Page 59 of The Other Side

He hoists me up by the backs of my thighs, and I tangle my arms and legs around him. He lays me carefully on the chaise lounge, my back sinking into the cushion with ease.

In the next breath, my panties are clutched between his fingers. I cowardly pivot my head to the side, lifting my hips off the lounge. I shimmy to help him discard the fabric, all the while looking at the adjacent wall.

It’s bare just like my conscience, and I condemn myself. Curse every inch of movement I make, but my legs are already spreading for him.

It’s so awful.

So appalling, and I know it.

I can stop, but I know I won’t.

My submission to Brant doesn’t require a split-second qualm. It only requires him. That’s all it takes.

Trust.

His rough fingers stroke the spot at the apex of my thigh again. My palm lays on my belly, settling the wild butterflies as he traces the inked dove.

“I was twenty-two,” I whisper.

I sink my cheek deeper into the cushion. Brant harshly kneads my thigh, his stubbled lips grazing my tattoo.

I can practically see the small Christmas bulbs. In the back of his momma’s station wagon when he first kissed me here.

Right here.

A kiss lands on my tender skin, followed by a soft bite. I stare at the ceiling now, and Brant’s fingers greet the buttons of my crop top.

They work up the center of my heaving chest. I park my hands at my sides, goosebumps erupting all over my body.

The draft of the air skates over my bare flesh while he undresses me. “Ask me why I cut my hair so short.” He exposes my bra, parting my unbuttoned crop top so the fabric settles on either side of me.

I run my fingers over his short hair, gasping when he tugs my bra up over my breasts. My taut nipples hit the air, and my eyes flutter shut when he continues.

“Ask me why I chose to get a dove tattoo where I have it.”

His voice is pure tinder. Sparking the air between us as his hands cup the swells of my breasts.

He’s careful not to touch or pinch my nipples.

It’s purposeful.

I meet his famished gaze. And all I have left to do is concede. “Why?”

His nostrils briefly flare when he rests his hand on top of mine in his hair. “You tugged on me when you came for the very first time,” he confesses lowly. “I’d never forgive myself for letting someone else erase that feeling.”

He wedges his long fingers between mine, and I instinctively squeeze them. My throat rolls, my gaze locked with his hazel one.

“And if my eyes happen to pop open when I’m with someone, I know where to find you.”

It’s the same reason I chose to tattoo my inner thigh.

The same exact one.

I part my lips just as he peels his hand off mine. I’m buried in awe, my momentary lapse missing the way his large palms slide beneath my ass.

He yanks me to the very edge of the chaise, and a yelp flings from my lips.

His thumb lands on my swollen clit, and I arch off the cushion. My head sinks back as my hands reach behind me to grip a throw pillow. His free palm rests on my inner thigh, holding me open as he circles that sweet spot.