Page 48 of Fighting for You
“Yeah… it’s perfect,” I say. What I don’t say is it’s one of my favorite movies, one I watch every year around the holidays because I believe it’s the most underrated Christmas movie. And John Cusack does things to me; there’s something about the guyliner.
“You like the actor, right? I saw you have a bunch of his movies,” says Brooks as if he’s reading my mind while popping a fry into his mouth, washing it down with a swig of beer.
The opening credits of the movie start, the soundtrack playing softly from the radio next to us, but I’m only half-paying attention as John Cusack and Kate Beckinsale flirt and fight over a pair of gloves.
I don’t know why Brooks noticing such a small detail about me is overwhelming, but my chest feels tight. I turn away from him and blink to clear my eyes. He’s been in my house two whole times. I grew up watching this movie, and I would comfortably bet all the money in my savings account Hayes would have no idea what it is, let alone an actor featured in it.
Brooks is nothing like what I had built up in my head, and it’s difficult for me to reorganize what I thought I knew about him into what’s true and what is so wildly, wildly false. He’s sweet, attentive, and a little awkward when he’s nervous. Yes, he has his hard edges and abrasive side, but it’s just the tip of the iceberg of what he brings to the table. I don’t know why he hides behind this persona—if I had to venture a guess, I’d say self-preservation—but the urge to continue to peel back his layers is overwhelming.
I want to know what his passions are. I want to see all the ways he helps the people around him, because he does. Andusually without any expectation of reciprocation. The way he handled my father is a prime example. He graciously took charge that day, lifting the burden off my shoulders. He didn’t have to do that. He doesn’t know my dad, he barely knows me. But I want to know him. I want to know everything there is to know.
And I think I want to start with learning just how soft his lips are and how his calloused hands feel running over my body. The thought of Brooks’ hands on me lights a fire deep in my belly, and I have to shift my legs in a fruitless effort to ease the ache between them. I’ve never had such a visceral reaction to just the thought of a man touching me. But there’s something about Brooks that calls to me, makes me trust him implicitly—both with my body and my heart. Am I getting ahead of myself? Probably. Should I be thinking of doing what I’m about to do? Probably not. But as the lust haze only seems to get heavier, I can’t think of a single reason why.
We’re sitting close—shoulders, thighs, knees touching. My body burns at each point of contact, and I can’t keep still. A twenty-foot Jeremy Piven quips at John Cusack’s character on the screen, but I’m barely following along.
“You okay?” Brooks whispers. “Cold? Want me to grab another blanket?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer before reaching around to search in the dark. But I’m not cold. If anything, I’m burning up.
The anticipation from earlier in the day is back, and it mingles with the low level arousal I’ve been doused in ever since I realized we’ve already kissed.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I throw the blanket off my lap, grab Brooks’ shoulder, and swing my leg over his thighs.
Then I freeze.
Oh my God, I’m straddling Brooks.I had this idea of throwing myself on top of him and just going at it, but now that I’m here, looking into his deep blue gaze, which is probablymirroring my own surprise at the position we’re suddenly in, I’m at a loss.
What do I do with my hands?
I’ve never been the one to initiate intimacy. I’m not inexperienced—having experienced everything but penetrative sex—but the handful of men I’ve been with always took charge and led the way. And I would willingly follow up until a certain point, and then I’d set limits. Thankfully, aside from one guy who got frustrated and left shortly after, they all respected my boundaries. None of them felt right for taking the final step, and the relationships fizzled out before I ever got comfortable enough.
With Brooks—despite feeling like a fish out of water for the position I’ve put myself in—it feels right in every possible way. His initial shock morphs into heated amusement as his lips turn up in that smirk I want to lick off his face.
“Whatcha doin’, Freckles?” he murmurs as his hands slip under my jacket and shirt, lightly holding onto my hips, fingertips caressing the skin there.
“Shut up and kiss me,” I whisper as I grasp his face and slam my mouth to his.
And then we’re kissing and kissing and kissing. I’m lost to it while at the same time cataloguing each movement of his hands as they run up and down my back, the way his tongue moves across mine, the feel of his stubble under my palms. I know now I’ll be revisiting this moment often when I’m alone in bed.
I kiss down his chin and neck, and he turns and extends it, giving me more access. His eyes are closed, and he groans out a quiet, “Goddamn,” when I reach an extra sensitive spot right behind his ear.
I move back to his lips, officially addicted to the taste of him. He gently nips at my bottom lip before nudging me away a few inches. When I finally open my eyes, I’m met with swollen pinklips and glazed blue irises radiating nothing but want. The same want is confirmed by the way his cock has hardened in his pants underneath me.
My mouth practically waters at the idea of what he looks like under the layers. Seeing him half naked the other morning left very little to the imagination. It’s the last little bit of mystery spurring me on.
I know people can probably see up over the walls of the truck bed, but I don’t care. With my eyes locked on his, I gather my hair and tie it up in a messy bun at the top of my head. I then slowly unbutton his shirt, running my hands over his pecs and abs. His muscles contract under my fingertips, maybe from my touch, maybe from the chill.
I can’t make out all of his tattoos, but they seem to be a mishmosh of styles and placement with no real theme tying them together—I recognize my brother’s work in many of them. I want to know everything about them. When he got them, what they mean, but right now is not the time. Right now, I need to taste more of him.
As John Cusack boards a plane back to New York on the screen, I kiss Brooks’ lips, then his neck, then I move to his chest. I give into my intrusive thoughts a little and run my teeth across his skin, and he hisses in response. “Damn it, woman.”
I chuckle and keep moving lower, licking at the divots between his abs. When I reach his pants, I look up. I’m now spread out on my belly beside his legs. He dips his head, and it’s all the permission I need. I make quick work of his belt and fly.
Reaching in, my fingers find velvety soft skin and trimmed hair.Commando.I look up, eyebrows raised, and Brooks gives me an impish smile and a small shoulder shrug. Somehow it doesn’t surprise me.
Getting back to the task at hand—no pun intended—I wrap my palm around his length, his very girthy, very generouslength. It’s hard as steel and hot as coals under my touch. I maneuver his cock out of his pants and pause to take it in. Even in the dim light it’s intimidating: standing up tall, the tip glistening, an attractive curve leaning it toward his body.
I pump my fist over the length of it, seeing more pre-cum bead at the head. My mouth waters at the sight, and I give in and wrap my lips around the tip, swirling my tongue to collect the salty evidence of what I’m doing to him. My eyes flutter closed at his taste: salty, slightly bitter, but not unpleasant. The flavor mixes with the scent of his musk and whatever cologne he wears, overwhelming my senses. It’s intoxicating.
“Yes, fuck. Yes. Please. Please keep going,” he rasps out.I like the begging.
