Chapter 6 — Hollis Point #4
“I want you to make love to me. Tonight. Here. I want all of you, the way Kiki got all of you, and I want it to be real and chosen and not something you let happen because I pushed too hard or tricked you into it.” Her voice caught, just slightly.
“But I won’t force you. I won’t manipulate you.
If you’re not ready, if this is too much too fast, if you need time or space or whatever the fuck Responsible Luke needs to feel okay about this, then tell me.
Right now. And I'll get off your lap, and we'll drink this champagne, and we'll go back to the main fire, and I'll not make you feel bad about it. Not ever.”
The offer was so genuine, so utterly Shay in its blunt honesty, that something cracked open in my chest. I had spent a week watching her perform, the dirty jokes, the deliberate touches, the chaos she wore like armor, and here, in firelight, with her weight on my thighs and her hands on my face and her voice shaking with a fear she would never admit to anyone else, I saw her.
Really saw her. Not the party girl, not the wild child, not the woman who’d backed me against a bulkhead in the boat cabin with her hand around my cock.
Shay Hollis, brave enough to be terrified, loyal enough to love her girls without rivalry, and honest enough to say the hard thing when it mattered most.
I set my champagne glass down. Reached up. Cupped her face in my hands the way she was cupping mine, and felt her breath catch against my palms.
“I choose you,” I said, and the words came out steady and clear and completely certain. “Not because you pushed. Not because Kiki went first. Because I want you. I have wanted you for longer than I want to admit, and the only thing I’m not ready for is pretending anymore.”
Her eyes filled. Not with tears, Shay Hollis didn't cry, not where anyone could see, but with something so bright and relieved it might as well have been. She laughed, low and shaky, and dropped her forehead to mine, her breath warm against my lips.
“Thank God,” she whispered. “I was about to have a fucking aneurysm.”
I kissed her. Slow, deep, my mouth on hers in the firelight, and the taste of champagne and lake air and Shay filled my senses until nothing else existed.
Her body relaxed against mine, trembling easing into warmth, and her hands slid from my face to my shoulders, pulling me closer like she was afraid I might change my mind.
I wasn’t changing my mind. I had made my choice in a locked room with Kiki Bishop’s golden hair spilled across my pillow, and I was making it again here, with Shay’s weight on my lap and firelight on her skin, and the terrible, wonderful truth was that both choices felt right in different ways, and the world outside this clearing had stopped mattering the moment her lips touched mine.
She broke the kiss, breathless, her blue eyes holding mine with a hunger that matched my own.
“Okay,” she said, and her voice was steadier now, warmed by certainty. “Your turn. Undress me. Slowly. I’ve been thinking about your hands on my skin for approximately six thousand years, and if you rush it, I'll never forgive you.”
I laughed, the sound rusty and real, and reached for the hem of her tank top with hands that weren't entirely steady.
“Slow,” I promised. “I promise.”
Her smile was sunshine and fire and everything wild I had ever wanted, and when she leaned in to kiss me again, I understood with perfect clarity that I was exactly where I belonged.
***
I pulled her tank top over her head, and the firelight caught her skin like it had been waiting for her.
Her breasts spilled free, heavy and full, nipples already hard in the cooling air, and the sight of her, half-dressed on my lap, dark hair tumbling around her shoulders, blue eyes dark with want, knocked the breath out of me so completely that for a second I could only stare.
“Jesus, Shay.”
She laughed, low and pleased, and reached for the hem of my polo.
“I know. They’re ridiculous. I’ve had these things since I was sixteen, and they’re still a fucking logistical nightmare.
Do you have any idea how hard it's to find a sports bra that doesn’t give you quad-boob?
It’s impossible. The struggle is real, Luke. The struggle is very, very real.”
I kissed her to shut her up, which was the wrong approach because she kissed back harder, her tongue against mine, her hands working my polo up my chest until I broke the kiss to lift my arms and let her pull it over my head.
The night air cooled my skin, and then her hands were on my chest, warm and curious, tracing the lines of muscle across my shoulders and down my arms with a focus that made my cock throb against the denim of my shorts.
“Your hands,” she said, and her voice had dropped, rougher than before.
“God, your hands. I’ve been watching them for years.
On boats, on tools, building those tiny ships with tweezers at two in the morning like a fucking artisan superhero.
” She took one of my hands in both of hers, turned it palm-up, and pressed her lips to the center of it.
The gesture was so tender, so at odds with everything I expected from Shay Hollis, that my throat closed.
Then she bit the fleshy part of my thumb, hard enough to make me hiss, and grinned. “Also, they’re huge. Did you know that? Your hands are massive. It’s obscene. I’ve been having thoughts about these hands that would make my mother spontaneously combust.”
I cupped her breast, and the weight of it filled my palm, warm and heavy, her nipple hard against my skin. She gasped, her back arching, and the sound she made, raw, honest, nothing performative about it, went straight to my cock.
“Slow,” I said, my thumb circling her nipple. “You said slow. I’m being slow.”
“I changed my mind. Slow is overrated. Fast is good. Fast is great, actually. I’m pro-fast now.
Have been for years. Lifetime member of the fast club.
” Her hips rolled against mine, grinding her pussy against my cock through our clothes, and the friction sent a jolt through me that made my hands tighten on her breasts.
“Shay.”
“Luke.” She mimicked my tone perfectly, then ruined it by laughing against my neck. “Fine. Slow. But if you take more than thirty seconds to get these shorts off me, I’m staging a hostile takeover of your lap, and you'll not enjoy the collateral damage.”
I reached for the button of her denim shorts, working it open with fingers that weren’t entirely steady, and she lifted her hips to help me slide them down her thighs.
She wasn’t wearing underwear. Of course she wasn’t wearing underwear.
Shay Hollis, who had spent the entire day grinding against me in public with the casual confidence of a woman who considered my lap communal property, had gone commando under denim shorts at a family party, and the realization hit me with a force that made my vision blur at the edges.
“Surprise,” she said, grinning that wicked grin as she kicked the shorts away. “I told you. Pro-fast. Underwear is for people who plan ahead, and planning isn't really my thing.”
She was naked from the waist down, her pussy bare and glistening in the firelight, dark curls trimmed neat against sun-warmed skin, and the sight of her, breasts free, shorts gone, thighs spread across my lap, that restless Hollis energy condensed into a body that was all curve and strength and want, undid me completely.
I stood up with her in my arms, one hand under her ass, the other supporting her back, and carried her to the blankets beside the fire.
She gasped, then laughed, her arms locking around my neck, and when I laid her down on the wool, her dark hair spilled across the fabric like something painted, firelight catching the strands and turning them copper at the edges.
“Fuck, that was hot.” She reached for my belt, working it open with frantic fingers. “Your turn. Off. Everything. Now. I need to see all of you, and I’ve been patient for approximately six thousand years, which is my personal record, and it’s expiring in about three seconds.”
I stripped. Boots, socks, belt, shorts, boxers, all of it hitting the blankets beside us while Shay watched with those electric blue eyes gone dark and hungry, her breath coming faster, one hand already between her thighs where she was touching herself with a casual efficiency that made my cock ache.
“Come here,” she said, and it wasn’t a request.
I knelt between her spread thighs, naked now, my cock hard and aching and already leaking for her, and her eyes dropped to it with a hunger so open it should have been illegal.
“Holy shit,” she whispered. “It’s bigger than I thought.
And I thought about it a lot, Luke. A lot a lot.
Like, concerning amounts. My search history is basically just ‘how big is too big’ and ‘can you die from wanting something too much’ and ‘what to do when the man from the lake house has a cock that could solve world hunger.’”
I laughed, the sound rusty and surprised, and she reached for me, pulling me down to her mouth, and her kiss was hungry, desperate, her tongue against mine, her body arching under me until her breasts pressed against my chest and her pussy ground against my cock where it rested against her stomach, wet and hot and so ready for me that the head left a slick trail on her skin.
“Please,” she whispered against my lips. “Luke, please, I need your mouth, I need your hands, I need something, I’m so wet I can’t stand it—”
I kissed my way down her body. Her neck, her collarbone, the valley between her breasts where her scent was strongest, that citrus-sharp perfume layered over something warmer, muskier, the particular smell of Shay Hollis wanting me, and when I took one nipple into my mouth, she cried out, her back bowing off the blankets, her hand fisting in my hair hard enough to hurt.
“Right there, fuck, don’t stop, your tongue, God—”