“G-Girls seriously grab your…you know?”
“Dick? Yeah. At parties and shit—it’s the wrestling singlets. Obviously you can see the whole full frontal, and some girls consider that an invitation to get handsy. I don’t know why anyone considers grabbing a dude’s nuts through his jeans sexy.” I blink down at her. “Unless it was you. You can grab them any time you want.”
She snickers. “I will not be grabbing your nuts.”
“Hey, hey, hey now, don’t be so hasty,” I tease, grinning.
Violet stops smiling, suddenly serious. The tips of her fingers lovingly cross my lips. “Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?”
No.
I get told I’m hot by random girls. I get told I’m pretty by my teammates when they’re fucking with me, handsome by my mother on those rare occasions she hosts a holiday and demands I come home.
Beautiful? That’s a first.
Beautiful sounds like more.
More of everything.
She’s not just calling me beautiful, she’s…
Shit, I don’t know what the hell I’m saying; Violet is turning me into a fucking pansy. I used to be a hard ass, and now I’m talking about feelings and all that other bullshit. Soon she’s going to have me holding babies and volunteering with old people, I just fucking know it.
Whatever.
I’d do it.
I’d do it just to see those eyes of hers light up. I’d do it because when her small, slender body is pressed against mine, mine lights on fire. I could get used to these feelings, could get high now that I know how fast my heart beats when she’s near.
“Violet,” I say, almost breathlessly.
“Yes?”
I let the open flat of my hand graze her shoulder, down her arm, over the sleeve of her sweatshirt. Take her hand, dragging it to my chest. Flatten her palm against my violently pounding heart.
Wordlessly.
Violet shifts, drawing away. Sitting up, she climbs in my lap, facing me, and settles down, one leg on either side of my hips. Slides her palms up my hard pec muscles, then down my torso, grasping the hem of my hooded sweatshirt. Burying her hands inside. Hauling the hem up my abs. We pull it off together. I’m wearing a cutoff shirt underneath, and in short time, we remove that, too.
Together.
Moments later, I watch her hands disappear between us to drag her yellow sweatshirt up, over her head, and toss it to the floor.
Except for her sheer, lacey bra, we’re both naked from the waist up.
Those delicate hands of hers glide slowly along my bare shoulders. Down my deltoids. Over the smooth expanse of my clavicle, index finger drawing along the planes of my naked torso, committing every inch to memory.
Her palms brace the column of my corded neck. Drift slowly behind to my nape, thumbs fiddling with the hair that could probably use a trim. Back down my chest, sliding through the hair on my sternum. Traces my nipples.
It gives me goose bumps.
Gets me hard.
She leans in close, so close her small breasts press against my chest, and rains kisses on my neck. Along my collarbone.
It feels so fucking good.
Enveloping her tiny waist with my arms, I drag her close, positioning us so all our best parts are aligned.
Skin on skin, my hands skim her spine.
My neck bends forward and I drop my forehead so ours touch. Our noses. Our breaths.
“Violet?” I whisper.
“Yes?” she whispers back.
“I love you.”
It’s a confession.
Closing my eyes, I say it again. “I love you Violet.”
A prayer.
Seconds pass. Stretch out.
Moments of silence.
Then, “I love you, too.”
She draws back to look at me, heavy lidded eyes softening, dampening at the corners, bottom lip trembling. When she squeezes her eyes shut and a tear slips down her cheek, I take her face in my hands, cupping her chin in my hardened, massive palms.
Kiss her mouth. “I’m in love with you.”
I don’t know what else to say, want to keep repeating the words. Suddenly, all these emotions and shit I’ve kept to myself are emerging as heart emojis, sappy love songs, and chick flicks. I look at Violet and all I want to do is spout mamby pamby love bullshit. Roll around on the bed and cuddle with her and crap.
She’s so cute.
So fucking gorgeous.
So sexy.
I love her.
How many times am I allowed to say it before sounding like a douchebag? I’ll have to ask Oz.
“You make me…” There’s that lump in my throat making it almost impossible to get the words out. “I want to make you happy.”
Oh my god, listen to me.
“You do.”
When our tongues meet, my lips tingle, dick twitches. Everything about this feels…new. Different somehow.
Violet’s hands reach for my sweatpants, disappearing into the elastic waistband. Tugging. Pulling. Without breaking our kiss, I shove them down my hips. Kick them off and onto the floor, along with my boxers.
Her jeans and plain white underwear follow.
Violet pulls back the coverlet on her bed, spreading back the quilt and crawling underneath. Pats the space beside her. Drags the covers waist high when I’m settled.
She lies flat in the center, wearing nothing but her dainty little bra, rosy nipples displayed through its sheer white lace. I rub one of the straps between my fingers. Trail my pinky inside the fabric, over the shallow swell of her breasts.
“I hate this bra,” she groans.
“Why?” I lean in, kissing her flesh near the tantalizing lace.
Violet shivers.
“It’s not sexy.”
“It’s not?” Kiss.
“You’re saying it like you don’t agree.”
I trace the sateen strap, the edge of the cup. “I don’t agree. I can see through this to your skin; how is that not sexy?”
She says nothing more after that, resumes silently observing me drawing on her skin with my fingers.
Violet
I believe him.
I believe he thinks I’m sexy. Me. The bra. My body.
What I can’t believe is that he said he loves me.
He said it and he said it first.
Zeke gazes down at me, propped up by an elbow, his mammoth upper body a wall of steel. Imposing. Strong. Unyielding.
His fingers linger on my bra strap, make their way up the column of my neck. Bury themselves in my hair. I want to touch him, long for it, but he’s so content to lie here touching me.
So I watch.
Could lie here forever.
He’s ridiculously attractive.
Zeke’s bulging biceps flex with every movement of his arm, muscles corded…tan skin…tight six-pack…the V of his pelvis dipping into the waistband of his jeans.
He’s running his big hand up my thigh, stroking my hip, a relaxed smile playing at his lips.
He’s tired.
“A-Are you spending the night?” I try to inquire as nonchalantly as I can, but my stomach and tongue are doing somersaults.
“I can if you want me to. I can grab my overnight bag—it’s in the truck from our match at Purdue.”
“All right then, it’s settled. You’re sleeping over.”
“I’m sleeping over,” he parrots, testing out the words with an amused expression. “Shit, those are three words I’ve never said to anyone.”
And they’re for me.