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He grips me tighter, and rests his leg over mine, snuggling his soft cock further between my butt-cheeks, caging me in his warm embrace in the process. He's bigger than I am; I’m cocooned in an unlikely blanket of muscles, sun-kissed tattooed skin, and dark hair.
I blame him.
My conscience needs an outlet, so I’m blaming him. His possessive, dominant assault on my reluctance. His truthful words and unshakable reasoning had me at Rosy girl.
My conscience is clear because I found a scapegoat.
My soul? I might as well have sold it to the devil. My body on the other hand? It willingly stayed behind to reap all the benefits.
James played it like an instrument he had total control over. As if he had been doing it for years. I have never, never, come more than once, sometimes, even that is an achievement. I am still astounded by how, on his first try, he managed to pull all of those orgasms from me. I was sure that kind of thing only happened in books.
But here it is, that dull, pleasurable ache between my legs, begging to differ.
I’m not quite sure why I’m wrapped in him, sleeping in his teenage-sized bed, in a bedroom I’ve hardly ever been in. It’s a mirror image of mine, so different and yet so familiar.
I see him in every detail, in every vintage car poster, in every car model he spent hours painstakingly building and painting, only to have it locked up in his room for no one else to see. I see him in the features of a man staring at me through a picture frame strategically positioned on his bookshelf to watch over his bed. His father.
Archer versus Valentine. We aren’t the same. Our history is different, but the pain is probably equal.
His father died at war. A Purple Heart recipient who, like so many others, never came back. He was James’ hero, and it took him a great deal of time to understand that my father wasn’t bidding on taking his place.
I know this because I felt the same way, even if my mother was less than stellar. Less of a hero. Less of a good memory. I had always nurtured the idea of seeing her coming back, running up the front lawn to hug me and beg for forgiveness. It never happened. Even with me changing myself into the image of the perfect daughter I thought she wanted. The one that could have made her stay. The one James called fake.
I feel his lips pressing against my bare shoulder’s skin, sending goosebumps all over my extremely sensitive body. “Good morning, beautiful.”
His rough and raspy morning voice is a sexy tune I find myself wanting to hear more often. My mind is clear and at ease and somehow all this feels right. He feels so goddamn right it hurts to think about.
“Good morning, Archer.” I turn my face back to look at him, earning myself a little peck on the nose. “What am I doing in your room?”
James squeezes me tighter, stretching at the same time. His hips push forward while his cock responds to its cushioned nook. I feel him grow there, the pressure and hardness making me tingle in all the right places.
“I wouldn’t let you sleep on the couch after last night, buttercup.” His smirk is wide and proud. There's always confidence in his eyes, but today I see much more than the cocky, asstwat attitude he normally displays.
If I recall correctly, it was his confidence that drew me to him all those years ago when I saw him strutting into school as if he owned the place, even though it was the first time he ever sat foot in it. In the middle of the school year on top of all things.
James was the new kid on the block. The too-sexy-for-my-shirt, I-own-this-high-horse, you-should-all-kiss-the-ground-I-walk-on, new kid.
I noticed him as soon as he was on school grounds. Fuck, it was hard not to. James Archer is the kind of man who turns heads everywhere he goes, for his looks and for his strong, unapologetic presence.
He noticed me too, for a couple of days there we danced around our mutual attraction from afar. It was a blossoming fire that grew hotter with each passing day. One of those days, he cornered me against my locker, just like they do in movies – the big bad boy and the innocent little girl.
His deep, already manly voice melted me right on the spot. “Here’s the deal, buttercup. I see you walking around pretending not to notice me. It isn’t working for me. So, I can pretend all I want is for you to let me carry your ridiculously large bag, or I tell you exactly what I’m after and you tell me if you’re interested.”
That was the first time he called me that, and it stuck, only because he knew, just as well as I did, what it represented, not to mention how much it got under my skin.
I mean, I was fifteen and full of dreams. James starred in all of them back then. I felt powerful to be the one who held the attention of the most wanted guy at school. But too soon, the power trip was over, smashed to smithereens together with any cordiality between James and me – my father introduced me to his new girlfriend and her SON.
Talk about a cold shower.
After that, it was nothing but drought season until late in college. An ugly duckling in a sea poised, perfect, sexy teenage swans. It didn’t quite help in the sexual development department.
“What have I lost you to?” Again, that same sultry voice pulls me back to the present. He’s the same guy, but I’m seeing him in a whole new, different light. It terrifies me.
“Nothing. I’m right here.”
“Hmm, I can feel you are.” His warm, calloused hand trails up my arm and sets on my shoulder, massaging vigorously, descending all the way to my lower back before following the path of my curves, down my hip, finally settling between my legs, just above my knees. It’s suggestive enough, not that his now hard shaft didn’t give away his intentions.
“James, I think my body needs to rest. Last night was intense. I’m not used to so much.”
