Chapter Eighteen
It was the specificity of the command that got to Micah.
Not Lift your shirt up or Take your shirt off , which would have made more sense, but Pull your shirt down .
It was the first indication that something was happening, something more than just John admiring her hair.
It was the first indication that maybe he had certain fantasies, too, the same way she had.
She tugged on her shirt until it was completely off her shoulders, stretched taut under her breasts, which were still covered by the tank top underneath.
Her nipples felt so tight it was almost painful, and there was no missing the way they strained against the thin fabric of her tank.
She assumed John wanted her naked, but she waited, wanting to follow directions to the letter.
Something flared in his eyes as he looked from her chest back to her face. “That one, too,” he said.
It was easy to slip the straps down her arms, and then she was completely bared to him, her breasts pale and proud in the dim light of the room.
She’d switched on one of the lights next to the bed earlier but left the overhead one off, and now she was grateful for that little bit of mood lighting as John looked down at her.
“So fucking beautiful,” he said.
She tried to smile, but she felt like it was shaky. “You gonna make me grab these, too, and say it?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
She wanted to tempt him. She wanted him to touch her so badly she almost couldn’t stay still, had to writhe a little on the sheets to relieve some of the tension in her body. From the way he watched her, he knew exactly what she was doing, knew the effect this was having on her.
He blew gently on one of her nipples, making it pucker more and sending a shock wave of shivers through her body. She gasped, arching her back. “ Fuck. Do that again.”
He could’ve pointed out that he was calling the shots here, but she didn’t know that was entirely true.
It felt like a push-and-pull, a dynamic they’d always had, where she was the one who wanted to jump and he was the one who gave her the bravery to actually do it.
He blew another stream of air on her nipple, and she whimpered.
“You’re really not quiet,” he said. “What sound would you make if I put my tongue on you right now, took your tits in my mouth?”
If she could’ve arched her back enough to put them there, she would’ve. “Do it,” she said, her voice breathless. “And find out.”
She never would’ve guessed John was a dirty talker, or that he would be so good at it.
She wouldn’t have guessed much about John at all, when she thought about it—he’d always been almost maddeningly opaque about anything to do with sex or relationships, even when the subject had come up.
There’d been one time, when Steve had made some comment about third base—she couldn’t even remember what—and John had given a bashful smile before catching her eye and looking away.
There’d been something in the tail end of that smile, something knowing and wicked, that she’d found herself thinking about for a while after.
“Touch yourself,” he said now. “Show me how you like it.”
She reached up to roll her nipples between her fingers, watching him watching her until it became too much and she had to close her eyes. She pressed her thumbs into her nipples, then pinched them, hard, until the sting became an ache and she finally let go, panting a little.
“You like a bit of pain, don’t you?” He was talking so matter-of-factly, but there was a rasp to his voice that let her know this was getting to him the same way it was getting to her.
It made her wonder what he might’ve noticed about her all those years, what conclusions he might’ve drawn about what she’d be like in bed. If he’d thought about it at all.
He leaned over her, his mouth so close to her ear that his breath stirred her hair, his body so flush with hers it felt like a fever. “How do you make it better?” he asked.
The words came out before she had time to think about them. “Spit on me.”
He looked at her, his eyes dark. Then he bent his head and spit directly on one nipple before giving the other the same treatment. “Rub it in,” he said.
Micah massaged John’s spit in circles over her nipples, feeling the touch almost like it had a direct line down to her clit. Holy shit, was she about to come ? Just from this? She wanted to give in. She wanted to hold back, make him work harder for it.
As if reading her mind, John’s gaze went to her legs, bent at the knees and spread open. She wondered if he could see the way she pulsed through her underwear, if it was obvious how wet she was.
“Take those off,” he said. “I want to see you touch yourself everywhere.”
She lifted her hips, sliding her underwear down her legs in record time, moving to kick them off when they got tangled around her feet. But John reached down to grab them first, balling them up in his hand.
“I thought you weren’t allowed to touch me,” she said.
“And I haven’t,” he said. “Have I?”
She’d felt the ghost of his fingertip tracing one ankle bone, knew she’d felt it because she was so attuned, like a stringed instrument picking up vibrations from across the room.
She felt like he’d done it on purpose, like he knew full well that he’d technically broken that rule, but she wasn’t about to say it aloud if he wasn’t.
“No,” she said.
“Good,” he said. “Now let those legs fall open for me, honey.”
She’d been clenching her knees together without even realizing she was doing it.
Her shirts were still tangled around her waist, and she reached down to lift them both over her head, tossing them onto the floor until she was completely naked.
John’s gaze was on the bounce of her breasts from the action, but she saw when it snagged on the tattoo she’d gotten all those years ago.
His hand came up, almost like he was about to touch it, before he clenched it in the sheets instead, his knuckles so close they grazed her rib cage.
“That’s what you got?” he asked.
It was the chord shape for A minor, the grid of the fretboard and then the Xs and Os showing the strings you muted and the ones you played open, three filled-in dots showing where you placed your fingers.
She’d assumed he already knew that. She’d assumed he would’ve seen the pictures in Playboy , one in particular where she was lying on her side, her arm over her head, the motion lifting her breast almost as if she was trying specifically to show off the ink underneath.
She felt like she had been. She’d wanted him to see it, had looked at the pictures herself when the magazine came out and tried to see them through his eyes.
She realized how excited she’d been to show it to him even back when she got it, had imagined his gaze on her when she lifted her shirt to reveal it. She’d kind of regretted that she’d said she wouldn’t show it to him unless he got his own tattoo, which she knew might never happen.
“You didn’t exactly keep your side of the bargain,” she said, her voice a little shaky.
He reached up to smooth her hair back, tucking some of it behind her ear. That simple touch was so unexpected, felt so good , that she closed her eyes and let out a sigh that cracked in her throat.
“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry about that.”
She felt something rise in her chest, some emotion expanding her lungs that she didn’t want to stop and analyze.
She did let her legs fall open then, reaching down to touch one finger to the crest of that most sensitive spot.
She couldn’t help the moan that escaped the moment she felt that pressure—fuck, she really did think she could make herself come in a matter of seconds if she wanted to.
“Goddamn, Micah,” John said. “You have such a pretty pussy.”
“Touch me,” she said. “Please.”
His eyes were almost black as he watched her rubbing her clit, pinching it between her fingers the way she’d done with her nipples earlier.
When she slid a finger all the way inside, she could see that he had to reach down and adjust himself in his jeans.
She knew this was killing him, too, so why wouldn’t he just touch her?
“Please, John,” she begged, not even caring how she sounded. “ Please , holy Christ, I’m about to—I’m—I want—”
“What do you want?”
She wanted it all. She wanted everything. But for now, in this moment, all she could think of was the way he’d told her he’d take her tits in his mouth, the way he’d covered her nipples in his spit. “Your mouth,” she gasped. “Please, John, please, kiss me—”
He moved until he was between her legs, his hands coming up to squeeze her thighs, his fingers digging into her rose tattoo as he adjusted her legs over his shoulders.
She was so grateful just to feel his hands on her skin, to have that connection that meant she wasn’t out here alone, a live wire dancing on the ground.
When she felt him put his mouth on her she seized up almost immediately, clenching her body to try to hold back the wave she felt rising within her.
She could feel every tiny sensation of his tongue dragging up her slit, the way he placed hot, open-mouthed kisses right on her wet center, the low groan he made in his own throat as he tasted her.
And then she couldn’t hold on any longer. The wave crested and broke, and she buried her hands in his curls as she let out a guttural cry, the orgasm sending sparks through her body that had her arching and spasming under him.
He made his way back up her body, those calloused fingertips skimming her hips, her rib cage, over her breasts, her shoulders. Until he was eye level with her, and she wrapped her hand around the back of his neck, and pulled him down for a kiss.