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SHE IS DREAMING ABOUT HIM IN STAGES. And the way he adores I her in her dreams is like strawberries with whipped cream on a hot summer day, goosebumps along frisson, loved skin. And when he says her name it feels so good—like peppermint tea swirled with clouds of honey into a late afternoon.
Jacob. Jake. And her favourite, Jakie.She has so many names for the man who followed her into her thoughts while she was dreaming. And at this very moment, she was dreaming of Jakie.
She thinks he's mastered the art of true precision. He progresses it in every fibre of his being. He knows his smiles made her head swirl. His hands make her clam up, and Goodness, his voice breaks her softly with his words that feel like a love song written only for her. She knows she's feeling some type of way when his brown eyes catch hers- a certain flower blooms under her wallflower walls, and bursts through the cracks for him to admire and take care of. She knows, he knows how to read like an open book, drifting through her pages as though they were made of thin paper, reading all the lines in between her timid gestures. She knows, he knows that she will never be the same again after he's had his way with her.
He knows. Jakie knows she is broken, hiding it like a mask against her face, until he presses a fluttering kiss on her forehead, on her nose, on her cheek, on the corner of her lips, and the nape of her neck, whispering softly. "The stages of loving you are hard Evie, I can't think, I can't eat, I can't sleep without thinking about you. Without wanting you so much, Evie."
Evie. The way he says her name has her tugging him to her, until his smooth, plain shirt is crumbled under her grip, and a low exhale floods out of his mouth. Then she's underneath him, a tangle of arms and legs. His fingers are a ghost on her skin; soothing her and driving her wild.
Around her, the world is a mess. A hazy beige. But when she's inside his arms, she doesn't know what she wants anymore. She's stuck between the stages of arousal and pleasure. Where to kiss his lower lip, pull his hair or punch him.
They are in her bedroom. Blinds open, wind blowing in through so they sway, and his lips are kissing her neck, smudging them with his love. Slow, lovely, and soft. Almost teasing when she feels him grin into her flushed skin.
It feels so good.
She tangles her fingers in his orange hair, her eyes half-closed, getting lost in the southern boy's scent. He smells like fresh, summer day, fizzy cream-soda, and dew-drop strawberries.
So sweet, she almost whimpers.
She pulls at the ends of his hair, at the back of his neck. His voice is deeper, husky, and it makes her arch her back into him. She feels his arousal pressing into her as he groans against her neck, breathing out curses she doesn't care.
Then he calls out her name, kissing her again and travels her body until he reaches the inside of her thigh, his breath ghosting over her skin before he stops. He looks up at her, shy smirk on his face, dimple on show. His hair is wild flames of orange, his lips kissed so many times by her, he looks fanasting, and with his shirt unbuttoned, she can't help but travel her gaze down to his smooth abdomen, where his chest is rising and falling fast. His eyes when she looks at them again are darker, sparkling and luminous.
