Leaving Amarillo(61)

It’s a fairly large but simple display—three flowers on a vine that wraps from my hip to my rib cage. A blue thriving bloom in the center for Dallas, a pink succulent with tattered petals for me just above my hip, and closest to my heart, a black rose growing amid thorns.

“This me?” The pad of his thumb rubs across the rose just below my breast, creating delicious friction on my skin.

I nod.

“Why the thorns?”

I bite my lip and take a much-needed breath. “Because you survived the harshest conditions. You’re the strongest.”

I can’t read the emotions on his face, but they’re powerful.

“I’m not,” he chokes out while shaking his head, his eyes retreating from mine. “If I was, I wouldn’t be here.”

Sitting up, I use both hands to pull his face back to mine. “Gavin. Look at me.” His eyes meet mine and I rub my nose against his. “You are the strongest person I know. Being here tonight isn’t about being strong or weak. It isn’t about breaking promises you never should’ve made. It’s about us. Come back to me. It’s just us.”

My lips brush against his once, twice, and a third time before he finally kisses me back.

“And these?” he asks, catching my wrist on the side of his face.

“My parents,” I answer, nodding at the two larger swallows taking flight inked in black on my wrist. “Me and D,” I add, when he moves to the smaller ones left behind.

I shiver as he places a kiss on them before lowering my back onto the mattress.

His grins up at me, a mischievous gleam in his eyes as he dips his fingers beneath the waist of my panties. “What are you thinking about, beautiful girl?”

“Ice cream,” I answer immediately.

“Was I the first? To—”

“Yes.”

“Fuck. It’s killing me knowing I was the first one to taste you. Give me a second.” He closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath. I know he can probably feel my body trembling beneath him, but I can’t do much to stop it.

His fingers press hard into my sides as he holds me down. I whimper loudly when he takes my right nipple into his mouth and sucks. My body bucks hard against him when he repeats his torment on the left.

“Feel good, baby?”

“Mm-hm,” is all I can manage.

His mouth continues placing erratic kisses down my stomach until he reaches what I knew might end up being our deal breaker. His fingers lower the top edge of my underwear and he stares openly, his eyes darting back and forth from my face to my tattoo.

“What’s this?” I can’t tell if he’s angry or not. Mostly all I can identify is shock.

“A bluebird,” I whisper. It’s small, on a low enough branch on the vine that it’s hidden even in a skimpy bathing suit. Its body is a treble clef and music notes fly from its wings.

“Why do you have this?”

Because I love you.

“It’s a part of who I am, Gavin. The part of me I don’t know if I would’ve found if I’d never met you. The part that throws glass bottles just to hear them shatter, the part that runs outside and screams when she’s frustrated, plays music to feel, and the part that will strangle your mother with a smile on her face if she ever hurts you again.”

This is going so wrong. So very wrong. This never happens in the movies. Sex scenes aren’t supposed to be like this. I want to scream and cry and kiss him so hard it draws blood. I want to get back to the dreamlike buzz-inducing foreplay that had me practically levitating off the bed without dragging us down into the harsh pit of reality.

“What are you doing to me?” There’s such obvious anguish in his eyes and I don’t know why this hurts him so badly but it does.

“You’re a part of me,” I say quietly. “You always have been.”

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just glares as if making up his mind. I can practically hear the fight-or-flight argument he’s having with himself in his head.

His eyes stay on my tattoo for what feels like eternity before they meet mine. And I see it. He knows.

“I don’t deserve to be a part of you,” he rasps out as if he’s in pain. “You’re good, too good for me and I can’t . . . I told you not to fall in love with me.”

“You told me ten years too late,” I answer, crashing my mouth to his before he can argue his point any further.

The exploration of my tattoos ends, thank God, and he’s with me again. Consuming me with his mouth and his broad muscular form above me. I feel tiny beneath him, but I hold my own as we fight for control of our kisses. We are breaths and moans and pleas in the darkness. Flesh on flesh. Tongues and fingers finding each other again and again. Battling for more, like the composition I still remember. I rake my nails across his back when his hard length brushes against the most sensitive part of me. I’m ready. I’m so ready it hurts in a place I can’t reach.

“We have to slow down, Bluebird,” he says, pulling back. The way his mouth quirks tells me that whether or not he’s willing to admit it to me or himself, my tattoo makes him happy.

My body practically convulses as he slides down it. His fingertips touch my chest and my heart leaps to meet them.

“I’m ready, Gavin. I’m past ready. Please.”