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Wow, he’s gorgeous.
Elias O’Shea emits a kind of sparked, charismatic energy that has the ability to leech into me like it’s more than just atoms and ions or whatever. It feels substantial and connective, feeding me a weird kind of comfort and also a low, electrifying thrill.
With Elias in my small studio, I become much more aware of my own body. A lightly-tingly physical excitement takes me off guard. It centers in the tips of my nipples…and much lower. There. Where I’ve touched myself late at night, to see what would happen.
Not much did. But it is now. Radiating little pulses are warming…my pussy, as my sister always calls it.
Whoa.
It’s true that in those few times I’ve…explored, I never got to the point of figuring out what all the fuss is about. Hannah once offered to lend me her—“trusty” she even called it—vibrator to ease whatever tension I was having at the time.
The conversation still lives rent free in my head.
First of all, Han, I’m not using your vibrator. That’s just gross. Second of all, I wouldn’t even know how.
Well, Zee, maybe it’s time you learned. It’s not that hard. And it’s the best kind stress relief there is.
I don’t need stress release.
Bullshit. Everyone does. I’m talking about the orgasmic variety of stress release, not the hide-away-in-your-attic-morosely-as-you-paint-your-angst-onto-every-canvas-you-can-get-your-hands-on kind of stress release.
Whatever.
It would do you a world of good, Zee. You need it. I’ll buy you your own vibrator if you want me to.
Would you stop? I’ll get my own.
You should. Trust me, you won’t regret it.
I never got around to buying my own but I secretly…experimented. Nothing really happened. I thought about following my sister’s advice. But where does a person even buy something like that? The thought of ordering one online and having my dad sign for the package made me cringe. So I haven’t ever…gotten myself off.
And all of a sudden I want to know what it feels like.
Elias’s presence is literally lighting my body up. I’m suddenly hyper-aware of all my basest urges.
I got an electric shock once, when I was nine years old. I knocked over an old lamp and the wires were exposed. I tried to put it back together before anyone noticed I’d broken it, accidentally touching the naked wires. My sister heard my scream. She also heard the sizzle of the jolt as it knocked me several feet across the room.
Being around Elias O’Shea feels like that. Like there’s a buzzing electric current swirling through me that’s attached to him. It feels like it’s entwining itself around us both.
I can feel it inside me. Where I once put my fingers.
Elias shrugs off his jacket. He’s wearing a blue shirt and a pair of jeans that fit him the way hot guys’ jeans fit. Fascinatingly, because men are built so differently and so masculinely it sometimes has the power to take you off guard. He looks gorgeous and all-American, like an Abercrombie ad, with his white teeth, his suntan and his colorful eyes.
Is it warm in here?
My studio is a little sun trap for the late afternoon sun. I went back to my room to change after lunch because I knew I’d be working late and I figured I might as well be comfortable. All I’m wearing is a flouncy little mini-skirt and a pink tank top. I took off the tights and hoodie I was wearing earlier because I was getting too hot.
And I’m aware right now that I’m not wearing much. But it can’t be helped. If he’s going to barge in on me mid-creative-flow, that’s a risk he’s going to take.
His thick dark hair flicks against the back of his neck, which is strong-looking, corded and brown. His hair is longer than I might expect from a quarterback, I’m not sure why. His arms are gently muscled, his shirt clinging to the sculpted shape of his shoulders and the hard contours of his chest.
I remember something my dad was talking about to some of his assistants once, that most quarterbacks don’t bench press. Something about how the increased tone in pectoral muscles can cause an internally rotated shoulder, which doesn’t allow for a wide enough range of motion. A quarterback’s shoulders need to be pliable. In other words, they can’t be overly pumped-up.
It’s true he doesn’t have the physique of a gym junkie. He’s tall and strong. Lean and perfectly proportioned, a living, breathing artistic masterpiece.
It’s strange that his brute, masculine power excites some deeply-buried feminine instinct in me. His hotness is extreme and romantic, go figure.
“How was practice?” I ask, just to break the bubble of intensity we’re locked inside of. I pick up a paintbrush. “Are you ready for Saturday?”
