“Lay it on me.”
Drawing circles on his stomach, I tell him about my perfect man. “I grew up watching musicals with my grams and old shows like I love Lucy and The Dick Van Dyke Show. I was enamored with men who could sing and dance. I thought it was fancy to expertly match your suede shoes with cuffed Dockers. I envisioned my perfect man to be one with slicked-back hair, a voice like Bing Crosby, and the dancing charm of Fred Astaire, with a little mixture of Gene Kelly’s swagger. I thought the perfect man was going to tap dance his way into my heart, sing me a melody, and then whisk me off to some show on Broadway.”
“So you were looking for an old soul with the talent of a lost art.”
“Pretty much,” I answer. “And here, I ended up meeting a brooding man with a motorcycle, the whisking talent of a god, and the ability to protect me at all costs.”
Leaning closer to my ear, he whispers, “You’re forgetting something.”
“Um, your killer dark eyes?”
“Try killer penis.”
“Carter!” Once again I’m blushing, which I’m sure was his intention. Even though the word penis embarrasses me, especially when it refers to what we did tonight, he’s right. It was killer. Never in my mind would I have thought sex felt that good. I’m not going to make it all butterflies and roses, because when he first entered me, that wasn’t the best moment of my life. But afterward, once I relaxed, everything following was . . . just magical. It’s the only way I can describe it. Flat-out magical.
“What? It’s the truth, isn’t it? Did these tap-dancing men have the same kind of killer cock as me?”
“Oh my gosh.” My blush deepens, if that’s possible. “I never thought about that area before.”
“Never?”
“No.” I shake my head.
“Hey.” He shifts me so I have to look him in the eye. “Is my penis the first penis you’ve ever seen?”
I bite my lip. “I’ve seen one in the anatomy book my grams has, but that was an illustration. So, I guess, yeah. You’re the first penis for everything.”
Smiling widely, he scoops me back up, this time so I’m lying on top of him, looking down into his playful eyes. “I like being your first penis. Just so you know, not all penises are this nice. Some have warts.”
“Warts?” I cringe.
“Yeah, and an abundant amount of hair. Penises vary, especially with the southern friend, the scrotum. I’ve got a good set, Snowflake; you lucked out. There are some pretty sick dicks out there.”
“How do you know? Where do you look at penises? Do you do it often to compare?”
“Not so much.” He chuckles. “I frequent the gym, and men let it hang out like it’s their job, especially the old guys. Wrinkly old-man balls, not the best thing.”
I don’t want to talk about old-man balls, as it makes me want to gag. I like Carter a lot, but even looking at his balls, which seemed nice, make me shy. I focus on something else.
“You go to the gym? Is that why your arms are buff?”
He raises an eyebrow at me in question. “You think I’m buff?”
How could I not? His biceps are toned, defined in his tight-fitting shirts. His chest is broad and thick, so powerful that he can pick me up with ease. He has a body I never expected to see under his leather jacket, but it’s a body I could die happy seeing every day. If that makes any sense. If not, how’s this? Yum!
“You know you’re buff, so stop fishing for compliments.”
“Wouldn’t hurt to hear you say it, Snowflake. A guy needs his ego stroked every once in a while.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh Carter, you’re so buff. You have muscles for days, all bulgy and brawny, like Mr. Clean.”
“The bald cleaning guy?” he asks, distaste in his question.
“Yeah, he can be sexy.”
“You want to rub that slick head of his? Pull on his earring?”
“He has an earring?” This is news to me. I can’t picture it.
“Yeah, tough guys have earrings.”
Leaning from side to side, I examine his ears: not pierced. “You don’t have an earring,” I point out.
“Nah, I’m more of the broody type than tough. But, I am able to step up to tough if you ever need someone to get hijacked in the face. I’m not opposed to fighting.”
“Well, I am.” I search his eyes. “Have you ever punched someone? Has anyone ever punched you?”
His eyes soften, his hand pushing my hair behind my ear. “You want the truth?” I nod. “Okay, yeah, a lot. I can’t even count the amount of times, especially growing up. I’ve been punched by schoolmates, friends, my dad, my uncle, random assholes. I learned to defend myself pretty quickly.”
“Your uncle and dad punched you?” He just shrugs as a response, causing my heart to split in two. I don’t understand how an adult can raise a hand to a child. It makes no sense to me. Is that why he is often so distant, aggressive?
Cupping his face, I gently kiss his lips. “I’m so sorry you had to endure that.”
“Like I said, my life has been a struggle. I’m used to it. No use in fretting over it.” Before I can say another word, he flips me over in bed, pinning me to the mattress. “Now, enough of this sad shit, I can’t wait to taste you again.”
“Again?” I ask in disbelief.
“Yeah, Snowflake. You’re not a one-and-done girl. You’re the forever kind.”
Smiling down at me, I take everything in about this man. He’s so genuine, so honest, the perfect combination of sweet and masculine. Joining Dear Life has been one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. I feel as though the blinders have been removed and I can see more shape to the future of my life. I now have a sister I adore, have made new friends, and of course, right now, in Carter’s arms, I feel alive. Never saw that coming. Never saw him coming. He wasn’t what my mind had conjured up as the perfect man for me, yet we seem to . . . fit.
Day by day, the little steps I make toward being that woman in the mirror, it’s all about proving my existence, one small gesture at a time.
CARTER
Standing in my boxer briefs, flipping my signature French toast, I think about last night. Hell, I’ll be thinking about last night for a damn long time.
Daisy was everything.
Innocent, yet invested. Pure, yet sinful. Shy, yet explorative.
The way her hands moved across my muscles, it was sensual as hell, her fingertips not quite sure what to do, but her lust egging her on.
Then there was the look in her eyes, the pout to her lips, the way her hair fanned out against my pillow. Fucking hell, so damn beautiful.
It was hard to keep my hands to myself, to give her a break knowing she was going to be really sore, but I wanted her over and over again. By letting me inside her, she claimed me. I was a goner. I’m still a goner.