I grew up knowing I was loved. Mama loved me. Completely. Daddy did, too, in his own way, just not unconditionally. Not enough. But I knew, down to my atoms that Mama loved me inside and out. If she were alive, she’d still love me, stripper and all. And Dawson…he’s never had that. Not ever.
I summon all my courage, and I roll over so I’m mostly on top of him. My br**sts squish against his chest, and the quilt—which I understand to be the only evidence Dawson has of his mother’s maternal affection—slips down around my hips. I wriggle and writhe against him, shifting until I’m pressed entirely into him, every inch of me against every inch of him. My leg is thrown over his hips, and I feel something thickening and growing against my thigh.
I know this is true, so I say it, because he needs, more desperately than me, I think, to hear it: “I love you.” I don’t garnish it with his name, or anything else. I just let it float out, let it hang. And I hold my breath for his reaction.
His eyes are closed tight. His hands are curled into vises on my hips, holding me against him. “Say—say it again. Please.”
I’ve never heard such vulnerability in a man. In anyone. He’s just completely open, bare to me. I see the nerve endings of his heart, the pinkness of his inner need, the thick, tough skin peeled away to show the tenderness not meant to be seen.
I writhe closer, pressing against him, cradling myself to him. I brush my lips over his jaw, then nip his earlobe as I utter the words again, a whisper so quiet it barely counts as speech but I know he hears it like a bullhorn shout. He flinches at every phoneme, every breathed letter.
“I love you.”
Dawson shudders beneath me, shaking, and I know he’s as pierced and speared as I am by this moment. All the world is silent and still. The sun hasn’t moved in its arc across the sky. Motes of dust hang in the sunlight, frozen like beads of amber. There is only him, his heart beating against mine, the slow tangling of him into me, and me into him.
His eyes flick open, and they’re all-colored and fusion-hot. He doesn’t have to ask me to do it. I reach down of my own will and push away the quilt, roll to my back, and strip away my underwear. I’m naked but no longer vulnerable. I’m nestled in the cocoon of Dawson, of his love, his need. His eyes rake me, take me. Cover me. Face, cheekbones and lips and eyes and nose; the delicate curve and hollow of my throat. He takes in the heavy swell of my br**sts, the erect ni**les, my ribs and taut belly; hips, belled and generous; my strong thighs, the sliver of a gap between them, knees and calves and feet; then back up, to my core waxed smooth, tight and touched only by his hand. And mine, once, briefly. My hair is a tangled mess spread across the pure white duvet. My skin a natural tan in contrast to the white sheets.
And then there’s him. Male perfection. Evidence of God’s handiwork. I believe in Him when I’m looking at him. Dark hair that’s not brown nor black nor dirty blond. It’s a color like his eyes, nearly black when wet, but now it’s drying and lightening in color, muting into a kind of auburn. Messy hair, uncombed, gel-free, un-styled and perfectly imperfect. Trimmed close to the scalp at the back and around his ears, but long enough on top to style artfully mussed or swept to one side in a classical, sophisticated part. The changeable beauty of his eyes, technically hazel but brownish when he’s feeling kind and soft, almost blue when he’s angry, faded moss-green when he’s raw with lust, always somewhere in between, never one shade. High cheekbones, a jaw like chipped granite, lips that can curl into a smile or a leer and still make women swoon. His chest is massive muscle with deep-cut washboard abs that ripple down to a trim waist. Strong muscular arms encircle me. His almost swarthy dark skin, a thin dusting of hair at the center of his chest, a thicker trail of hair on his belly.
I need to see. I lick my lips and run my hands over his chest, and he tenses, flexes. My palms flatten against his stomach, and then my fingers turn to face his toes. I slip my palms down to his hipbones, sharp knobs under my hands. I don’t dare take my gaze from his as I swallow my nerves and fear and summon the boiling ocean of desire. The shorts are loose at his waist, an untied drawstring hanging over the elastic waistband. I slowly and too gently peel his shorts down, down. His breath catches, and my eyes are now inexorably drawn to his erect manhood as I bare it, inch by inch.
A broad pink head, a groove running around underneath that where he was circumcised. Veins and tightly drawn skin, tan and thin-looking, stretched over so much manhood. I’m not breathing. My lip hurts and I realize I’m chewing on it, and I release it. But I don’t stop my hands as they draw his shorts off; he frees one leg, then the other, and now we’re both naked. I’m in bed, naked, with a man.
But I love him, and he loves me.
So this is okay.
Right?
I can’t and won’t stop, even if it’s not.
He rolls with me, places his hands on either side of my face, kneeling next to me, but not straddling me. His lips lower to mine, and now I don’t just lose myself in his kiss, but actively throw myself into it. I dive deep, drown myself. I suck his lip in between my teeth and lick it with my tongue, and I hold his face in both hands, then caress his neck and shoulders with one hand while searching the hard ridge of his jaw with the other. Then my hands explore more. Oh, lord, oh, god. There’s so much to explore, so much man to get to know. He kisses me unhurriedly and lets me learn him.
My palms follow his chest, his ribs under his arms, over his back and down his spine. I hesitate, and then my palms move closer, clutch his backside in both hands. Cool and hard, firm. I explore the fullness of his backside and then down his thighs. I curve my hands over his quadriceps and to his hips, and then he’s collapsing to one side and onto his back.
Now it’s my turn to hover over him, weight planted on one hand near his shoulder. My br**sts are heavy pendulums swinging freely, and then they’re caught in his hands, and I gasp at the heat and strength of his touch. His thumbs graze over my sensitive ni**les, and they turn hard as diamonds.
It’s time.
I watch my hand as it travels to hover near his erection. Dawson is holding his breath, eyes narrowed, watching my hand as well. My fingers curl into a fist around him, grasp him gingerly. He expels his breath in a long, slow, steadying sigh. I just hold him at first, marveling at the way my small hand looks wrapped around his manhood. I love the feel of him in my hand. It’s nothing like I thought it would be. It’s hard and hot, but it’s also soft and springy, cushion layered over iron. I try to breathe, partially succeed, and then I slide my hand down, feeling the ridges and veins against my palm, and I cradle his…I’m at a loss for what word to even use to think of that part of him…but they’re even softer than his erection, pulled tight, prickling with trimmed hair. I cup him there, hold him, touch him, and then my hand resumes its curling grasp of his shaft and slides upward. The tip fascinates me. There’s a tiny hole at the very top, and immediately beneath that he’s spread out into a mushroom wideness. It looks soft and springy, and it is, when I rub that area with my thumb.