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I want to tell him that he’s already doing that.
He’s already in control of me, my body, my heart and my breaths.
“So that’s what I would do. Make you choke a little, maybe a lot. Make you gag on my cock, ruin your mascara, wreck your lipstick before I painted your pretty face with my cum. And when I’m done I’ll ask you to look at the camera and stick your tongue out. So I can capture you. Your beauty. To keep forever. To carry with me everywhere I go. And all of this because I want to. No agendas. No ulterior motives. Just you and me.”
Just him and me.
I want that too.
I want it so much that when he comes for my mouth, I don’t stop him.
Even though I should.
Even though I should tell him that I do have an ulterior motive. I do have an agenda.
Or at least I did.
But with our mouths fused, when he picks me up and carries me over to his bedroom, I find that the only thing I’m capable of doing is letting him and kissing him back.
Chapter Twenty
I should tell him now.
I know that.
Especially because we’re in the bedroom and we’re not kissing anymore. I’m in bed and he’s standing at the foot of it. This is the perfect opportunity to say something, to tell him the truth and put a stop to this. Ask him to take me back to Bardstown because this was a mistake.
“I have…”
I trail off because he chooses this very moment to shed his t-shirt.
With his dark eyes pinned on me, he reaches back and snags his t-shirt. He yanks it up and over his head in one go and then I’m staring at his massive chest.
Massive and muscular.
Massive and muscular and naked.
Massive, muscular, naked and fucking beautiful.
It’s more beautiful than I remember. More gorgeous than it was thirteen months ago, and trust me, it was plenty gorgeous back then. But it looks like he’s bulked up even more over the last year. Which I did have a suspicion about, of course. I could sense that through his t-shirt, but here’s the proof.
He has bulked up.
His shoulders have grown more corded and rounded. And his chest has grown more arched and wider so when it tapers down to his slim waist, the effect is more dramatic. The effect is fucking mind-blowing.
Not to mention, he has an eight-pack now.
Eight.
Not just six.
As if a six-pack is for losers and since he’s such a soccer god, he needs to have eight.
And they need to be all tight and ridged and ladder-like.
Like I could put my dainty feet on them and use them to climb up his body. I could actually hold them in my hands, those dense and muscular bumps, like steel pipes or something.
This is not real.
No one has a body like that.
Not even him.
I mean just look at him. The guy not only has a perfect freaking body, he also has that glorious V that every girl goes crazy for. And well, I’ve always been one of those girls and now I can say that I always will be, because those grooves and indentations have only deepened and sharpened over the last year.
And as much as I don’t want to look away from his beautifully built torso, I do.
Because if I’m following that V, I’m also following that trail of dark hair.
That starts at his tight belly button and disappears down his jeans.
Which then brings me to that bulge in his jeans.
Yes, the bulge.
Because he’s hard.
Already.
Although I can’t blame him because I’m wet too. Already. So I guess we’re in the same boat. And then I feel a drop of wetness trickle down my core, wetting my already messy panties because his sexy, veined, dusted-with-dark-hair forearms go to his jeans and my eyes fly up to his to find him still watching me.
“W-what are you doing?” I ask stupidly.
Isn’t it obvious what he’s doing?
“Giving you your turn,” he replies, his voice abraded.
“My turn at what?”
“Last time it was me. Who got to see you naked.” My heart thuds and shudders as he keeps going. “But you never got to see me. So now it’s your turn.”
Tell him.
Tell. Him.
Now.
For the love of God, tell him now, Tempest, before he takes his pants off and totally fries your brain.
But I don’t. I don’t even open my mouth, or at least I don’t open my mouth to form words. I open it for other things though. Such as for gasping and breathing out, “Holy fuck.”
Because he’s done it.
He’s unbuttoned his jeans and he’s pushed them down, and no.
Just no.
Absolutely not.
That is definitely, definitely not real.
What I’m seeing is not real at all.
It can’t be.
His penis cannot be that big.
In fact I can’t even call it a penis. As in, I know that’s what a guy’s thing is called but his thing can’t be called that. His thing needs to be called a dick. A cock. A hammer or a baseball bat.
