Page 82 of You Spin Me

When her lips play across my right cheek, over my brow and down my left, I feel her desire in every cell of my body. Desire to know, to honor, to trust. And it makes me want to return it all in spades.

So I let my hands listen, let my lips worship, let my brain go. For the first time ever, my worry about how a person will react to my scars? I letthatbird fly right out the window.

JESS

My lips and fingertips absorb so much information as they explore the terrain of Cal’s body that it’s all I can do to simply take it in. Our bodies are still separated by T-shirts and underwear, but that feels like a good thing. I feel safe with my breasts hidden away, and maybe he feels the same having most of his scars covered. Even with clothes on, there’s so much to learn, and I don’t want to miss a thing. Still, his palm skimming down my spine has my sex clenching with the need to feel him inside me as well as outside.

Be patient,I tell it.

“I’m doing my best,” Cal murmurs.

“Oh, I wasn’t talking to you.” My grin is wide as I frame his face with my hands and rub my chin across his goatee. “I was talking to my vagina.”

Laughing, he says, “Maybe you can give a pep talk to my penis while you’re at it.”

The image has me giggling, and I don’t even care. It does confirm how much I’ve been performing when I’ve had sex with other partners. Pressing my pelvis into his, I whisper, “Maybe they can have a conversation of their own?”

Slipping his palms under my shoulders, he bench-presses my chest away from his and pointedly looks down at the space between us for a moment. Then he meets my gaze. “He says yes.”

“Well, then.” Grasping his wrists, I slide his hands to my ribcage and use the momentum of his lift to scoop my tailbone under so that my butt lands right on the spot he just checked out. “She says, ‘Come on in, the water’s fine.’”

The flirty half-grin drops, and the eyes that meet mine are solemn. “Are you sure?”

Shaking my head and then nodding, I match his tone. “I’ve never been more sure and less sure of anything.”

His grin is back, but it’s not playful, it’s simply beautiful. “I hear you.” Without breaking eye contact, his right arm reaches for the bedside table, pulls out a string of condoms, and holds them up between us. “Ready if we need ’em.”

I have no idea how many minutes or hours we spend in mutual discovery. All I know is that with every touch, I want more. With every glance, I want more. Every moan of his is met with an equally needy one of mine. My skin is slick with sweat, but my sex is wetter, and I swear it sighs with relief when he finally finds his way inside.

The only time I’ve ever lost control of my body was in the hospital when I was fifteen. Then, control was wrenched away from me.

Now, when Cal’s thrusts pick up speed, letting go is a gift I give myself. Waves of sensation expand from my core out to the universe and back again until all that energy gathers to a point of excruciatingly pleasurable pain.

Before it explodes.

Chapter22

Faster than a speeding Buick, more powerful than a monster truck, able to leap small children in a single bound, it’s the only DJ with a mouth of steel: Motor. Weekday afternoons, only at 101.7 W-B-A-Rrrr.RRR. RRR. RRR.

CAL

The high I’m still riding from making love to Jess for the first time—followed shortly by the second and third—has me floating all the way to the station to interview the Godfathers, a British band I’ve followed for a couple of years. When you’ve made the most beautiful woman in the world weep and laugh at the same time as you rock her world, who gives a fuck what a bunch of rock and rollers think of you.

No one asks about my scars, but I give the spiel about the fire anyway. And then the ball’s rolling. We talk about everything from their time touring with the Ramones, to why they choose to dress in suits and ties—unlike most bands these days who might throw a leather jacket on over a T-shirt and jeans—and the origin of their name. Turns out they really are godfathers. Not the criminal kind, but the Irish-Catholic family kind.

After a laugh at that, they record a short acoustic set and are on their way, promising to visit again the next time they come through town.

Jones stops me in the hall when I’m on my way back to the studio to work with the engineer to cut the interview into smaller bites we can play over the course of my slot. “Hey, man. I heard the tail end of that. Great questions. You totally loosened them up.” His chin drops, and his brows rise. “You’re good at this, you know.”

Rolling my eyes, I can’t help but grin. “Yeah, yeah. You told me so. Now get out of my way; I got work to do.”

Then for the first time ever, Jones claps me on the left shoulder, hard. Like he does everyone else.

Friday night.Good thing: Jess can call in right after her show because she doesn’t have to make the drive home first. Bad thing: she’s not coming back to Boston until Sunday.

Even though I know her commute is only minutes, I’m still flooded with relief when the Jessica sign appears in the booth window. Like I am every time. Relief that she’s okay mixed with disbelief that she’s calling again.

There’re only seconds left in the Smithereens’ “A Girl Like You,” but I punch the phone line and say, “I’m here, I miss you, but I need a minute to line up some songs.”

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