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Reaching out, I slowly unbutton his jeans and brush my lips to his again. “I’m sure. All I want right now is you. I want to be as close as we can get.”
Once his jeans and briefs pool to the ground, he kisses my neck. With one hand, he pushes my thong down, letting it fall to the floor before he gently hooks his arm around my back and lifts me to the head of the bed.
Keeping his body over mine, he nudges his dick between my legs, continuing to rest his forehead to mine. Slowly working in and out, he pushes in deeper, and my legs wrap around his waist.
“Hunter,” I whisper, biting my lip.
“You’re so beautiful, Sutton,” he rasps against my lips. “And strong. And smart. Bold. Funny. Everything anyone could ever want.”
“Even you?” I croak.
“Especiallyme,” he says, kissing me again.
This doesn’t feel like fucking. Not the way that it did when we were in the changing room. This feels like…love. But even though the three words linger on my lips, I don’t say them. Because maybe it’s too soon. It would probably scare him away. And truthfully, I don’t want to scare him away. I want him to stay. Maybe forever…
My fingertips find the flesh on his back, and he drives his face into my neck.
“Hunter,” I breathe. “Please. Don’t. Stop,” I cry out softly, dragging him deeper with my thighs over and over again as his hips thrust to match mine.
I hug him tighter as our bodies thrash together. I squeeze hard, wanting to just climb inside of him and never leave because I’ve never felt more at home than I do in this moment.
“I’m…I’m…” I moan, moving one hand from his back and gripping the bedsheets.
“Me too, baby.” He chokes the words out. “Coming with you.”
His body movements start to slow, becoming more dragged out as he kisses my neck. Trembling, he lifts his head and looks down at me before pressing a kiss to my forehead.
I know sex can’t fix everything. But I just learned that sex with the perfect person can sure make you feel a lot less alone.
Hunter Thompson has become my person. And in a way, a muse in the story that is my life. I just hope I can keep him.
23
Sutton
Idress in the outfit Jolene chose for me. A pale blue princess-cut leotard with a bodice made of sequins and a sheer skirt that glimmers when I move, paired with matching ballet slippers. After, the stylist applies a little makeup and fixes my hair into a French braid, pulled to the side of my head.
This dance is strictly for charity. There’s no golden ticket to becoming a professional dancer. It likely won’t go on a résumé or win me brownie points with Broadway if I do good. Yet here I am, nervous as hell.
Nervous because I’m dancing with someone who makes me feel so dang giddy that I’ll probably forget our routine. Afraid that I’ll look like a moron in front of my newfound brother, who happens to be famous and über-talented. And petrified that this dance will make me fall deeper in love even though I’m too chicken to tell him how I feel.
The show is about to begin, and I haven’t seen Hunter since both of us dressed in our outfits, and the pit in my stomach keeps hatching more butterflies.
“Wow, you’re so purrrty,” a little girl says, coming next to me. “I wish my hair were in a braid instead of this stupid bun.”
I giggle, looking down at her in her pale pink leotard and her perfectly made ballerina bun.
“I love it.” I smile. “Plus, with that bun, you’re like a real ballerina.” I point to my hair. “Unlike me.”
She ponders my words, pulling her lips to the side. “Yeah…but your hair looks like Elsa. Only with black hair. And Elsa is the most powerful Disney character ever.”
“This is true. But Elsa isn’t a ballerina, is she?” I pat her bun lightly. “I think you have the best hair here tonight.”
“You do?” she whispers, looking around. “Even better than that girl with the red dress?”
“Definitely,” I mutter, knowing she’s referring to Poppy. “What’s your name?”
“Carter,” she says proudly. “Carter Anne.”
