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“More?”
“Yesss.”
He sat up between my legs to roll on the condom, his taut forearms flinching, his eyes savoring me.
I realized why I wanted this man, why I had ached for him, because it was an ache that could be
soothed. With Will it was all hunger, one we could never satisfy. I needed Jesse because I wanted
Will, and Jesse was the only man to quell that want. In fact, I was going to let him fuck it right out of
me.
And he did, entering me sharply, fiercely, sinking into me inch by agonizing inch, his thrusts
insistent and growing fiercer as my hips bucked against his. He took my wrists again and pinned them
down next to my head.
“You like this?” he said, filling me up, his voice a low growl.
I nodded, feeling like he was actually fucking pleasure into the very end of me. The more he thrust,
the more his stomach muscles clenched and contracted, turning his whole body into an oiled piston.
My knees bent high to clutch his torso, now coated in a sheen of sweat. Then it happened: my whole
core squeezed around him and he could feel it too, his face registering a shock, taking it as a cue to
ride me higher still, pump me harder, my clit now pinned between his pelvis and mine, his keening
hips kneading it perfectly, beautifully, rolling into a hot build. I wanted to scream as the whole of me
surrendered. I was calling “Oh god” as I came, setting him off, his beautiful lips curling as he came
hard into me too, saying, “Oh, Cassie … yeah,” neither of us caring about the neighbors or the noise
as we finally collapsed, gasping into a heaving pile of limbs.
“I think my heart … stopped. Shh … I need to listen for it,” he mumbled into my hair. “Am I …
dead? Can you hear anything?”
“I think you’re gonna be okay,” I said, as he eased out and off me. I shifted to face him, coated in
his sweat, and sleepily traced the outlines of the tattoos on his shoulders. I spotted a scar there. He
grabbed my fingers.
“How’d you get that?”
“Dirt bike stunt. Fourteen years old,” he said, between kissing my fingertips.
He sat up so I could see his full body paint and turned around to give me a better look at his back.
“Is that an oak tree?”
Almost like adolescents at show and tell, we slid from hot sex to sweet stories as he began to tell
me what was behind the more prominent tattoos—the tree whose branches twisted into a skull
cradling his shoulder, the other shoulder covered by a cluster of birds.
“Yeah. It’s the oak from my grandma’s property in Kenner. I grew up there after my parents died.
This one hurt,” he said, pointing out a beautifully rendered face of a handsome young man on the left
side of his rib cage. “My older brother. He taught me how to read when I was ten. Late bloomer. He
died in the first Gulf War.” So much tragedy on his body— dead family, old memories. “And that’s my
‘tramp stamp,’” he said, bending to show me his lower back, where indeed the word Tramp was
stamped on his sacrum.
“Ha!”
“Were you expecting a butterfly?” he asked.
“I think with you expectations might be a bad idea,” I said. Was I fishing? Was this me seeking
assurances that I could have expectations of this man? I wasn’t sure. He stretched out next to me to
cuddle.
“That’s probably wise, Cassie,” he said, sounding sincere and serious, throwing his thigh over me.
“I was thinking the same thing about you.”