Page 45 of Lost and Found

Silas. This is Silas, I think. The one who gave me rides for half of sophomore year, who dropped off mashed potatoes and Jell-O for a week after I had my wisdom teeth pulled. The one who always picked up on any discomfort around other guys at parties and ran interference, happily. The Silas who still sent me his condolences when my family dog passed away two years ago, even though we weren’t really speaking then. This was the Silas I apparently missed these last four years, who I suspect had missed me, too, and still respected my space.

I want him and this, and I resent that I feel even the slightest bit of shame over it when it feels thisright. I can’t allow myself to acknowledge it. Maybe I am greedy or selfish or just fucking desperate to feel good, but regardless, I’m past the point of caring—I don’t want to stop. Maybe if I close my eyes, I can justfeel. Leave the complicated shit for tomorrow. But then his tongue dips into the hollow of my navel and my hands rake into his hair and I couldn’t look away from his face moving down between my thighs if I tried. Not as his stubble chafes along my skin and the metal of his chain drips over me in its wake, or at his mouth pressing a kiss into the slippery material of my panties.

He cups the backs of my knees and rolls me over. I let out an eager, grateful sound, assuming he’s read my urgency and is skipping over foreplay for the main act.

He doesn’t. Before I can ask about a condom, he begins tracing more of me with his hands and lips. The knobs of my spine, each divot in my lower back. He does it until I’m sinking deeper onto my forearms and pushing my chest into the bedspread, my ass higher into the air. Warm, calloused fingers glide back and forth along the top string of my thong before he pulls it taut. I sob out at the friction, the material slipping against my aching cunt.

“Bea, baby. Can I get a taste?”

I’m nodding, the bedding hissing softly against my cheek.

“Let me hear you?” he says plaintively. Then, firmer, more demanding, “I want to hear you.”

“Yes,” I say.

He gently glides off that last bit of fabric, lifting each knee until he can slide it off all the way, until I am utterly bare, completely vulnerable to him. He uses his thigh to nudge mine wider apart, exposing me somehow more. I’m certain I’m embarrassingly wet, can feel it in how cool the air gets against my hot skin. He reaches down to palm the back of my head briefly, so heartbreakingly tender my throat goes tight, then places one more featherlight kiss to the base of my spine. I do my best to hold still, to not circle my hips or reach back to ease that needful throb. I curl my hands into fists while his massage the soles of my feet, my calves, the backs of my thighs, before giving my ass an appreciative squeeze.

“Fuck. Fucking beautiful,” he says again, this time an edge of mirth there, like he can’t believe it. Likehow dare Iand alsoof course I dare.

“Please—”

He saves me from begging, his mouth cutting me off when it closes over me completely, hot tongue licking up my center, his grip hardening around my hips, holding me flush to his face. And then he’s working at my clit like he’smadat it, teasing around me just beyond where I need him, pushing back the hood and flattening, lapping at me, sucking at me, kissing me. Humming coarse, satisfied noises into me like he’s getting as much as he gives. His thumbs circle and spread. His whole face becomes involved, his nose rubbing against me in places I’ve never wanted touched before. He catches each fold of me in his teeth, not quite biting, but I swear he is smiling. It’s either hours or seconds or days until I’m a whimpering, groaning wreck. Shaking with it, grinding myself back into him shamelessly, fuckingdesperately, all while he murmurs praise into my skin. Low, exhaled curses and things likeSo good, Bea, andYeah, that’s a pretty sound, andI fucking knew it’d be like this.He pinches my clit between a forefinger and thumb and tugs, then slips the thumb of his other hand inside me and uses it to rock me back and forth, some toy at his disposal. The orgasm rips through me before I process that I’m there—over the brink before I realize I’m approaching it. Blinding-bright waves so good I dissolve into watery laughter.

I’m melting into the bed when Silas comes down beside me and flips me over, arranging us chest to chest on our sides, guiding my head onto his bicep. His panting, grinning mouth hovers close to my laughing one like he needs it over air.

God, he’s beautiful like that. Self-satisfied and glistening.

“Why are these still on?” I ask him, hooking a finger into one of his belt loops. A sound dies in the back of my throat when I palm him through his jeans, though I’m not sure why I’m surprised at the thick size of him. I should’ve figured.

His breath snags, eyes rolling closed, hips pushing into my hand. “Take them off,” he says. Then, like he’s unsure about the command, “Please.”

“I thought you promised a distinct lack of manners,” I say. But I lean into him and bite his earlobe before I drag down his pants, and all he manages is a crisp grunt in response.

I reach into his briefs and wrap my hand around him, inhaling a soft gasp when I look down between us to watch. I take in the sight of me working beneath the snug cotton, his strong, hairy thighs as they flex, the indentations his blunt fingertips make when they clutch at my limbs. . . . The weed makes every pang of want shudder in slow motion, like my nerves are wobbly with satisfaction.

“Condom?” I whisper, a small shock going through me when my gaze strays back up to his and finds him studying my face.

His mouth falls open when I pump him again, gathering some of the wetness at his tip and smoothing it down his length. For a minute or two, we both lose our train of thought. Until my nerves find their edges again and begin scrabbling for more.

“Condom?” I ask again.

“Shit. Yeah.”

Before he can launch off the bed to grab one, he scoots me up, folds his quilt down, and tucks me neatly beneath his top sheet. He drapes my hair over his forearm and fans it out above me before my head settles into one of his pillows. I feel . . . I feel blissed out. Cherished. Every slow, heavy blink feels like some kind of luxury for how much pleasure it gives me.

He stands at the side of his bed looking like a delicious mess. One hand stretches across a pec while the other holds loosely around his cock over his poor, strained briefs. The way he outlines my shape beneath the sheet with his eyes—as if he hasn’t just been intimately acquainted with every naked part ofme. He looks wrecked. Like he has something to say but can’t find the words.

He shakes himself out of his stupor and reaches over into his nightstand drawer. Sticks the packet between his teeth and pulls his underwear off slowly. I’m riveted by the sight, and I don’t care if he can tell.

I thought I appreciated all bodies visually. I’ve been lucky enough to find equal pleasure in lean ones and in soft ones, and I credit this to having good chemistry, rapport, and communication with partners in the past. Those experiences made it so I always saw beauty.

But Silas is artwork to me,forme. A piece of craftsmanship that makes me want to banish clothes as a society and concurrently lights a wild, silly blaze of possessiveness in my veins. His chest, shoulders, and arms are implausibly wide and sculpted. A fine spread of hair runs over his chest and tapers off into a trail down the low part of his torso. He doesn’t have deeply chiseled abs, but they’re there, visibly working beneath his skin. A shallow valley dividing his core and strong slabs of obliques. He looks elementally fed—like he takes nourishment and pleasure in equal measure. Built like he’s never squandered a damn thing. The rough way he handles himself makes my mouth go dry. The sheets torture my nipples, and my thighs clench and rub. I struggle to swallow, not sure what to make of my intense reaction to him.

“You okay?” he softly asks, setting the condom aside and bending to kiss the rapid pulse at my sternum.

“Yeah,” my voice cracks. “Just thirsty.”

He walks over to his closet, completely uninhibited by his nakedness. I’d roll my eyes if they weren’t preoccupied. Of course his ass is perfect.