39. Alessandra
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
alessandra
“Quit squirming!”
A pillow muffles Booth’s girlish giggle but does nothing to stop the shaking of his shoulders.
“ It tickles.”
My legs bracket his hips as I straddle his butt while he lies facedown on his bed.
Shirtless , with smooth, golden skin on full display, his muscles twitch as I run a damp washcloth over his back.
Maybe the lack of sleep is to blame for this absurd idea.
Booth is a willing participant, albeit the most unusual canvas I’ve ever painted on.
“I’d still consider this painting with numbers.” His chuckle vibrates through me.
I pause. “ How so?”
He twists his neck and waggles his eyebrows.
“ Because I’m a ten.”
The squeal he lets out when I splash cold water on his face doesn’t do much to deter the crazy surge of hormones running through my body.
He’s so cocksure. With any other man, it would be off-putting.
Booth owns it, makes it attractive and endearing, like with a lot of things he does.
Pair that with his delicious body, it’s hard to not be lured in .
“You really are an idiot,” I say with faux annoyance.
The cloth splats on the floor as I drop it over the edge of the bed and dry him off with a paper towel.
“ Okay , are you ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.” He blinds me with a dazzling smile before tucking his face back into the downy pillow.
We’ve lined up the tiny pots of paint the kit came with on a tray.
The brushes are cheap, the paint may never wash off, but a thrill of excitement runs through me as I dab the brush into hot pink.
I slap a hand over my mouth to stop my snort when I think how ridiculous we must look.
“Hey, what are you doing up there? No penis drawings!” he protests.
“Shh. Let me concentrate.”
The streak of pink stands out against his tanned skin.
Following each ridge of his spine, I drag the brush down and stop between the two dimples above the waistband of his shorts.
Dip , paint. Dip , paint.
Dip , paint.
With each stroke, he softens into the mattress, sighing peacefully.
My tongue peeks out between my teeth as I layer on the colors.
There’s no pattern to follow, design to recreate.
This is unrefined, imperfect, and messy.
Tires squeal internally, and I freeze.
I’m painting.
The thoughtful gift, followed by my silly suggestion, has me feeling airy.
No creative block or obsessing over tiny details.
He’s chipped away at me, one patient, effortless step at a time.
My flaws don’t stop him.
There are quite literally no strings keeping him here; he wants to be here with me.
A splash of water lands on his back and that’s when I realize I’m crying.
Crying because I’m happy and free and grateful and loved.
Crying because I haven’t felt like this in a long, long time.
Booth detects the change in mood, and turns his head.
I don’t hide the evidence of my emotions streaking down my face.
“Alessandra, baby,” he breathes.
“ What’s wrong?”
My skin heats.
I hate crying with a passion.
Twice in twenty-four hours is unheard of.
Trust, Aly . We trust him.
He trusts us.
I give in completely.
The tears fall to frame my watery smile.
“ I’m happy. And painting.” My laugh is more like a blubber.
“ I’m just really happy and I don’t know what to do with it.”
He’s thrown for a beat before the corner of his mouth picks up, eyes softening.
“ I like how it looks on you, Silv . I really fucking like it. Thanks for letting me witness it.”
“Witness?” My paint-smeared fingers drag through his locks, not caring about the mess I’m making.
“ You’re the cause.” I bend down and press a gentle kiss to his cheek.
“ Thank you.”
His swallow is audible and shock flashes across his face.
Does he seriously think the cause of my happiness is anything else?
He’s still twisted at an odd angle when he reaches back and squeezes my thigh.
“ This today is a good one, huh? I bet the next one is better.”
Not tomorrow.
Today .
Our gazes lock.
Then , I’m bouncing off the springs with an oomph as he flips us over.
His unruly hair flops over his brow, making him look rakish.
“Are we done painting?” I ask breathlessly.
“So fucking done,” he growls.
I feel the kiss all the way to my toes.
My fingertips tingle.
My insides explode. It awakens a craving so acute, nothing will ever please it.
Only he feeds the hunger.
Booth’s hands cradle my face softly, so at odds with the punishing rhythm of his tongue as it plunders into my mouth.
The paint is forgotten.
The sheets are destroyed.
A rainbow of ruin encircles us and we lose ourselves to it.
To each other .
I slide off his shorts, legs hooked high on his hips, finding him bare.
Stitches tear due to his eager state to rid me of my clothes.
When there’s nothing between us, only then do we pause our hurried hands.
“My turn.” His voice is playful, gaze fiery.
I’m so distracted by the hot, thick length of his cock throbbing against my inner thigh, I miss him reaching over to the pots of paint.
Red fingers dangle above me; his lips curve menacingly as he snatches up my wrists and slams them above my head.
“Don’t you dare.” I gasp when his hips shift.
Then , with his paint-smeared hand, he wraps his fingers around my throat.
Not too hard, but enough to slow the flow of oxygen.
“Okay?” he asks softly.
I nod, and shimmy my hips until the head of his cock slides over my soaked entrance.
“You’re so sexy like this, Aly .” He pushes in.
I’m so slick, it takes no time at all for him to fill me completely.
“ So goddamn beautiful painted with my handprint and filled with my cock.”
“God, Booth ,” I moan.
Tonight, I give myself over.
Behind the fire and lust, understanding shines.
He has my body, my mind, and my trust.
He stills and releases my wrists and throat.
Hands glide down my arms, over my breasts, and stop at my waist. Vivid red decorates my body and somehow, vibrant blue coats his chest. “ I want you on top. I need to watch you.”
Without removing himself, he rolls us again, until I’m straddling him.
His cock hits me so deep like this, I have to wiggle my hips to adjust.
“Lean back, put your hands on my knees.” I obey him and groan at the angle.
“ That’s it. Good girl. Now move. Fuck yourself on my cock.”
My head falls forward, both our gazes hazy as I slowly start to rock my hips .
He hisses, hands flying to my waist. “ Fuck , yes. Like that. Look at you.”
We work together, him directing my pelvis exactly where he wants it as I undulate above him.
The pace is slow, but there’s a feral need inside of me, clawing for more.
“Booth.” That single word is a plea.
One he’s happy to oblige.
“I know, Silver . I’m there with you.” His hands slide around to firmly grip my bottom, fingers flexing into the soft flesh as he increases the tempo.
It’s still not enough.
“What is it? What do you need? Let me give it to you.” His voice is harsh, like he’s holding back.
“Fuck me,” I moan with a slow roll of my hips.
“ Fuck me like you hate me.”
“I could never hate you.” His smile is devilish.
“ But I can fuck you like I do.”
My voice isn’t my own when he thrusts upward and his hand returns to my throat.
I cry out, stars lining my vision.
His other hand guides my movements, taking over my body and what he needs.
“God, I’ll never.” Thrust .
“ Tire .” Thrust . “ Of .” Thrust .
“ This . You were made for me. Look how this gorgeous cunt of yours weeps for every inch of my cock. Who does this pussy belong to, Aly ?”
“You,” I cry.
“ It’s yours.”
He slows, and I curse in protest.
Our chests smash together as he bolts upright, voice taunting against my lips.
“ Work for that cum, Aly . Ride me hard and work for it.”
I want to lash out.
Scream at him for torturing me.
But I’ve drifted into another universe where I cave to his demands.
Only ever his.
My hands slap against his paint-smeared shoulders.
I rise on my knees then drop down roughly, drawing out a deep moan from our throats.
My breasts sway every time our thighs slap together.
“Fuck, Aly . Fuck , yes. Keep doing that.” He grunts as I repeat the motion, fingers flexing along my jaw.
“ You’re squeezing my cock so tight.”
“I’m c-close,” I stutter as pleasure coils deep.
My movements become frenzied as I chase what we both want.
I let go.
He lets go.
We let go.
Together.
His roar of pleasure mixes with my throaty cries.
My body shakes as his cock pulses inside of me.
We come down from the abstract high.
The proof of our union is smudged over my flushed skin and embedded deep within my soul.
Inside and out, he’s marked me.
A permanent reminder.
One I’ll never forget.
“You’re hovering,” I hiss.
Booth’s lips turn down as he pushes off the back of the sofa.
He’s not working today and all morning since we woke up, he’s been lurking around me like I’m a ticking time bomb.
He’s usually good at not overstepping.
It probably has something to do with my parents leaving and the fact I’ve been staring at Martin’s contact in my phone for over ten minutes.
“You don’t need to make the call today. Give yourself some grace.” He rounds the sofa to join me.
In only my underwear and one of Booth’s oversized T -shirts, I tuck my toes under his thigh to warm them.
I take a deep breath through my nose.
“ If I don’t do it today, I’ll keep finding an excuse. He deserves an apology.”
His hand works into my hair, fingers scraping against the base of my skull.
“ Martin will understand.”
My eyes flutter closed at his lulling touch.
“ Today ,” I whisper.
“ I want to do it today.”
“Today it is.” Warm lips brush my cheek and the sofa shifts as he stands.
Cracking an eye open, I watch him stroll into the bathroom.
Reminders of last night come catapulting back when he grips the back of his T -shirt and tugs it off in one go.
His skin is still tinged from the paint; a lot like my breasts and thighs, both of which ache deliciously.
When the door shuts behind him, my eyes drop to my phone again.
I don’t think as I click the Call button next to Martin’s name.
A small part of me hopes he doesn’t answer.
I’m embarrassed over my behavior at the bakery, but since talking with my mom and Booth , this entire trip would be a waste if I didn’t try.
I can handle meeting him for coffee occasionally and getting to know him.
Seeing pictures of Harvey as a child would be strange, but he’s only doing what I’d asked for.
Giving me answers.
The phone rings twice before his monotone voice greets me.
“ Hello ?”
“Hi, Martin . It’s Alessandra .”
He sucks in a breath.
“ Oh . How are you?”
My fingers tap a nervous beat against my thigh.
“ I’m good. And you?”
“Yes. Good . ”
God, this is painful.
It shouldn’t be this painful.
My brash exit at the bakery probably didn’t help, and considering Martin’s subdued character, it might be down to me to salvage this.
Booth would know how to handle this.
You’ve got this, Aly .
“I’m sorry. About the other day. The thing is… I’ve spent so much time preparing myself for all the potential outcomes of connecting with my birth family that I hadn’t considered what the hell I was supposed to do if I actually met them. Everything went from zero to sixty faster than I’d planned.” I wince at my frantic tone.
One Mississippi . Two Mississippi .
Three Mississippi .
“I’m probably not what you were expecting either.” The misery in his voice tugs at my heartstrings.
“No, Martin , it wasn’t you, but the situation…” How do I explain this to a man who carries a lot of deep regret and whose home holds no memories of a family he lost?
I glance at the bathroom door and practically hear Booth say, Give it to him straight, Silv .
So I do.
“I didn’t have any expectations of coming to Sutton Bay . The experience with my birth mom cut me deeper than I let on, but already you’ve surpassed her. Harvey’s decision about whether he wants to meet me is his call.” I take a steadying breath.
“ I guess what I’m trying to say is that even if nothing comes from that, and if you’re still willing, I’d like to get to know you while I’m in town. And maybe to stay in touch once I leave?”
Four Mississippi .
Five Miss ? —
“I’d really like that.” My shoulders relax at his optimistic tone.
“ I guess we’re both pretty new to this.”
“I’m sure there’s a tutorial somewhere online.” We share a nervous laugh.
“ My schedule is pretty flexible. How about another coffee? And maybe you could bring those photos of Harvey ?”
“Coffee sounds good. Is tomorrow too soon?”
My smile is genuine, voice sincere.
“ Tomorrow is perfect. I’m looking forward to it.”
We hang up, a wave of relief crashes into me.
When it retreats, I’m left feeling content.
Like I’ve accomplished something.
Finally . After spending so much time wanting to prove to others I can face this alone, it’s surprisingly refreshing to know I did this with the support of people who care for me.
With that over with, the nervous heat clawing up my neck is replaced with a chill.
I pad over to Booth’s dresser, desperate to cover up my blue toes.
“ Hey , which drawer do you keep your socks in?”
“Huh?” he shouts over the spray of water.
“Socks. Where are they?”
“Baby, I can’t tell if you’re saying socks or cocks. I hope it’s the latter.”
“You’re useless!” Accepting he’s no help, I rifle through the dresser but pause at the contents of the bottom drawer.
What the fuck. Pulling the questionable amounts of spandex out and arranging it on his bed, I wait for him to finish in the shower.
A couple of minutes later, with a towel wrapped low around his waist, he emerges.
And freezes. “ What are — Oh . So I can explain that.”
I gesture to the bed, completely dumbfounded.
“ You can explain why you have seventeen pairs of cycling shorts? Seventeen .”
He has the gall to look amused.
“Do you own a bike?”
The smell of his body wash momentarily stuns me as he breezes past. “ It’s around here somewhere. ”
“So you’re not going to explain?”
He’s suspiciously evasive, his silence a clear no.
“Well, I guess it’s a good thing I texted your brothers while you were in the shower.” That gets his attention.
Unlocking my phone, I spin it around to show him the photo Graham kindly shared.
His jaw drops, eyes growing comically wide before he dives for me.
I’m quick, dashing out of his way to put the bed between us.
Feeling like I finally have the upper hand, I wave the screen in his direction.
“ Aww , look. You can see Little Booth . Was it cold that day?”
“Alessandra, I swear to god, I will take you over my knee. Delete that photo.”
My smile is menacing as I admire my new wallpaper.
Dressed in a pair of bright blue spandex shorts, three sizes too small, Booth stands triumphantly outside Our Place , his leg propped up on a fire hydrant.
According to Patrick and Graham , Booth would dress in cycling shorts during the warmer months and strut around town looking to pick up women.
If it wasn’t so ludicrous, I’d be impressed.
“I heard these made quite the impression with the ladies,” I taunt.
That costs me, and before I know it, I’m being flipped into the air and carried into the bathroom.
The sound of water jetting against the tiled walls hits my ears.
“ No , Booth ! My hair. It’s not hair-wash day. It’ll get frizzy.”
“Too bad, Silv . You should have thought about that before poking the bear.” He chuckles as cold water pelts down on us.
I’m screaming so loud, I’m surprised the neighbors don’t call 911.
At some point, Booth loses the towel, but I’m still fully clothed.
Eventually the water warms.
Whispering softly against my lips, he says, “ I don’t need those shorts anymore. ”
Wrapping my arms around his middle, I stretch up to kiss the underside of his jaw.
“ And why’s that?”
His face lights up.
“ I’ve got the girl.”