Josie Guerrero is focused on one thing: getting accepted into the prestigious art studies program within the Art School at the University of Southern Washington. With thirteen weeks to create her sophomore portfolio, she knows she can't afford any d...
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Gentle lips against my throat, sapphire moonlight painting us in pallid color, and the most tender, bruising grip holding me close as if terrified to let me go. This, this is a moment I'm dying to draw.
To capture the flickers of golden shadows across his bronzed skin with every flash of lightning. To immortalize the flush of his cheeks, the sweat above his brow, the deep bruises blossoming along his jaw and cheekbone, and the dark scruff on his jaw. To remember exactly how it feels to be held so closely, to be nothing short of adored, to stand in the brilliance of Micah Costa's full and undiluted attention.
I used to think it felt like a high, being with Micah, but as his fingertips trace down each vertebra in my spine with such exalted concentration, I realize that something as fleeting as a passing high couldn't possibly compare to the feeling of being in his arms.
His tongue drags across my fluttering pulse, and when he sucks my skin hard enough to leave a bruise, my fingers splay open on his broad shoulders, digging into the taut muscle that flexes as he draws me closer. We've been tangled in my sheets for hours — our lips and tongues and bodies intertwined with an addictive fervor I've never experienced before.
It's a haze of moonlit memory — calloused fingers locked around my wrists, teeth nipping at my skin, tender words punctuated with declarations so salacious my cheeks flared as he whispered them against my ear with each deep thrust of his hips. But every single time, he manages to leave me with the sweetest words, the soft embrace of gentle promises that always carry me through each climax he coaxes from my body.
My only one. You're my only one, Josie. My only one. God, my only one.
"I don't want you to leave." My voice is barely loud enough to be heard over the pelting rain, but I know he heard me when his fingers hesitate on my spine for the briefest moment before continuing their slow ascent up to the base of my neck. His fingers slide into my hair, massaging my scalp gently until my eyes roll back in my head and his lips pull into a satisfied smile against my temple before pressing a whisper of a kiss to my forehead.
I'm still straddling him from the last time we had sex, held delicately against his chest long enough for the rush of my last climax to slow into a gentle fading buzz against my skin. Long enough for my heart to come down from its frantic cadence. Long enough for my eyes to grow heavy and the warmth of his shoulder against my cheek to lull me into a sleepy trance. I could fall asleep right here in his arms, my cheek on his shoulder, his fingers gently massaging the already sore muscles in my back, thighs, and shoulders.
I breathe in the scent of him. The warm amber of his cologne mixed with the heady scent of his sweat and — and the district aroma I've only ever smelled after we have sex.
It's a mixture of us. Of our bodies. And it's utterly intoxicating.
"I'm not going anywhere, Jos," he murmurs it the dark, his arm tightening around me just enough to send a satisfied rush of heat across my skin. " It's you and I from this point on, remember? I'm not going anywhere."
