Page 78 of Wilde's End
“Nothing. It’s the orgasm talking.”
“Then let it talk.” I lean my face in closer.
It takes a whole minute of panting before Wilde pulls his stare to mine. “So fuckingperfect.”
The praise, the appreciation, it’s too much for my little mind. I fuck his grip like I’m losing control, and I can feel him unraveling beneath me. With every second of desperate hunger that passes between us, I’m expecting him to look away. I wait for the connection to drop. For me to lose his attention.
But those gunmetal eyes are locked on mine, gaze focused and penetrating. Our labored breathing meets in the few inches between us, and I don’t know what Wilde sees when he looks at me, but for those few razor-sharp seconds, he lets me see too much.
Something tugs deeper inside my chest than I’ve ever felt before, but it doesn’t last long. The pleasure rippling at the base of my spine takes over, and I’m done for. I fuck our fists, lost in the glide of our precum as my balls tighten almost painfully, teasingly, and then … the release I need hits. The orgasm melts away every thought I’ve ever had as I sink into the high and finally have the relief I’ve craved all week.
Wilde follows me over the edge, and feeling his cock pulse against mine is something I want to experience for too many more moments to count.
Before I can follow that thought too far along, I roll off him, back against the hot rocks, water on my legs feeling cool against my overheated skin. Wilde’s chest is rising and falling as fast as mine, and when my gaze dips lower, I’m treated to the view of our cum mixed together in the hair sprinkled over his torso.
He doesn’t look at me, so I have all the time I want to look at him. He’s … unpolished. It’s not something I ever thought I’d find hot, but on him, it feels raw and honest in a way I’ve never considered before. The only thing out of place is his sleeve of tattoos.
“You don’t strike me as a tattoo kind of guy” is the first thing I say.
He goes on staring at the sky, ignoring me, before he extends that arm between us, tilting it over so I get a good view of his inner arm. And the scar that runs almost from wrist to elbow.
I don’t waste my breath asking about it, just roll onto my side to get a better look. It’s an old one, probably as old as the smaller ones that cover his torso. Most of them are uniform, like little nicks, but here and there, one is deeper, more twisted. Whatever happened, his arm caught most of it.
He got his tattoos to hide it. The twisted linework does well to incorporate the milky skin into the design.
And Wilde willingly shared that with me.
“I like it.”
He tugs his arm away, then pushes to his feet. “I’m going to clean up.”
I watch him stride into the water, gaze locked on his broadback, wondering about all the things he won’t talk about. There’s more to him than the growly mountain man I first encountered, but I have a good feeling I’ll never get those answers.
I join him in the water, not in a hurry to leave and, for once, not having much to say. It’s a weird sort of silence, heavy with curiosity, but peaceful too.
It lasts until we both get dressed and leave.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
WILDE
The tarp that covers the entrance to Ziggy’s mine shaft is open, so I take it as an invitation to walk inside.
“Where’s your shaver?”
He glances over from where he’s brushing his teeth at his sink and taps the set of drawers next to it. Ziggy’s whole place is one room. His bed is down the furthest end, almost swallowed in the darkness of the tunnel, and a stuffy couch closest to the entrance sits next to his fridge, with a small table holding a boxy old TV in front of them. Then his bathroom is lined up along the opposite wall. Sink, makeshift shower, toilet. All plumbed in at some point. The only thing he’s missing is a kitchen, but Ziggy doesn’t cook anyway.
The building storm outside has thrown his place into shadows.
I retrieve the razor from the drawers next to where he’s standing, ignoring his shrewd gaze in the tiny mirror.
“Thanks. I’ll bring it back tomorrow.”
He spits out his toothpaste and turns to me. Ziggy can say way too much with absolutely no words, and I know the searching gaze is looking for a clue about why I’m here when scissors have always worked just fine.
“I’m due for a trim. Beard’s getting a bit long.” Unfortunately, I catch a glimpse of myself in his mirror, and I don’t like what I see. It’s not only long, but it’s … impossible to tell that there’s a face under there. My grip tightens around the shaver.
