Shit. He’s slowly carving his name into my heart. And it hurts. I want to curl over him and shelter him with my body. But his cheeks are flushed and his neck grows stiffer by the second, as if he’s regretting his confession.
I rest my palm over the pendant, holding the wood against hard wall of his chest. When I can speak without emotion clogging my words, I tell him, “I’m going to massage your face now.”
“My face?” he repeats as if I’ve offered to stick my finger up his nose.
I smother a laugh. “We hold even more tension in our face than our hands.” Keeping my hands on him, I rub the tops of his shoulders before doing the same to his neck. He likes this and sinks down further into the couch.
His eyes flutter as if he wants to shut them. My hands ease up to his jaw then settle on his brow. “It’s okay. Close your eyes.”
When he does, I simply run my fingertips over his face, taking in his strong, clean bone structure. Strangely, I’ve always attributed Drew’s attractiveness to his inner light, the way he carries himself, and how his emotions shine through. But, God, he really is beautifully made.
Whereas my face is all curves, his is like a diamond, made up of dramatic angles and cut lines. His nose is high and straight, widening a bit in the middle, which only gives him more character. Prominent cheekbones veer down sharply toward his mouth, that gloriously mobile mouth that is always quick to smile. Relaxed now, it’s as if he’s pouting. His jawline is defined and in perfect symmetry with his cheeks.
With steady, firm pressure, my fingers ride over the ridges of his sweeping brows, following the tension. The slow, undulating light of the lava lamp casts deep blues and grays over his skin.
“Keep talking to me,” he whispers.
I pause. “Doesn’t noise hurt your head?”
Thick lashes cast shadows at the tops of his cheeks. “Your voice isn’t noise. It’s a song I want to hear over and over.”
Oh. My.
Taking a deep breath, I pinch along the underside of his brows, moving outward. Drew groans low.
“Is your full name Andrew?” Not the most brilliant of conversational openings, but I’m curious.
The full curve of his lips lifts a little. “Nope. I’m just Drew.” He talks low, barely over a murmur. “Mom didn’t like nicknames. She figured they would name me what they wanted to call me. So just Drew Baylor. No middle name either.”
“I kind of love your mom for that,” I say softly.
His eyes open and lock onto me. Pain still lingers in them, but there’s also a warmth that has me flushing. “She would have loved you too.”
No, she wouldn’t have. What mother would like a girl that uses her precious son for sex? None. I palm his face, effectively blocking his view, and run my thumbs down the sides of his nose and over his cheeks, digging in deep.
“Christ,” he breaths out, “that’s good.”
“I know.” I smile a little.
“What about you?” he asks. “You have a middle name?”
“Marie.” I stroke along his jaw. So much tension there.
“Anna Marie,” he intones. “I like that.”
He goes silent, and I gently hum, not a song, really, just a lilt that fills the silence. He sighs, his body easing more under my touch.
“When’s your birthday, Anna Marie?”
“You’re going to make me regret telling you my middle name.”
His smile is wobbly, as if weakened by pain. “Just answer the question.”
“Why,” I slip my hands under his neck, finding the base of his skull. His muscles are so dense here that my fingers barely make a dent. “You going to give me a present?”
“You put it that way…oh, God, that’s a spot…” His brows furrow on a wince. “God, do that some more, Jones.”
Heat flushes my skin, but I comply. He shudders, his long body twitching as it releases pain.
“You put it that way,” he says returning to the topic of presents, “and I kind of have to, now don’t I?”