Page 126 of A Wreck, You Make Me
Or rather, my naked body.
Just the word ‘naked’ wakes me up the way even the sun couldn’t, and neither could that tickling sensation that I still feel. I try to push myself up, but suddenly there’s a hand on the back of my neck. Hot and dominating. It pushes me back down on the bed with a gruff, “Shh, don’t move.”
My heart starts slamming in my chest as I turn my face to look up at him and freeze. Because the sun streaming through the window is mostly pouring its light on him, and I can seethose chocolate-colored strands in his messy hair, thick and shiny, that I’m always looking for but they’re so well hidden that I rarely get to see them. Not today though. Today, I can see everything. I even discover something new. That his eyelashes have hidden chocolate in them too, and it’s such a surprise to find something new and unique in him, after years and years of watching him and thinking I know all his hidden secrets, that my heart skips a beat.
My heart also skips a beat at the fact that he, himself, looks like a treasure right now. Kneeling and poised over me, his head dipped down and his brows furrowed in concentration, with sunlight kissing every inch of his corded and roped muscles, he looks like a statue made of gold. God, he’s so beautiful, and he’s all mine. For now, at least.
And he’s mine in a way that I know what his collarbone tastes like, or that groove in his throat. I know what his nipples feel like in my mouth, hard and pointy. I know it takes me a grand total of seventy-five seconds to lick his entire six pack, if I’m being thorough, that is. And I know that I stilldon’tknow what his dick tastes like. Because he wouldn’t let me put it in my mouth. Because according to him, last night was about me and my pussy befriending the monster, not going on an adventure with him yet. His words, not mine. He said he’ll teach me when I won’t flinch at his first stroke. I told him it probably wasn’t going to happen because he’d forever be that big and I’d probably forever be that small. Or at least, I didn’t think it would happen any time soon.
Because last night, we had sex three times, and it still felt like he was slowly killing me every time he pushed in. So one time, he simply played with my sore pussy, rubbing the head of his dick against my clenching hole before running his length along the center of my core and making me come just from that. Although,when it was his time to come, he did push his dick in a little bit, just the tip, and came inside my pussy.
All of this to say, it was a success. As in, we did become friends, his dick and my pussy. We became the best of friends, because even when I was so sore and on the verge of passing out, I was literally humping his body and begging him to put it in me one more time. But he refrained. He turned me on my side, plastered his sweaty, heaving chest against my equally sweaty and heaving spine, and spooned me.
And now, this. Sun and him kneeling over me looking like the soccer god he is. Or rather, he’s kneeling between myspreadthighs. I fist the sheets and move my eyes to see what he’s doing. Because he’s the one causing that tickling sensation.
“Why are you…” I begin, watching his corded biceps and veined forearms move, “drawing on my skin?”
He’s got a Sharpie in his hand, a purple Sharpie, and he’s very carefully drawing something on my body, the side of my waist and my mid-back. At my question, he licks his lips and frowns a little more in concentration as he replies, without looking away, “I’m tracing your freckles.”
My heart hiccups. “What?”
He keeps frowning and drawing what I now realize are patterns on my skin—straight lines, circles and zig zags—and doesn’t answer me for a few beats. And I’m so busy watching how fascinated he seems with something that I’ve always hated that I don’t mind. So much so that his breaths slowly hasten and there’s a hint of a smile on his lips. A smile like when you crack a code you’ve been trying to for years or realize you’re holding a treasure in your arms. I’m familiar with the latter.
Then, “Woke up, saw you lying there and thought I should probably get started on my other promise.”
“What other promise?”
“Counting your freckles.” A long scrape of his pen follows, and then, “Started doing that, but then realized I needed to mark them so I don’t count them twice. So I got a pen and started doingthat. ButthenI realized, maybe I should try to find patterns too while I’m at it. You know, like how they find patterns in the stars? So yeah.”
“H-how long have you been awake?” I ask, while my heart, along with hiccupping, is also squeezing.
“Awhile.”
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
“Why would I wake you,” he says, still focused as if he’s a tortured artist sketching masterpieces on my skin instead of a superstar athlete, “when I kept you up most of the night? I’m an asshole, Strawberry, but I’m not so much of an asshole that I won’t let my girl sleep.”
I bite my lip harder, my belly starting to feel heavy. I squirm, pulling at the sheet, and he tsks. He puts his free hand on the back of my neck again to stop me, to pin me to the bed, so he can do what he’s doing on my body. Creating a universe, complete with stars and their constellations.
“Shepard?” I moan.
“Yeah, baby?” he asks distractedly.
“Please.”
“Please what?”
“Now.”
He hums in question, but I don’t think he cares about the answer right now because he’s still busy. But I give him the answer anyway in a keening moan, “I want it.”
That gets his attention and he finally, thankfully looks up. And like with his hair, the sun is bringing out the chocolate brown in his gaze too. Then, “You want what?”
I squirm again, and this time he lets me do it, even though his hand is still wrapped around the back of my neck. “You.”
Something carnal flashes through his features as he rumbles, “Yeah?”
I nod, rocking my pelvis against the bed. “But I’m busy,” he says, squeezing my neck.
