Page 80 of Ellie Hayes and the Himbos
“I’d done everything I thought that I could do to make up for what I couldn’t provide, and it wasn’t enough. Not even for someone who, as my friends loved to assure me, had long since stopped deserving the effort. It wasn’tsuperencouraging as far as future success.”
Ian rumbles thoughtfully, an almost-smile teasing the corner of his mouth. “How did you know what he wanted? Did you ever ask?”
“I don’t ask,” I say, wryly, painfully aware of the irony. “I know best, remember? If I had to ask, then I wouldn’t know everything. Can’t have that.”
“Hmm. No, you’re right.” The corner of his mouth quirks again.“You,”he says, pointedly, “can’t have that.”
I grimace. “Damn. Maybe I haven’t fooled you after all,” I say, and he chuckles. “I think I’m making strides, accepting a certain degree of fallibility,” I continue, feigning pique. Kind of. “You were right that I needed to actually find out what the guys wanted, instead of imposing my standards, even if my standards are impeccable. So thank you for that.”
“You’re welcome. Since you’re being so gracious, I’ll admit that you’ve gotten me to accept help—”
“More than what I’ve offered, personally?”
“I’m in talks. So thankyouforthat,” he says, and smiles. Withdrawing his hand from beneath my robe, he eases himself up my torso until we’re face-to-face, one leg between mine.
I run my hand over his shoulder, following the shape of the resting muscle so obvious under his warm skin. “So, may Iask, is there anything I canhelp youwith right now?”
“Honestly, I’m content. I have been since we got out of the shower. Which is strange for me. There’s always something I’m stressing over.”
“Right? Me too! No intrusive thoughts—” Mostly.
“Well, that’s great news.” His eyes roam my face for a few heartbeats before meeting my eyes again. His brows twitch down for a second, and his voice is more serious than I expect when he asks, “Do you think you can do something for me?”
“Sure?” I ask, curious.
He draws his lower lip in between his teeth and I have the very real urge to lean in and do the same. “I’m not going to lie. The idea of sex with you isamazing,” he says, and my body responds with a combination of delight and anxiety that would probably knock me over if I weren’t already lying down. “But I want you to let me know when is good for you. For my part”—he clears his throat, chin raised slightly as he continues—“I do have experience beingcarefulwith partners.” I arch a brow, and he shrugs. His expression is equal parts abashed and shameless as he says, “I’m not a small man, Hayes.”
While our shower earlier had been more than perfunctory, there is something endearing about him feeling compelled to make clear what that cock sock had more than promised. “Your dad have a conversation with you about that, too?”
“I will neither confirm nor deny any such thing,” he says, and I laugh. He grins. “For now, we can figure things out. I think we’ve proven that—”
I run my finger over his chin, tracing the rise and fall in the deep cleft. “Are you saying that you’re content to shoot off in your shorts?”
“So, notthatpart, but I have faith in us to come up with alternatives. But I don’t want you to have those same worries. Not with us.”
I still my finger.Us.
“And I know that I’m going to ask how you are, because I’d like to know how you are. In general. That matters to me.”
“Okay.” My throat closes in around the word.
“I’m going to leave it to you. I trust you,” he says, driving another bolt of guilt through my heart, “to tell me when you’re good to go.Reallygood to go.”
I nod, trying to acknowledge my guilt as the totally justified discomfort it is, but also feeling my attention drift to the erection pulsing against my thigh.
I give in to the pull of the latter. “At the moment, you feelparticularlygood to go. And I’d like to do something about that. So I’m going toaskif you’d like somehelp.”
The man’s pupils dilate like I’ve given them a command. But he sounds convincingly cool when he says, “You’re really asking?”
I slide my hand down the ridges and planes of his torso, lingering as I try to recall the vocabulary he used in the bathroom. “Pectorals,” I muse, raking my nails over his chest, then light my fingertips along his side. His body tenses. “External obliques.”
Lower still, I trace the channel above his hip bone. “What was this one?”
It takes him a moment to reply. “Inguinal ligament,” he pants.
“Ah!” Continuing downward, I hold my palm to his lower abdomen, edging below the waistband of the borrowed shorts, my fingers spread in aVto either side of the base of his penis. I press firmly, and the thickness of him pulses against my wrist.“Bulbospongiosus, was it?”
His “mm-hmm” is strained.
