Sunday, December 31
(Scout)
I'm nervous. Paxton and I are riding with Gus to Rook's show at a local bar. I purposely never watched Rook play while I was on tour with them. I always told myself I did it to stay disconnected from the hype. I hated the hype. I only had to deal with Gus on a business level. The performer side of him seemed too personal, too artificial, too unpredictable, and I didn't want any part of it. I didn't want to see him in that light, because I thought it would make me dislike him even more. Now I fear it may have the opposite effect. Time and familiarity has completely transformed my opinion of him. And after listening to him write and play at home these past few weeks, I'm more attracted to him than ever. And I'm fighting it, which is difficult because every day I notice something else about him, about his personality, that draws me closer. So, I'm nervous.
"What song are you going to close with tonight, Gus?" Paxton asks eagerly. "I hope it's 'Killing the Sun'."
Gus nods. "That's usually how it goes down, Pax." He seems nervous, too. Not himself.
He pulls into a dirt lot that's packed with cars and parks behind the bar in a spot clearly marked 'No Parking'.
Paxton jumps out as soon as the truck is in park and starts pulling Gus's guitar cases and amps out of the bed. And I take this moment of privacy to talk to him. "Hey?"
He's distractedly searching his pockets. He's not listening.
"Hey? Over here." I wave my hand to get his attention.
He glances at me. "Yeah?"
"Are you okay?"
"I need a fucking cigarette." He really wants one. It's the reason he was absently checking his pockets for the pack of cigarettes he used to carry. Old habit.
"No, you don't," I remind him.
"I need a fucking piece of gum."
I dig a piece out of my purse and hand it to him. "Suck it up."
He's motioning with his fingers like he wants more. "Gimme three."
I hand him two more and he takes them immediately, unwraps them, and pops them into his mouth. He talks while he's chewing. "I don't know, Impatient. I thought I wanted this, but now that I'm here I don't know if I do."
"Paxton's really excited to watch you guys play." It's the only encouragement I feel like I can offer that will make a difference. And it works.
He smiles, a genuine grin. "He is pretty stoked."
I nod again and smile. "This is probably the best night of his entire life. And I'm not just saying that."
He nods again. "What about you?"
"I'm pretty excited, too."
"You don't have to lie to me." He doesn't sound hurt, he's just being honest.
I push on, even though it's hard for me. "I'm not." And suddenly, I feel a surge of energy. This is about him finding himself again, and I need to help him believe he can do it. "I want to watch you play your guitar. I want to listen to you sing. This is my first Rook show. I want to be impressed. Show me what you've got, rock star."
He smiles. "That sounds like a challenge." He winks. "I like a good challenge."
"You do?"
The smile remains, but it's transforming into something far more sexy. "Hell. Yes."
I surprise myself when I add, "So do I."
He echoes, "You do?"
I nod. My entire life has been a challenge. But this? This is a different type of challenge, one that I'm beginning to accept, despite my fears.
He stares at me for several seconds, and when his eyes drop to my lips, all I want is for him to kiss me. That's all I want.
But then he turns away and drops his feet to the ground outside the truck. I think he's going to walk away and leave this conversation unfinished, but he turns back to me and says, "You might be sorry you said that, Impatient, because, like I said, I fucking love a challenge." With that he shuts the door and walks to the back of the truck to meet Paxton. And he leaves me sitting here feeling feverish in such a good way. I might be in trouble.
The bar is small inside. Gus said it will hold two hundred, but I don't know how. By the look of the place, nothing's ever been fixed or updated, from the dark wood walls, to the torn vinyl booths around the perimeter of the room, to the worn, uneven, wide-planked wood floors. It smells like a brewery. I can't imagine how much beer has spilled on and soaked into the floors over the years. This place is a real dive, and it's amazing to think that Gus and Rook got their start here, when they've played some of the most well-known venues in Europe and the States.
Paxton is in his glory, helping the band bring in their equipment and set it all up. He's wearing one of the Rook T-shirts Gus gave him, and I know for a fact I've never seen him happier than he is tonight. I wish he could live this for more than a couple of hours.
I hear voices near the entrance, and I can see the bouncers turning away mobs of people at the door. Everyone wants in to see Rook play. Paxton and I were going to watch from backstage, but Paxton wants to be out in the crowd. So after the stage is set, we find a spot amongst the masses of people already gathering in the audience. Being in the middle of all these people makes me uncomfortable, but I'll do anything to keep that smile on Paxton's face.
When Rook takes the stage, the place erupts. I've never heard anything like it. If adoration has a sonic equivalent, that was just it. It's love. Mad love for this band. And it makes me smile. Paxton is jumping up and down, yelling, and clapping. Yup, I've never seen him happier, not that life always calls for this kind of excitement, but this is what I want for Paxton every minute of every day.
Gus clears his throat as he approaches the microphone and he smiles, but something is off. His eyes are searching the crowd and the intensity in them doesn't match his smile. "Hello San Diego!" he calls out. "It's good to be back at Joe's!" His eyes are still searching. "We're gonna play a few songs for you tonight. But, before we get started I need you to bear with me a minute."
A woman near the front takes her shirt off and swings it like a lasso over her head. Franco is laughing from behind his drum kit and points a drumstick at the woman in only her bra and says, "Not that kind of bare, but I love your enthusiasm, chica."
The crowd laughs, but Gus still looks intent. He's not seeing or hearing what's going on around him. His eyes are still methodically scanning as he calls out, "Pax, where are you?"
Paxton starts waving his hands over his head. Usually he'd be embarrassed by this kind of attention, but I think the excitement has outshined any hint of shyness.
When Gus spots the waving hands his eyes lock with mine and he points at us before crooking the same finger, calling us to him. "I want everyone to give the stud in the Rook shirt and the pretty girl with him some room and let them move up front."
Paxton grabs my hand and starts pulling me through the crowd. I'm bumping shoulders with everyone we pass and everyone's staring at me, which is usually a nightmare. And though I still feel a little self-conscious, I can't stop smiling while a blush heats my face ... because Gus just called me pretty. He called me pretty to a room full of people. I know this shouldn't be a big deal. Beauty is on the inside, blah, blah, blah. I know that. I preach it. It's my mantra. I've repeated it to myself for years. Repeating and believing are two different things. And when you grow up not feeling pretty, then when something like this happens ... it's huge.
When we stop directly in front of him, up against the stage, I finally look up. He's staring down at me and his smile has transformed. It's real. It's the smile he wears after he's surfed, or played with Spare Ribs, or watched the sunset, or hugged Audrey. It's bone-deep contentment. It's my favorite version of Gus. I smile back to let him know I'm with him and that I'm proud of him. And then I say, "Thank you. Show me what you've got."
His smile grows and he winks. "Challenge accepted, Impatient," he says into the microphone.
He strums his guitar twice, glances back at Franco, and nods. And just like that it begins. For the next hour I watch Gus own that stage. Challenge accepted indeed. From my place up close to the stage, I'm in awe. I can feel the bass and the drums thumping inside my body, and I'm close enough to reach out and touch Gus, if I wanted. I can feel the heat of the stage lights, and the sound of the music seems to pour over me. My eyes roam over every square inch of him, taking it all in. This whole experience is sensory overload.
I watch his feet move from one side of the stage to the other while he's playing his guitar, before they come to rest in front of me at his microphone stand while he's singing. And when he sings his words seem to seep in through every pore and fill me completely. I don't hear them; I feel them. I feel every word, every syllable. His voice, his delivery, it grabs ahold of me. The emotion in his voice makes my heart feel like it's going to burst. He is so passionate. And holy shit is it sexy.
As the performance goes on, I find myself shamelessly checking out his ass in those jeans every time he walks away from us. I can't believe I've been living across the hall from that ass for months now and I've never noticed how spectacular it is. And the way his chest perfectly fills out the T-shirt he's wearing, his biceps tugging and stretching the sleeves, seems totally new. I watch his taut forearms tighten and flex with constant use.
And his hands. His hands. Watching his fingers manipulate that guitar, bending it to his will, he manages to make it scream ... or sing. I know music is visceral, but my imagination is running wild watching those hands. How they would feel on me. What they could do to me. Jesus, suddenly I feel like I'm going to lose my mind. I thought there was attraction before, but now I'm blatantly staring at the bulge in his jeans and full-on fantasizing. All I feel is need. So. Much. Need. The kind of need that's demanding relief.
And every time my eyes meet his face again, it's as if they're being pulled there. I realize that he's staring at me, and the look in his eyes is sinful and playful and so, so naughty. It's fueling the crowd.
And it's fueling me.
I don't know how long they've been playing. It could be tomorrow already for all I know, and believe me I'd stand here all night long and watch him, but when he pulls his guitar strap over his head and separates himself from it, his shirt is drenched with sweat. He pulls the shirt over his head, and the women in the crowd whistle and scream as he huddles up the rest of the band at Franco's drum kit. The cheering of the crowd continues as they talk, and though we can't hear what they're saying, the look on all of their faces has turned serious. When they break apart, Gus walks over to the edge of the stage, grabs a stool and his acoustic guitar, and returns to the mic. After he adjusts the stand, he takes a seat and strums his guitar a few times before he speaks. While he speaks, he absently tunes the guitar. "So, we recorded this song a long time ago, but we've never played it live." He shrugs while he says it. It sounds like an admission and an apology all at once. "Hell, we haven't even played it as a band in a very long time, so we're gonna do our best to not fuck it up, but don't throw shit at us if we do. Deal?" The crowd yells their agreement. His eyes drift from the neck of his guitar, when he's satisfied with the tuning, to me and he smiles nervously. He's looking for support.
"Show me what you've got!" I shout, and smile.
He nods and his smile warms as he speaks into the mic. "This song is called 'Finish Me'." He tips his head back until he's staring at the ceiling and takes a deep breath and then he says something no one can hear. Then his chin drops and he starts strumming his guitar. It's just him now, and the sound is breathtaking. It's slow, passionate, and almost eerie. By the time the rest of the band joins in, I'm lost in it. And when he sings, I'm drowning. Drowning in the depths of the emotion pouring out of him. It's raw and it's pain and it's love, pure and fearless. He's drawn me in. I'm on the inside, the inside of this storm of emotions. I grab Paxton's arm and hold on with both hands as if I'm going to get pulled away in the tidal wave washing over me. And when it's only Gus strumming his guitar again and it eventually dies out, it hits me. His grief hits me. He wrote this song about Kate, that's why they haven't played this song.
He couldn't play this song.
But he just did.
And it was the most beautiful, angry, powerful thing I've ever heard.
But his eyes, his eyes are shining. There's relief in them. And pride. And love. So much love that I can't keep from smiling at him.
He smiles back at me, and when he does I know he's going to be okay. This was a step he needed to take. And he didn't just take the step ... he crushed it. He played the hell out of it.
And the best part is ... he knows it.
The crowd swells into massive applause, cheering their enthusiasm and filling the place with noise. Gus smiles, wipes his brow, and clears the stool from the stage. He exchanges guitars, and takes his place behind his mic stand again, adjusting the height. He looks lighter than I've ever seen him. He's standing taller. He looks out at the crowd and his eyes scan the entire room. As he does, a smile blooms on his face, and his eyes fill with light. Biting his bottom lip, as if to contain an even bigger grin, his eyes drift upward as he says, "That was for you, Bright Side. I hope you were watching, you little shit." The rest of the band claps and laughs with him. He turns and looks at Franco and I see his shoulders rise and fall in a deep, cleansing breath. The cheers have quieted down, and I hear him say, "Fuck, that felt good," before turning back and addressing the crowd. "We've got one last song for you tonight. And I'm gonna need all of you," he gestures to the audience with both hands, "And I mean, every last one of you, to sing with me. Let's fucking kill the sun, shall we?"
The final song causes the crowd to erupt into chaos, and I'm loving every second of it. I don't know the words to the song, but judging by the deafening volume, I'm the only one. Everyone in the room is singing. For that three minutes, I feel like I'm part of something huge. And for the first time, Gus's tattoo makes sense. Because this ... everything I see ... everything I hear ... everything I feel ... it's epic.
Gus.
Rook.
They do epic.
The show wraps up just as the clock strikes midnight and Gus calls out, "Thanks for coming out tonight. You're the best fucking crowd we've played for in ages. Now go celebrate, you badasses. Happy New Year!"
Paxton and I grab a couple of Cokes while Gus and the guys talk to their fans after the show. They sign autographs and take photos for about an hour, after which we help them break down their equipment and load it in their vehicles.
The ride home is filled with one-sided chatter. Paxton talks the entire drive. I've never seen him like this, so animated, and energized.
When we get home, the house is unusually quiet. Audrey is in Chicago celebrating New Year's Eve with Dr. Banks. Paxton hugs Gus and thanks him again for the fifth or sixth time and retreats to the basement to go to sleep. It's two o'clock in the morning. I should be tired, but my body and mind won't quiet down. If it wasn't so late I'd probably go for a run to burn it off, but instead I offer to make Gus something to eat. He wants grilled cheese. So I make four sandwiches and pour two glasses of milk while he takes a shower. He returns wearing only a pair of shorts and we sit on the stools at the island in the kitchen to eat. My ear is ringing dimly in the silence. It would probably be annoying if it wasn't a reminder of what I just experienced. The memories are all running through my mind: the sounds, the visuals, the feelings.
The silence seems to offer respite from the rowdy evening to Gus. So I give him time to reflect, or not to think at all if that's what he needs, while we eat. But as we're finishing up our sandwiches, I break our peaceful quiet time. "Thank you."
He looks at me, talking through chewing his last bite. "For what?"
"For making Paxton's year."
He's not good at taking compliments. He looks down at his plate, but a bashful smile breaks out. "He did have fun, didn't he?"
"I'm telling you, this was the best night of his entire life. Ask him in the morning, he'll tell you." It makes me smile just thinking about it.
Gus glances at me and his expression is apprehensive. "What about you? Did I meet the challenge?"
I lick my lips. "And then some." I'm nervous all of a sudden. He's sitting on my right side. I never let people sit on my right side, with a full view of my scars. I turn fully on my barstool to face him.
Before I speak, he places a hand on each knee and spins me back to my prior position facing forward.
"Why did you do that?" I ask.
"Because I never get to see this side of you." He gently touches my cheek, my scar, and a finger traces it.
Though I fight the flinch, my eyes instinctively squeeze shut and tears prick the backs of my eyelids. My chin drops and I pull my lips between my teeth and bite down trying to ward off the emotion that I know is coming. When I no longer feel his touch, I take a deep breath and open my eyes.
He's staring at me and there's no judgment, or disgust, or pity in his eyes. "I showed you a different side of me tonight. It's your turn." His voice is quiet and gentle. Gentler than I ever would've imagined he could be.
I give him a disingenuous half smile. "Our other sides are very different."
He glances down thinking for a moment before he reaches out and grips my knees and turns them toward him again so I'm facing him. When he scoots to the edge of his stool he doesn't let go of my knees. His legs are spread. A knee touching each of mine to the outside. I'm looking down at his hands on me and our tangle of legs pressing against one another, when he says my name to direct my eyes back to his, "Scout."
Scout. When he says my name it sounds like a promise. And my entire body reacts to it, both physically and emotionally. He's searching my face, and out of habit I look away again.
"Look at me," he says.
I do, though I have to fight the urge with everything I have to not look away.
"I've been hiding from performing for a long time now. Hiding from that other side of me."
I shake my head to reject his misgivings, because he was born to perform.
"What?" he asks.
I'm still shaking my head adamantly. "You shouldn't hide. What I saw tonight ... " I sigh because now I'm getting emotional thinking about it and I know he doubts himself way too much, so I need to say what I can to convince him otherwise. "You, up on that stage. God ... it was incredible. Your voice, your music ... just your presence ... was amazing. You asked if you met the challenge earlier ... but damn ... " I hesitate. " ... You blew me away."
He's still staring at me, with no hint of a smile. As he leans forward slightly, the pressure on my knees increases and with it I feel the air around us charge. His eyes drop to my mouth before finding my eyes again. "Maybe you see my other side differently than I do. What you just described ... " He shakes his head. "That can't be me."
I cock my head in disbelief. "Why not?"
"Because I'm always doubting my talent. I'm always questioning whether I'm good enough. Hell, for over a year I couldn't even write a new album."
I want to shake him, but I tighten my hands into fists instead. "How can you even say that? You're the most talented person I've ever met. And you did just write a new album."
He takes my fists in each of his hands and gently pries open my fingers. "So, basically what you're saying is I should tell all the doubt to fuck off, because I'm better than I think I am? That you see me differently than I see me?"
I lock eyes with him and I nod. "Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying."
He squeezes my hands and raises his eyebrows to emphasize his point before he even says the words. "That's exactly what I'm saying, too."
While I'm thinking about what he's just said, replaying the words in my mind, he places a hand behind each calf and lifts my legs until my feet are even with my seat. Then pulls his legs together until his knees touch and rests my feet on top of them. "You don't see the woman I see." His hands part my legs and he lowers them until each of my knees touches the outside of his. I'm trying to listen, but my focus is shifting from the things his lips are saying, to the things his hands are saying. The story is unfolding in his touch. His hands find my knees again, but this time they slide slowly up my thighs. Mid-thigh they roll to the outside toward my hips. At my hips, he doesn't stop until his hands are cupping me from behind and he slides me forward until I'm sitting on his lap, straddling him.
And now my heart is racing and I've never been more aware of touch and how it can set all five senses in motion than I am at this moment. I want to take in everything about him, everything about us, but I'm not sure what to focus on first. So I keep my eyes downcast and I put all of my attention on the feel of his hands moving up and down my back ... up and down ... in a slow and soothing massage. The repetitive motion coaxes my eyelids closed. And as soon as I'm plunged into darkness it awakens a need inside me. I need to touch him more than I've ever needed anything in my life, so I place my hands on his sides near his ribcage. He doesn't have a shirt on and he's still warm from his shower. My eyes remain closed but I feel him lean in until our chests are brushing and his mouth is at my ear. And the conversation, a compelling combination of words and touch, continues. "I couldn't have played without you there tonight. I panicked when I got on stage and I couldn't find you in the crowd, that's why I asked you and Pax to move up front. I feel different when you're around. I feel better, like maybe I can deal with all the shit. I don't know what it is about you, but you make me want to be Gus again. Both sides. I had so much fun tonight. I haven't played like that in over a year."
Hearing that, hearing the healing and hope in his voice, sends my heart soaring. "You have no idea how happy that makes me," I say into his shoulder.
He's still at my ear. "Thank you. It was you." His hands make their way up my back again, continuing until they're on either side of my neck and his thumbs are resting under my chin. He urges my head to turn to the left with his thumbs, fully exposing my scars, and says, "I meant what I said earlier." A soft kiss falls on my marked cheek and my eyes tighten shut. "Pretty girl. You're beautiful." Another kiss paints another scar. "Every," another kiss, "thing," another kiss, "about," another kiss, "you," this kiss falls lower on my neck, "is fucking perfect."
I'm getting dizzy with him touching me like this so I open my eyes and turn my head to face him.
(Gus)
When she opens her eyes, they're dark and shining. She's looking at me like she did earlier tonight while I was on stage. The look is undiluted sexual need, pure and radiant. But there's also something else. She's trusting me with the most vulnerable part of her, and she's not backing away from it. That courage? It's incredibly sexy.
I can't go another second without her mouth on mine and take her face in my hands at the same time she reaches for mine. The moment my lips touch hers, I want to be inside. And my teeth lead the journey of exploration; tugging at her bottom lip I trace it with the tip of my tongue. The act prompts her fingers to snap apart and rake through my hair until her palms are covering my ears, blocking out the silence in the room and all I can hear is my own heartbeat thundering in my chest. It mirrors the desperation I feel.
Releasing her lip I plunge inside, she's ready for me. Our tongues brush gently at first, but it's only seconds before the need amps up to an all-out war inside her mouth. The most beautiful fucking duel I've ever tasted.
She pulls away gently. "Gus?" Her voice is breathy, air more than sound.
It's the first time she's ever called me Gus. And goddamn, it feels like acceptance and approval; she finally let me in. "Call me Gus again."
"Gus." It's the same whisper.
We kiss, and the tangle resumes momentarily before I answer. "Yeah?"
Her hips announce their intention at the same time she grasps my hair in her hands at the base of my neck. "I need you—" It sounds like an admission more than a demand.
I cut her off with another kiss, because, Jesus Christ, her voice—that breathy, faint confession. It's all driving me wild. And forget about her hands in my hair. That always does it for me.
Her hips roll again and I meet them, pressing my erection into her. Her whole body tenses and the grip on my hair intensifies. I groan, because, shit, this feels so fucking good. I need to get us out of here before we end up fucking on top of the kitchen island, because that's what's going to happen in about two minutes if I don't move us to my room. With her arms still around my neck, I stand and she wraps her legs around me. It's a good thing I know my way around this house in the dark because I'm not parting my mouth from hers so I can watch where I'm walking. I'll rely on my memory and instinct to get us there because the rest of me is too goddamn busy.
I set her down when we reach our destination. Two steps inside and the door's shut behind me and my shorts are on the floor.
She's fighting the button on her jeans when her eyes lift and she sees me standing in front of her naked. Air escapes her lungs in gasp of shock ... and want. So. Much. Want.
I step toward her and remove her hands from her jeans and take over for her. She lets me, so I shimmy her jeans and panties down her long legs. When I reach for the hem of her shirt, I look at her questioningly. She never bares the scars I know are underneath and I know this moment could go either way. And I'm fine with that. I only want her to give me what she's comfortable giving me. So when she nods and raises her arms allowing me to slip her shirt up and off, I'm cheering inside. Cheering on her courage. The scarring is limited to her right side and her arm. It's not shocking. It's what I expected. And it's just her. And everything about her is beautiful. Her eyes are downcast again. Lifting her chin, I point to my eyes. "Eyes right here." Our eyes meet.
And in her eyes I see unease threatening her confidence. "No one's ever seen me like this."
"Lucky me. Because. You. Are. Beautiful." And now I'm feeling a little triumphant because obviously even fucking Michael wasn't given this gift. "Thank you."
Now she's smiling with relief and the confidence is returning. "Thank you." And then the smile twists into desire again.
My eyes drop to her body. She's standing before me in just a white cotton bra. Goddamn, I thought I was aching before, but that's ratcheted my desire to all-out pain. I reach behind her and unclasp her bra and before it's slipped down her arms, I've got her breasts in my hands. My thumbs sweep softly across her nipples and they harden at my touch. It's an immediate reaction that never fails to excite me.
Her breathing has increased again and each breath is full of urgency, as if she's trying to suppress any vocal reaction to the pleasure she's experiencing.
I run my eyes up and down her body one more time—it's visual foreplay. Her body is gorgeous. And then I look her in the eyes. "You okay?" She's so quiet, which is in stark contrast to everything else her body is saying.
She nods.
"I can't seem to do much right lately, but I swear to God, Scout, that I will make you feel so ... damn ... good. Just say the word."
Her eyes are pleading now, and her hands are anxiously stroking the small of my back. It's a restrained gesture that hints at the promise of uninhibited abandon. "Please."
I don't waste any time wrapping my arms around her and pulling her against me. Damn, her skin. She's all skin. Beautiful, warm, sensitive, nerve-filled skin. I feel her. I haven't felt anyone for months and months. Women were just bodies to satisfy my need. But with Scout, I feel her. I feel everything about her.
I walk her toward the bed until the backs of her knees make contact and I lay her down. We inch our way up to my pillows. She's on her back and I'm on top of her. My body hasn't left hers. It doesn't want to. Every time she lifts her hips to scoot up the bed I meet the rise with pressure from my own and we move fluidly as one, like waves. A tide that rises and becomes more forceful, more demanding. And each crest coaxes an appreciative and pleasure-filled groan out of me, coupled with subdued silence from her.
"You don't have to be quiet, pretty girl. Feel this with me."
That's all the persuasion she needed. "Mmm." The moan is relief and ecstasy, accompanied by an exhalation that's one of the sexiest sounds I've ever heard a woman make. Like she's lost all control. It's the abandon I knew was penned up inside.
Her head's resting on my pillow now. I'm grinding my hips against her, with her, and she's holding me tighter and tighter to her body, like she's afraid I'll disappear if she lets go.
We're just looking into each other's eyes when that goddamn sexy moan comes again.
"Talk to me Scout. Tell me what you need." I want to hear it all.
She pants out, "Now. I need you now, Gus. I can't wait."
Neither can I. I kiss her and then roll off of her and reach into the drawer of my nightstand for a condom. I've got it ripped open and rolled on in record time.
She doesn't make any attempt to take the lead or to reposition herself, so I nestled between her legs on my knees. Holy shit, I haven't been this fucking turned on in so long. I forgot what this felt like. I want to go slow. I want to lick every inch of her body. I want to touch her and tease her. I want this to last. But, she's ready, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't right there with her. I'm so fucking ready.
I'm raised up on my knees before her. Looking at her. She's beautiful. Her dark hair is fanned out around her head. Her eyes are bright and fixed on mine. Her chest is rising and falling with each pull of breath, nipples swollen and hard.
I lower down so my ass is resting on my heels and splay my fingers under her, my thumbs against her hip bones. Grasping her firmly, I slowly slide her up my thighs. Goddamn, her skin again. On me. I'm going to explode.
Her legs are bent at the knee on either side of me, her perfect ass resting on my thighs. I position myself at her entrance and have to admit that I can't help but stare at us ... touching. At the most intimate, private parts of us about to meet, about to become one. All I want to do is watch me be welcomed and swallowed up by her.
My hands pull her into me at the same time my hips push me into her. It's slow and exaggerated and she gasps when I fill her, a rush of air and uninhibited satisfaction. Her need being sated.
I feel her legs tense and her body meets my every move. Her eyes are closed and her face looks slack with pleasure and pursed with concentration. This is not the Scout I've known for the past few months. This is Scout from the dream I overheard months ago. This is Scout letting go and giving in to everything her body's craving. Giving in to everything it's getting from me. Giving in to everything it's giving to me. She's so fucking into this. And so am I.
So.
Am.
I.
Fuck.
My eyes drop back to our connection. Me gliding out of her and gliding back in. Over and over. Everything's building. I can feel it in her, too.
I switch positions without breaking our connection, so that I'm lying on top of her. Skin, all of it, touching again. Her arms and legs are wrapped around me. My mouth on hers. The movement of her hips is turning my world upside down in the best way possible. She's so fucking tight, and she's pulsing around me.
"That's it sweetheart, let it go," I pant.
She does. God, does she ever. It's moans, and unintelligible sexy sounds, and words distorted by release.
That's it. I'm done for. It's coming. Coming. Coming. "Oh, fuck. Fuck," I call out.
She's still writhing around me and the last thing I hear come from her mouth is, "Kiss me, Gus."
I do.
Again.
And again.