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"Well, if you beg."
She laughs. "God I haven't laughed like this in a long time. You make me feel good," she says. "Like really good, like happy."
"Really? I've hardly said a word. It's been a few hours, Paisley. It doesn't take much to make you happy. It makes me wonder."
"What?" she asks.
"It just makes me wonder what it would take to make you feel really good."
"Like really, really good?" she asks. A lilt to her voice, a twinkle in her eye. She knows what I'm talking about.
"Yeah. Like really fucking good. Like toe-curling, pussy-melting, core-clenching, oh my fucking God, I'm cumming so hard good."
She laughs out loud. "You want to try and find out?"
I laugh hard. "Damn. Yeah. I would like to find that out."
"Do you want to find that out right now?" she asks.
"Are you teasing me, Paisley Cassidy?"
She laughs in mock horror. "Would I tease you, Mr. Holt Stone? The good old boy who's back home? I'd never."
"I'm not a good old boy. I'm just a good guy who's home giving up his dreams to take care of his mother."
"You sound like a good guy."
"Fair enough." I say, "but not a good old boy. That connotes a high school football star who's schmoozing with the head cheerleader."
"That wasn't you?" she asks.
"No, that wasn't me. That's not me. I'm no... I've been the quiet guy my whole damn life."
"There was never the girl that got away?"
"Nope. I guess I've always been holding out for the one."
"Really? You didn't have some serious relationship that broke your heart or some girl whose heart you broke?"
I chuckle. "Can we get back to the toe-curling orgasm?”
Paisley laughs, "Fair enough. I guess not everyone has a true love at a young age. Huh?"
I shake my head. "Nah, I didn't. Did you?"
"No. My love story hasn't been written yet," she says.
"Have you thought about it?" I ask her.
"Oh God, you should see the journals I wrote,” she says. “I think between the ages of 15 and 17, all I did was think about my one and only. Writing songs about the man who was going to come and sweep me away."
"Was he a good old boy?” I can't help but ask.
She laughs hard. The music from the bar fills the parking lot and we unroll the windows, sitting back in the seats of the Chevy.
The stars are out. The moon hangs high, the sky is dark. It's a perfect September night. "No, none of the songs I wrote were about a good old boy. That was never the type of guy that I imagined myself with."
"What kind of man did you dream of then?" I ask her. I reach for her hand, her fingers lace with mine. My cock, damn, it's still hard thinking about that kiss. That perfect kiss on the dance floor. Her dress slides up her thigh right now and I see her skin. She's so beautiful. So damn perfect. She has no fucking clue.
"I'd write about these guys who were the opposite of the men my mother would date. My mom somehow would find the worst kind of men. Drunks, assholes, guys who hurt her and hurt us. Who were so good at making sure none of us felt safe. Ever. Who were so good at making us feel so damn small. I always imagined a man who wasn't scared to let me be big, my own size, safe in my own skin. I wrote about men who could let me stand on my own two feet. Who could wrap their arms around me, not because they wanted to hide me, but because they wanted to protect me." Paisley looks over at me now, her fingers laced with mine.
"That's fucking beautiful," I tell her.
"Yeah," she says, "I don't know. The songs were kind of wistful."
"Will you sing one for me?" I ask her.
"You want to hear me sing?" she asks. She swallows and then she opens her mouth and sings me a verse.
There’s a fucking angel in my Chevy. Screw the radio, I have a songbird at my side and I swear to God the heavens are cracking open right here, right now.
When she finishes, I fucking brush tears away from my eyes. "Fuck, Paisley Cassidy. You should be a country music star."
"Stop it." She pushes me away, her hands on my chest.
I reach for her wrists, still them, I don't let her go. This time, I draw her close. I kiss her again, harder now, fuller. She sinks deep against me. The kiss intensifies, our mouths collide and crash.
"Holt," she whispers, "don't stop kissing me."
I kiss her again, longer. Our mouths part, her tongue's pressed against mine. I wrap my arms around her in a way I know she needs, deep, tight, hard. My fingers run through her hair, tight against her back. She smells so good. Like lavender and honey, like sunshine and lemonade. And I don't know how this girl who came from nothing ended up so damn much, but she is everything. She feels like everything to me. I want to be everything to her, and in the space of one damn night, everything's changed. I want to be the man she needs.
