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Anyway, happiness isn’t good for anything. Isn’t that what all great artists agree on? It’s that internal, infernal, burning pit of writhing pain inside us that we can dip into in order to create our greatest masterpieces.
I’m staring at Atlas without even seeing him, drowning in the—this is beyond completely mortifying—moment, but when he moves, I snap out of it and watch him. He moves fast for a big guy, and he’s full of intent. He cups my face, sweeping his fingers over my cheeks so that every part of them is covered by all of him. He doesn’t waste a single second tipping my face up. He just tilts his down and goes for a kiss that makes me turn into liquified wonder goo right on the spot. He kisses me like I’m a wonder kisser, made of wonder matter, worth all the gold in the world, and the one who put the shine into those winking stars up there in the blue-black sky.
This kiss isn’t all burn-me-up, incinerate-my-panties, obliterate-my-ovaries kind of kiss like the first one he gave me a few nights ago. Okay, so it’s doing all those things as a result, but this one is sweeter and gentler. It’s a much sexier, slower burn, and it’s like he’s trying to get me to listen with his lips. I mean, he’s using his lips to explain all the things I’m too stubborn to hear and believe. He’s saying them all in a way I can understand, in a way where I can’t possibly spin into a series of doubts.
“Fuck the blanket,” I rasp out breathlessly, breaking the kiss. “I wanted the wildflowers. Give me the wildflowers.”
Atlas throws his head back and laughs a great belly laugh that is more of a roar than anything, then he tips me into his arms, wraps me up in muscles for days, and lowers me down into the sea of soft, fragrant blooms.
CHAPTER 14
Atlas
I didn’t think it was possible to find perfection in this life, but this, here and now, with Victoria in my arms, a sea of dark greenery blanketing us, meadow blooms perfuming the air, the dark sky a living, changing beauty above us, our breaths blending with the symphony of the night coming to life around us—the crickets and the rustle the soft wind makes blowing through the field, a bird call far in the distance—is my version of perfect.
Someone else might protest that wildflowers are overly scented, plants are pungent when stepped on, there’s too much pollen, a few too many insects, and maybe the black shape that just flew past us a few yards away was a bat and not a bird, but whatever. This is still my version of paradise.
I lower Victoria onto the carpet of wildflowers before I seal my lips over hers. Her arms wrap around my neck, her hips jam up into mine, grinding just enough before she gets her feet where she wants them, and my jeans are more than tight. They’re quite literally cutting off the circulation to my boulder-hard cock right now.
I want to savor this. I want to make it special. I want to have an uninterrupted roll in the hay before it becomes hay, and when I say roll, I mean I want us to remember every single second of this because I’m pretty sure it’s going to be the first time, and everyone remembers all the details about their first time with someone.
I make sure that when I kiss her, I do it slow and steady, an exploration of her lips before I ever get my tongue involved. Victoria kisses me back eagerly, excitedly, so responsive that my balls are now struggling to breathe in my jeans because there isn’t any room for them with my cock hard as stone. I want to impart with this kiss, with every sweep of my tongue over hers, with the press of our lips and bodies, and the breaths we’re sharing that…I don’t know. I guess my brain is malfunctioning and in low blood supply mode. I guess I’m trying to show her that I’m here, I care, and I’d like to care more. I want her to know she’s this incredible human being, and I really appreciate her being here with me tonight.
Okay, that just sounds super dumb and wrong. Thank goodness she can’t hear into my head at the moment.
Victoria’s hands are almost tentative as she sweeps them over my arms, lingering on my biceps before she twists her hands behind my neck and fists her fingers in my hair. She wriggles against me, and yeah, it’s time to get those jeans off her. Time to get my jeans off me and time to strip our shirts off, too, so we’re skin to skin.
Victoria is on the same wavelength as me, which is slightly disconcerting because it makes me worried that she can hear into my head and hear all the embarrassing thoughts pinging around in my brain. She fumbles her hands at the top of my shirt, tugging hard, and I reach up to help her. I do the manly thing, the thing where I grasp my T-shirt behind the head, between the shoulders, pinch, and then pull. Granny once told me that I was a mythical creature for being able to take my shirt off that way. Orion can’t. He tucks his arms in, does a funny chicken dance, then wriggles it off over his head. But as for me, I’m basically a one-swipe-and-done kind of guy. Hmm, of all the things that sound wrong, I think that one takes the prize.
