It was the same murky feelings he often circled around when writing music. Sometimes, he would stop mid-composition and tell himself, “No. I can’t do this. The rhythm is too chaotic for mainstream. The lyrics would be misunderstood.” That was when he knew he should do it.
Was that what was happening? Did his refusal to give her pain-derived pleasure stem from some prevailing social opinion? The act of love couldn’t be governed by tradition or conformity. It was an individual choice, sometimes one that was questioned and judged, perhaps abandoned in frustration, but always returned to. Just like writing music, love was a unique, hard-earned and giving experience.
Holy shit, he loved her. The revelation budded and strengthened with each thud of his heart. For three years, he’d been in love with the idea of her. It had been the sort of devotion that breathed through his songs and embraced him in his lowest hours. It was too soon to fully appreciate the woman she was, but during the course of a single day, a sweeping, chaotic sensation had taken up residence inside him. It cowered at the prospect of losing her again, but also galvanized with a sense of duty. Love wasn’t a feeling. It was a mission. A driving purpose to fulfill her every desire, to give her a life worth sharing.
He tapped the switch on his bedside table and washed the room in darkness. Shifting to face her, he inhaled the sweetness of her exhales and cherished each breathy trace of her existence. She was his greatest possibility. His reason. His why. He would give whatever she needed to be whole and happy, because loving her was as essential as drawing air.
52
A faraway gasp pulled at Charlee’s sleepy fog. She blinked through the dark, her eyes adjusting to the blanketing shroud. The wrinkled bedding, gray in the absence of light, was tossed back. The dip in the mattress beside her, empty.
Another distant inhale. Without moving, she squinted in the direction of the sound.
A silhouette blotted the far wall. She focused on the long, lean outline and the movement of the lower half. She needed neither light nor nearness to recognize Jay’s incredible body.
She held herself still as his hands cupped his groin. No, they stroked. One up and down in long twists of his wrist, the other kneading underneath. His briefs pooled around his ankles, the back of his head resting against the wall. The sharp angle of his jaw stretched up, scissoring back and forth, and the slivers of his half-lidded eyes glinted, watching her.
A hot wave of lust descended over her and concentrated between her thighs. There was nothing more seductive than the way his smoldering gaze raked the outline of her body as he rubbed himself with furious pumps.
The speed of his strokes escalated, and his hips thrust into his rotating fist. The muffled sounds behind his closed lips skittered quivers along her thighs. Would he finish if he knew she was watching? Peeking through the narrow slits of her eyes, she held herself immobile, enthralled by the view and the man providing it.
His shoulders bunched forward, rolling the muscles in his chest. He licked his lips, panting, his neck straining, his abs crunching. And still, his eyes remained firmly locked on her.
The sight of his nude body, impeccably defined and flexing toward climax, pushed her heart beat from frenzied to dangerous. He shifted his stance, spreading his legs farther apart, and pressed his shoulders to the wall. Was he on the cusp of release? Imagining him letting go made her breath catch and her stomach take on that unnerving butterfly effect. She dug her fingernails into the pillow to keep from reaching down and massaging the pulsing ache.
The twitches cascading over his body, the heat of his gaze, and the unrestrained way he rocked into his fist were too much. So completely enraptured by his lust, she jerked her hand down and covered the triangle of lace with stiff fingers, pressing against the throb as if that could possibly sate it.
His strokes slammed to a halt, chest heaving and air hissing through clenched teeth. His lips, taut with arousal only a moment earlier, slowly slid up at the corners. “How long have you been watching me, pervert?”
Holding his penetrating stare, she sat up and scooted to the edge of the bed. The sheet pulled away, and he sucked in a sharp breath.
“Not as long as you have been watching me.” She leaned back on her arms, grinning. “Pervert.”
He looked at the floor, hand clamped around his cock. “This isn’t—”
“What it looks like?”
His head fell against the wall with a thunk and he groaned to the ceiling. “I’m not usually this creepy.” Without releasing his erection, he straightened and squinted at her. “I won’t hurt you, Charlee. I promise I’ll stay right here until I calm down.”
Clueless man. “We’re going to pretend you didn’t just say that.” She slid her panties down her legs and kicked them off her feet. “Any of it.”
His nostrils flared and his fist squeezed, stroking once, twice. She burned everywhere his eyes lingered. Her breasts, her mound, her legs, darting back to her face.