hot iron rod and those remarkable jade-blue eyes lock briefly with mine before drifting lower, checking out every exposed inch of me—from my mouth, to my neck and my aching breasts, the tips painfully hard as I throb deep inside. Needing him to touch me.
Hard muscles flex in his arms as he lowers himself on one elbow, freeing his other hand to stroke down my arm and brush over my ribs. It tickles, and then he strokes his hand under my breast, cupping it, and I forget how to breathe. It fits perfectly in his large palm, and I watch as if from a distance his thumb circle my nipple, drawing it into a hard, tight peak. Pleasure streaks through me, a lightning bolt of heat straight to my core, and I arch on the bed.
“Jesus, Embers, you’re hot,” he breathes, his finger torturing my nipple, sending bolt after bolt of need through me. “Look what you’ve been hiding under those pretty flouncy tops. You shouldn’t hide. You’re so damn sexy.”
His words make me shiver, and when he switches to my other breast, I think I’m going to self-combust with arousal. I shift on the bed, needing something, anything to relieve the ache between my legs.
“I want…” You. I want to see him naked, run my hands over his inked chest and arms, see his hard-rock erection that’s digging into my thigh as he
shifts. See him writhe in pleasure, see him lose control and admit… admit it’s because of me.
Yeah, as if I’m something special to him. I’m probably just another notch on his bedpost.
Too much thinking, and his hand has stilled, covering my breast, a warm weight.
“You with me, Embers?” he rasps, the blue-green of his eyes swallowed by black. It’s a hungry look, and no matter how I try to bring myself back down to earth, I’m sucked into another eddy of desire.
“And you?” I quiver under his touch, as his rough palm lightly scrapes on my aching nipple and then moves down to my stomach.
“I’m right here.” He bends his head closer, as his fingers tiptoe past my bellybutton to the hem of my pants and dip underneath, right into my panties. “Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”
Then he covers my mouth with his, swallowing my startled moan as his fingers part my folds and dip inside me, bold and demanding, searching. Filling me up, stretching and edging me on until I gather up my knees to lift my hips, take his fingers deeper.
And all the while, he’s kissing me, thrusting his tongue inside my mouth, mimicking the movement of his fingers, and it feels so good. So incredibly good that I’m hovering on that fine edge between too much and right there, the pressure cresting until I cry out in his mouth, my hips rocking, and fireworks go off behind my eyes.
Oh God, never felt anything like it. My few encounters never prepared me for this. His fingers keep pumping and the spasms in my core are so intense they hurt at first, then the pleasure skyrockets and I cry out again, helpless under his touch.
He breaks the kiss, panting softly, gazing at me with a bemused and slightly wide-eyed expression on his face.
Did I just come twice from his fingers inside me? Jesus and crap on a cracker. My body is still shaking, trying to come to terms with what happened. Could it be because I want him so much, because of the pressure building inside me day after day?
Rationalizing isn’t helping, especially when he slowly withdraws his fingers, brings them up, and smells them. It’s my turn to stare at him, at the dark ripple of need in his gaze. His hard-on is pressing against me, urgent and hot, and that sexy, lazy grin curls up one corner of his mouth.
“Did’ya like that, kitten?” he rumbles. “I wonder what else you might like…”
“Kitten?” My voice comes out kinda squeaky, and I wince. Very sexy.
“You make these soft mewling noises.” He wipes a finger over his lower lip, licks it. “Sweet.”
Oh God, he didn’t just… He did.
Jesus, I’m getting hot and aroused all over again, and I have no clue what to say. I’ve never been with a guy who seems to know exactly what he’s doing to me, how much I enjoy it, and yeah… and who seems to enjoy it, too.
“Tell me,” he says, although the wicked gleam in his eyes informs me he doesn’t need such enlightenment. “Tell me what you’d like.”
Problem is, I don’t know. What he did was awesome, mind-blowing, but my experience is restricted to frantic fumbling in the dark, struggling with condoms, and quick, unpleasurable penetrations. I always thought that’s how it was supposed to be. That my own hand is the only way to come off.
So I say the only thing that has been on my mind since he started kissing and touching me.
“Take your T-shirt off.”
He pulls back, his grin frozen, his gaze hardening. “Why?”
“I want to look at you.” I run my hand over his hard pec, over the thin cotton, and feel the contour of his nipple piercing. It makes my throat a tiny bit drier. Christ, the Sonoran Desert has to be tropical by comparison. “Touch you.”
Something shifts in his gaze, and his eyes soften. Makes me wonder what he thought I was after, but conscious thought ceases when he lifts himself up just enough to rip off his T-shirt and let it drop to the floor.
Holy shit, Batman. Looking at this boy’s chest never gets old. I reverently brush my fingertips over those pierced nipples, tugging lightly on a silver hoop, and he hisses, powerful abs tightening and contracting in his washboard stomach.
The winged demon inked on his right pec draws me, not as perfect as the rest of his colorful tats. It’s kinda fuzzy in spots, as if the ink ran under the skin.
I press the tips of my fingers into it, feeling languid, my body relaxed and warm, pleasantly buzzed and tightening inside again at the thought of him touching me… thrusting into me.
God.
“What does this ink mean to you?” I ask.
“Why do you think it means something?”
“You don’t strike me as the sort to ink random things on you.”
“Don’t I?”
“Besides,” I ignore his reply, “it’s the only thing inked on your chest. It has to mean something.”
“Or maybe I ran out of space on my arm.”
He’s teasing me. I can see the corners of his eyes crinkling even as he’s keeping a straight face. “Or maybe not. Because this one’s technique is different. It looks… older. And I’ve seen you rub it sometimes, as if it hurts. Like a scar, but I don’t see any scar tissue.”
Didn’t Kayla say something about a tattoo that got infected?
“You think too much,” he says abruptly and pushes himself up on one hand, muscles flexing and bulging in his corded arm. His face is in shadow.
“Who is Helen?”
He stills so suddenly and so utterly, it’s like he’s turned into stone. Only his lips move when he whispers, “What?”
“Helen. She gave you the leather bracelet you can’t do without, so she’s important to you. Who is she?”
He flinches, although he tries to hide it. It makes me all the more curious to know.
Okay, I’m socially inept, and even I realize I’ve gone too far and broken the moment. In fact, broken is too small a word for it—I’ve shattered it to billion tiny pieces with no hope of resurrecting it—but it’s too late to take back my words and my questions, and let’s face it: I’m interested in all that makes Jesse who he is.
He sits up and leans over to grab his T-shirt from the floor, his broad back rippling. A long, thin scar marks his lower back, white and old. His every side, his every facet is a puzzle I want to solve.
Though he doesn’t seem so thrilled about the prospect at the moment. It puts a lump of fear in my throat. Not fear of him, but fear of losing him.
As if I ever had him.
“The hell.” He bunches up the T-shirt in his hands and his jaw clenches. “Is this your second question, seriously? If I knew this was what you’d be asking me…”
Shit. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, JJ.”
“You didn’t fucking hurt me. Nothing can hurt me.” He’s spitting mad at me, I realize, his eyes flashing and his teeth gritting, his movements jerky as he pulls on the T-shirt, covering himself, and leaving me aware I’m still topless, sprawled on his bed, where he left me.
My face flaming, I cast around for my top and find it lying on the floor, a few feet away. “Is that so? You’re, what, superhuman? Nothing touches you?” I cover my breasts with my hands instead as I sit up.
“No.” He sneers, and it cuts through me like a knife. “More like subhuman. Didn’t you pay any attention back when I replied to your first question?”
“First question?” My brain’s still fuzzy from the best orgasm I’ve ever had, so sue me for not getting it immediately. “What do you mean?”
“I was a hooker, Embers. I sold my body for money on the streets. I had my regular customers, women who wanted to have some fun, and I also picked up any woman who seemed interested when times got rough. And they did get rough, more than once. My old ways—that’s what I meant. I’ve been whoring myself for a long, long time, and Helen…”
I watch, breathless as he battles some strong emotion. It wells up in his gaze, but it never spills out.
I’d prod him, prompt him to say more, but I’m afraid that if I speak, he’ll remember I’m there and stop. I don’t t
hink he’s seeing me right now. Don’t think he’s seeing anything, and although I’m still reeling a bit from what he said—I’d guessed it, but guessing and knowing are two different things when truth’s staring at you in the face—I’m worried about him.
A common state for me when I’m around him. Worried, or curious, or aroused… Always intrigued.
“Helen was there,” he says, tugging on the leather band circling his strong wrist, that faraway look still on his face. “Helen McRoy. When I was thirteen or so. She was fucking there with me, on the streets, and we had each other’s back. She was older than me, said she was nineteen. Think she was lying, she was fucking younger than that. But she knew the ropes and taught me about protection. Condoms and stuff, and what to be leery of.”
I shiver as the words sink in and the grim picture of his childhood emerges. If he was thirteen when he met Helen, when did he start living on the street? In how much danger was he? And if she was the one who told him about condoms…?
“Wait. You want me to believe that there are people who’d have sex with a kid? And that before meeting this Helen, you used no protection?”
“God, you’re naïve. Believe what you want.” The sneer is back, sharp and ugly. There’s a shimmer to his eyes that turns them into chips of hard, clear glass. “And don’t worry. I’ve been tested many times since. I’m clean as a whistle, so you won’t catch anything from kissing me, I promise.”
Holy crap. “Jesse…”
“I’m done with the stupid Q&A games,” he snaps. No pet names, no teasing gleam in his eyes as he gets to his feet and retrieves my top. He throws it on the bed, and I recoil as if he’s slapped me. “Go back to your pretty world and leave me in mine.”
“I didn’t mean…” My words catch on a strangled sob, and jeez, am I about to make an even bigger fool of myself with a boy who couldn’t care less about me and who thinks asking him about his past is an attack on his pride? “Fine.”
I grab my blouse and pull it on so fast I don’t even check whether or not I'm wearing it backward, hop off the bed and hunt for my purse. Through eyes blinded by tears which I refuse to let fall I find it by the foot of the bed and grab it.
