Chapter 22It is my favorite. She is my favorite.
TWENTY-TWO
It is my favorite. She is my favorite.
Trace
Flinging her onto my bed, I don’t bother with the lights. Moonlight spills into the room, illuminating the space with mood lighting. My Firecracker in that lacy thing with her badass boots on? Fuckin’ A .
And what's with me blowing for her without touch, over and over? She’s changed my DNA, I swear. She crawls up the bed, wearing a smirk that tells me she isn’t done having her way with me.
“God,” I groan, stroking my hardening cock. “I want to get inside you so bad. That was so hot.”
“You liked it, then?” she asks, pulling down the straps to her outfit. My cock jumps like it’s the first time he’s seen tits, but in truth, it’s her. She rewires my brain, short-circuits reason and makes me abandon thought. When Ivy is naked in front of me, all I can think about is greeting cards with hearts and poems, wedding bands and forever.
I nod. “A lot.”
She smiles, pushing wavy dark hair behind her ear as she yanks the lingerie from her foot. “I have something else for you to try, and I’m making an assumption that you’ve never done it.”
“You keep me on my toes, baby, so you know what, I probably haven’t done it.” Grabbing a condom from the box in the bathroom, I sheath my cock then knee my way onto the bed, hovering over her as she slides onto her back. With her blinking up at me, the house quiet and my brain still, I have the strongest urge to coil my hand gently around her neck and press my lips softly to hers. To ease her into a slow, meaningful kiss where I share how I feel without words. The last time I kissed a woman with those intentions, I was in love.
I gave her a ring.
“There’s so much we don’t know about each other still,” I breathe. “But you have me in a choke hold, Ivy Ellington.”
She bites her bottom lip then says, “I’m about to have you in amazon.”
My brows pinch and before I know it, she’s hooked her legs around me, and flipped me to my back, my chest pounding from her wild laughter.
“Bend your knees,” she says, her laughter fading, smile evolving into something more sensual.
“Like this?” I ask as I curl my knees to my chest. When she nods her approval, I feel like a dog getting an atta boy from his owner. If I had a tail it would wag.
“Now, I’m gonna fuck you,” she whispers, leaning over my curled legs to find my lips for a kiss.
“With a strap?” I ask, wholly confused as to how we’re having sex with me in this vulnerable position. And when I envision Ivy exploring my prostate with a strap-on and fucking me? I don’t hate the idea. In fact, I look down to find my cock happy and hard along my belly.
She shakes her head. “Nope, this is amazon position. I’m in control, so I’m fucking you, but with your own cock.”
“I don’t know if I get it,” I admit. She’s the one above me, the one who knows what she’s doing, the one teaching me, and the contrast to us in the studio versus bedroom is something I never thought I’d like, but I’m beneath her in awe.
Aligning her knees on either side of my rib cage, she smooths her palms over my knees, and instinctively I drive my heels into her lower back. Slowly, she sinks down on my cock, taking every inch slow, all while telling me to watch.
“See that? See the way I’m taking your cock, how I’m in control?”
I can’t decide where I want to look because I want to look everywhere—at the way her soft pink lips clench my veiny cock as she sinks down on it, at the way she peers down at where we connect, at her velvety tits with hard little tips, at the silhouette of us drawn against the floor. When she glances up at me, I lock onto her eyes, and with that, she starts riding me.
Hard.
Harder than I expected, harder than I envisioned for this position, harder than I was prepared for.
How can I feel the burn of another orgasm coiling in my groin after what we’ve already done? I don’t know. But within a few seconds of her full tits swaying, her dark hair spilling down her back, her hands gripping my knees with force, I feel it. I feel the swell of release growing in my balls, making my cock ache and my taint burn.
“You like it when I fuck you? Hmm?” she questions as she rides, her eyes growing hazy and hooded, just like mine.
“Yes,” I answer, my mouth cottony as I struggle for better words. Dirty talk. Filthy talk. Shit talk. Anything.
But I can’t.
All I can do is lie on my back and watch the most beautiful woman in the world slide up and down on my cock and pray my fuse is long enough that I don’t come before she gets her pleasure .
With a jerk of her hips, the angle changes, and my eyes squeeze shut, the last bit of self-restraint draining from me as my ass clenches and my cock throbs. “Ivy, you’re so tight, so good,” I praise, a stark contrast to my usual sex talk. The truth falls from my lips without thought, and I reach up, twisting my finger in loose strands of onyx silk, tugging gently. “Firecracker,” I rasp, and though she rides me hard and fast, bed squeaking, tits swaying, my world spinning—the moment is still intimate. My heart beats louder than the room around us, my mind shouts even louder.
Make this woman yours.
Though as she chants she’s on the brink of coming, her nails marking my knees as she gains momentum on my dick, I think she’s making me hers.
And I want that. As much as I wanted to ink, as much as I wanted Trace Tats and Needle Ninjas . No, that’s a lie. I don’t want it as much. I want it more.
“Trace,” she cries, her head falling back, exposing the smooth column of her throat and the underside of her jaw. Future memories and possibilities flash behind my eyes as my orgasm tears up my legs and sears through my shaft, making my cockhead throb deep inside her cunt. A smile on her lips, her body curved over my chair at Ink Time, my gloved hand at her throat, inking our initials into her velvet skin.
My eyes snap shut as I explode, filling the condom in shuddering, powerful bursts, the feel of her cunt squeezing and milking me only making me come harder. Groans and moans tumble together around us, hers and mine, skin slapping skin, finally, I open my eyes. Her head is tipped forward, the ends of her long hair dusting my knees as she smirks that same fiery smirk she gives me at work.
“I fucked you,” she smiles, slowly rising up until she’s empty, my partially stiff cock slapping onto my belly. Using her hands under my knees, she lowers my legs to the mattress, laying me flat. Reaching for the condom, she stops, her fingers at the ringed base.
“You come a lot,” she says, poking the full tip of the rubber.
I shake my head against the bed. “I think I’m still coming,” I tease, my cock twitching slightly in the sheath, another drop of cum slipping free. My balls are still thrumming, too.
She laughs, slowly rolling the condom off of me before tying it and sliding off the bed. In the en-suite bathroom, I hear the toilet and sink, and when she returns, she’s got a wet cloth in her hands.
Slowly, she moves the cloth over my cock, swiping away the stickiness, cleaning me up entirely. Tossing it to the floor she flops down next to me, stroking her hand over my chest as she rests her head on my shoulder. I reach out and grab her leg, bringing it to rest over mine.
“You a cuddler?” she asks with a yawn.
“Nah, haven’t cuddled in years.” I twist my head, peering at her through one open eye, my heart racing at the sight of black hair strewn over my bed. “But I like being tangled up with you. In my bed.”
“Hmm,” she sighs, “so if you don’t cuddle, what do you do after sex?”
My face tingles. “Drink.”
She rolls and rocks, positioning herself on her elbows as she peers down at me. “Let’s go paint,” she offers, and while I had no intention of jumping up and grabbing a bottle, I like that she’s trying to protect me.
Off the bed and on her feet, Ivy pokes through an open box on the floor, dragging out one of my t-shirts. She holds it up and without asking, slips it over her head, pulling her hair out of the collar. Finding her panties, she puts those back on, too, then claps her hands at me.
“C’mon, this place isn’t gonna paint itself. And I’m hungry.” And with that, she’s traipsing down the hall, and I’m smiling at my ceiling like a damn fool.
Two empty cans of gray paint and we’re taking a break to eat the takeout from Goode’s we ordered. Ivy sinks into the couch, her Styrofoam clamshell in her lap, her long hair on top of her head, secured with a pencil.
“These walls drink paint. I can’t believe we already went through two cans and we only did the dining area,” she says, popping open the lid, the smell of sweet potato fries and chicken hitting my nose. My stomach rumbles.
In my jeans and nothing else, I take a seat next to her, placing two cans of Coke on the table in front of us. I pop hers open, then mine, and sit back with my own food.
“I know. I think we’ll be painting for another week at least, even though this place is pretty small.” I toss a French fry into my mouth and groan. Food has tasted better lately, and I know that could be the lack of booze in my veins, but I also know it could be the pretty lady next to me, too.
“I like it, though. I mean, I grew up in a pretty cozy house and… I don’t know. There’s something about being able to shout from your room to the kitchen and hear someone. I like it,” she says, taking an enormous bite of her sandwich.
“Yeah?” I ask, taking a bite of my own sandwich. I went with a club this time, and fuck if it’s not the best sandwich I’ve had yet. I groan and she nods, pushing a rogue piece of lettuce into her mouth as she gloats, “Told you Goode’s is… good.”
We smirk at one another with our mouths full, and she twists on the couch, legs crossed beneath her tray. “And yeah. I mean, part of living in a small town like Bluebell is liking things small, right? That goes for trust circles, house sizes and?—”
“Not cock size,” I interrupt with a wink.
She rolls her eyes. “If I loved a man, and he had a small dick, it wouldn’t matter.”
I nudge her with my elbow as I take another bite. “Good thing you’re not in that situation.”
She pauses, and our eyes idle as I stop chewing. The insinuation hangs between us, unspoken but understood. My skin prickles with heat, and the back of my neck burns.
“Good thing,” she finally says, taking another bite.
I change topics, not allowing myself to bask in the fact she didn’t challenge me on that. And we both know it’s not about my dick size.
“And what else? What else is small in small towns that you like?” I ask, wishing there was a book called ABOUT IVY that I could binge, just to know everything.
“Dreams,” she says, holding up a finger to stop my immediate protest. “Hear me out. I can have a dream—becoming a tattoo artist was my dream, you know? But the way I can fit that dream into the right setting in a small town, and work where I love while doing what I love, without any sacrifices, that’s perfect. But if I wanted to be a doctor or, I don’t know, an astronaut, well, I couldn’t do that here.”
I pick up the other half of my sandwich and pull the frilly topped toothpick out. “I get you.”
“Would you have stayed in your hometown and been happy tattooing if you hadn’t gotten the show?” she asks, reaching forward to take a sip of Coke.
My hometown comes to mind, and my ex follows right after. Her face is hazy now, all these years later, but the splinter of pain that comes at the remembrance isn’t. It’s sharp and glinting, even now. I shake my head. “No. Too much shit there I didn’t want to be around.”
“Your ex?” she asks softly, as if testing the waters. I wasn’t even aware she knew.
“How do you know about my ex?” I ask. Listen, I’m not proud but I’ve googled myself. It happens when you rise in fame overnight. Of all the terrible and dope things I’ve seen, her name isn’t one of them. Successfully, I moved on without anyone tying us together. So Ivy knowing is… a first.
She pushes a piece of hair from my face, but it rocks my groin the way she casually takes care of me. Digging into her sandwich, around a mouth full of sweet potato fries, she says, “The circuit. Everly kind of told us a little at girls’ night.”
My interests rise. “Us?”
She nods. “Me, Juniper and Dolly.”
My throat is sticky. “What did she tell you, exactly?”
“Honestly,” she replies, “not much. Your ex cheated and broke your heart, and then you got the deal with Needle Ninjas and left.” She gives me an empathic look. “I was cheated on too. So I completely get your desire to split.”
“Someone cheated on you?” I ask, choking a shocked laugh.
“I could say the same for you,” she says, “but yeah. My ex-boyfriend Rhett.” She waves a dismissive hand between us. “Back to you. Rhett truly isn’t worth talking about.”
“Neither is she,” I add quickly, then say, “I don’t want to waste a minute of my time with you talking about people that don’t deserve our thought or words, baby.”
She stills, and blinks at me, her eyes misty. “Yeah,” she croaks, clearing her throat, “I mean… yeah, I get that.”
We finish our meals, all the while discussing the best horror movies and soundtracks. When Ivy tells me Michael Myers can’t be beat, I twist on the couch and tell her to check out the TV screen tattooed on my left shoulder blade, where Michael Myers himself is on-screen.
Ranking everything that falls below the greatest, we agree that Freddy Kruger is kind of weird in hindsight, and that Jaws needs more recognition as a true horror flick. After that, we rank caffeinated drinks while moving on to our second cans of Coke. From there, the chat never stops, because talking to Ivy is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.
But when the sun slips behind the mountains and drapes my small home in shadows, the spell shatters, and she slips down the hall and puts her clothes back on, reappearing in the living room without my shirt. “I left your shirt on the bed,” she says, picking up her black bag, stuffing the strap inside.
“You didn’t have to take it off,” I manage, my internal alarms sounding as she gets ready to leave. But I can’t ask her to stay. I can’t ask her to spend the night. I don’t know what we’re doing, and without a label, it makes it hard to ask her not to go. But when she rocks to her toes, presses her lips to mine and sucks my tongue into her mouth, sadness washes over me.
Not because I don’t want to be alone.
I don’t want to be without her.
But I let her go, not without peace of mind that she gets home safely. I drive behind her the entire way, all the way down the long dirt road that leads to her place and Hudson’s. I flash my lights as she pulls open her front door, my way of saying goodbye.
And on my drive back, my phone lights up with a text.
Hope you like your tattoo. Thanks for a great night.
Stopped at a red light, I text her back.
It’s my favorite.
I’m sure she won’t believe me, since I’m pretty much covered from head to toe, but I’m not lying. It is my favorite. She is my favorite.