Dear Life(96)

His chest rumbles beneath me with a silent chuckle. “Does it seem like I would be someone who would enjoy the program? I go because I have to, not because I want to.”

“So if you have to go, why not take advantage of it?”

“Because I’m not that kind of person. I’m not one to passively follow directions, I never have been. Apart from culinary school. Everything about the program makes me itch. Talking about feelings, writing shit down, airing my dirty laundry. I hate every aspect of that. I’m a private man. I haven’t been blessed with an easy life. I have a lot of battle wounds, a lot of deep-set scars, and it’s hard for me to look at life like you do. I’ve been burned way too many times.”

“You never know until you try,” I suggest, wishing Carter could get something out of the program.

He kisses the top of my head and squeezes me. “I know, Daisy. I’m meant to struggle my entire life, nothing will come easy and no program is going to fix that unfortunately.”

My heart hurts for him, to know he’s set on struggling day in and day out. To know that no matter what he accomplishes, he doesn’t have someone next to him cheering him on. To know the person who is supposed to show him love and support made him feel like an inconvenience at a young age. It just kills me.

“Let’s talk about something else,” he suggests.

“What do you want to talk about?”

His hand continues to stroke over my skin as he takes the time to think about our next conversation.

“Hmm . . . am I your type?”

“What?” I giggle.

“Your dream guy, do I fit the bill? Am I what you pictured in your mind?”

“Do you want the truth?”

“Lay it on me.”

Drawing circles on his stomach, I tell him about my perfect man. “I grew up watching musicals with my grams and old shows like I love Lucy and The Dick Van Dyke Show. I was enamored with men who could sing and dance. I thought it was fancy to expertly match your suede shoes with cuffed Dockers. I envisioned my perfect man to be one with slicked-back hair, a voice like Bing Crosby, and the dancing charm of Fred Astaire, with a little mixture of Gene Kelly’s swagger. I thought the perfect man was going to tap dance his way into my heart, sing me a melody, and then whisk me off to some show on Broadway.”

“So you were looking for an old soul with the talent of a lost art.”

“Pretty much,” I answer. “And here, I ended up meeting a brooding man with a motorcycle, the whisking talent of a god, and the ability to protect me at all costs.”

Leaning closer to my ear, he whispers, “You’re forgetting something.”

“Um, your killer dark eyes?”

“Try killer penis.”

“Carter!” Once again I’m blushing, which I’m sure was his intention. Even though the word penis embarrasses me, especially when it refers to what we did tonight, he’s right. It was killer. Never in my mind would I have thought sex felt that good. I’m not going to make it all butterflies and roses, because when he first entered me, that wasn’t the best moment of my life. But afterward, once I relaxed, everything following was . . . just magical. It’s the only way I can describe it. Flat-out magical.

“What? It’s the truth, isn’t it? Did these tap-dancing men have the same kind of killer cock as me?”

“Oh my gosh.” My blush deepens, if that’s possible. “I never thought about that area before.”

“Never?”

“No.” I shake my head.

“Hey.” He shifts me so I have to look him in the eye. “Is my penis the first penis you’ve ever seen?”

I bite my lip. “I’ve seen one in the anatomy book my grams has, but that was an illustration. So, I guess, yeah. You’re the first penis for everything.”

Smiling widely, he scoops me back up, this time so I’m lying on top of him, looking down into his playful eyes. “I like being your first penis. Just so you know, not all penises are this nice. Some have warts.”

“Warts?” I cringe.

“Yeah, and an abundant amount of hair. Penises vary, especially with the southern friend, the scrotum. I’ve got a good set, Snowflake; you lucked out. There are some pretty sick dicks out there.”

“How do you know? Where do you look at penises? Do you do it often to compare?”

“Not so much.” He chuckles. “I frequent the gym, and men let it hang out like it’s their job, especially the old guys. Wrinkly old-man balls, not the best thing.”

I don’t want to talk about old-man balls, as it makes me want to gag. I like Carter a lot, but even looking at his balls, which seemed nice, make me shy. I focus on something else.

“You go to the gym? Is that why your arms are buff?”

He raises an eyebrow at me in question. “You think I’m buff?”

How could I not? His biceps are toned, defined in his tight-fitting shirts. His chest is broad and thick, so powerful that he can pick me up with ease. He has a body I never expected to see under his leather jacket, but it’s a body I could die happy seeing every day. If that makes any sense. If not, how’s this? Yum!

“You know you’re buff, so stop fishing for compliments.”

“Wouldn’t hurt to hear you say it, Snowflake. A guy needs his ego stroked every once in a while.”