Boston (19 page)

“It does not matter one shit to me what anyone else thinks, and I need you to know that. But you need to be the same way, okay? Otherwise this is never going to work.”

I blink at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you need to realize that you’re fucking beautiful and you need to stop worrying so much about what everyone else might or might not be thinking. You need to believe in the person you are on the inside. Because it’s you living this life, not the nameless people whose opinion you worry about. Give yourself the chance that you gave me, okay? I’ll help, but you need to start.”

I nod. I can do it. I smile. “Yes, I will do that. For you. For us.”

He smiles back. “I guarantee that there are always going to be people who think I’m not smart enough to be with you. And maybe there will be people who say I should be dating a model. But if we want to be together, fuck all those people. We’ll spend our time with each other, and the friends who see us for what we’re really worth. Yeah?”

He puts one hand on each cheek and looks into my eyes. “I like you, Abby. I like your smile and the way you get so absorbed in your writing that nothing else matters. I like that you bite your lip when you concentrate and that you tease me and make me crazy. I like that you’re smarter than I am, okay? It makes me proud. No, let me finish.” He puts a finger on my lips as I start to protest. “I mean it. I am so fucking proud that you can write like you do and go up there and win awards and talk like some Nobel literature winner. It makes my heart swell, okay? I’m smart in my own way. But you, you’ve got a real gift and I love that about you.”

My heart is expanding at some crazy exponential speed, sending spires of affection and love through every part of my body. “Boston.” My voice is shaky.

His voice is low now, but firm. “I love that about you.”

Tears roll down my cheeks. “Well, I like that you’re so dedicated and driven and that you have the self-control and ambition to turn yourself into a fitness God. I like that you get so excited about healthy eating that you teach others and convince them to do the same. I like that you had the confidence to switch to a brand new career and start over from nothing. That you learn stuff on your own without going to school to do it. Do you have any idea how impressive that is?”

He makes a noise in his throat and I see his eyes watering. I touch his jaw and feel it tremble. “Boston. I love—I love that you turned your life around and made it into something so beautiful. I get proud, too, when I see how many book covers you’re on, and how many of your pictures are in shows and magazines. I don’t mind that you’re prettier than I am in the eyes of the world, because I love your beauty, and I love that you think I’m beautiful just the way I am. I love—”

I wipe at my face. “I’m so afraid to say it. I can’t say it. I’m afraid.”

He wipes his eyes, too. “I’m fucking terrified, Abby. But I’ll go first.” He takes a deep breath, then takes both of my hands in both of his.

He looks at me, squeezing my fingers in his, wrapping his hands around mine. “Oh, Abby. I have been waitin’ to tell you this for such a long time, and I can’t wait any more. I love you so much and I want to be with you. Do you feel the same way?”

His voice catches and I fall into his arms. “I love you, Boston. I want to be with you forever.”

And his lips are on mine and his arms are around me, and we fit together perfectly. It’s perfect. And he kisses away my tears, and I kiss away his, and I’m finally home.

We don’t go to my happy hour that night. We go back to my house and make love. It’s rough and tender and passionate and a little bit kinky, and he looks into my eyes when I come, and calls my name when he does, and I feel so close to him that it’s almost too much. But I don’t ever look away, I keep staring at his beautiful brown eyes, with those thick black lashes, because those eyes are full of love for me, and I never want to stop seeing that.

After our passion has blown me away like fireworks in the night, like glaciers crashing into the ocean, we lay together, arms and legs entwined. He strokes my cheek up and down, a soothing gentle move that has me nearly purring. I have one hand on his chest, and I can feel his heart beating strong and even under my palm, and I keep my hand there so I can keep feeling that pulse. My other hand is on his arm, and I alternate between feeling his muscles and squeezing his shoulder. I don’t have a reason, really; it just feels good, and I like touching him this way. I don’t think I’m checking to see that he’s still here, still real, still mine—I just am addicted to the feel of his skin, his strength, his lean perfection.

I also let my fingers stray to the slight indentation in his hip, then over the V of the muscles in his abdomen. I’ve never felt a body this toned, this fit, and it’s a delight to learn the braille of his person, the story of his flesh. And he seems to delight in learning me as well, because he flips me over and runs his tongue over my belly, pushing my hands away when I scream and squeal in laughter, growling at me, “Mine. Let me.” And the pride in his voice melts my grip away, and I thrust my hips up to meet his searching mouth, as he moves lower, lower, and then I moan as he finds a place that I want him to explore forever.

“You’re mine,” he informs me, looking up from between my legs, his eyes blazing. “I’m going to do this to you every damn time I want.” Then he smiles, his wicked bad-boy smile, and murmurs, “But sometimes I’m going to make you beg for it first.”

I gasp and grab his hair, trying to steer him, but he shakes his head. “Uh-uh, Abby. Keep those hands out of the way, babe. We’re doing this my way. I think I remember how much you like that.” He winks at me and I surge with new moisture; I can’t help it. He’s right—I like him in control of this dance between us.

“Tell me,” he orders, his voice low, his eyes locked onto mine. “Tell me, Abby, that you want me in charge, like last time.”

I make a little gasping sound because he’s touching me gently with the tip of one finger, but he’s also got me under his hands so I can’t move my thighs very much, and I wiggle in his strong grip.

“I do like it, Boston,” I manage. “I want you in charge of me.”

“Good,” he says, his voice harsh but also gentle, and full of satisfaction. He runs his hands up and down my body, lingering on my breasts, teasing the nipples with gentle tugs and flicks. Every time he flicks one with the tip of his finger, I moan and arch up. The sensation is so erotic and so tingly, the tiny spike of pain and the greater surge of arousal merging together.

“You like that, huh?” He smiles down at me. “Tell me to tug on your tits with my mouth, Abby.”

“Boston!” I redden. He slaps my hip, softly, but with a deliberate movement, and raises one eyebrow at me. “Who’s in charge here, again?”

“You. You are.” I suck in my breath because he flicks my nipple harder, and the lingering after-burn seems connected to my pelvis. I writhe under his ministrations, frustrated, needy.

He flicks the other one and I moan at the sharp bite. “Say it,” he murmurs, leaning down to rest his lips against my neck. “Say it and you get rewarded, Abs. Want your prize?”

“Yes. Yes, I want my prize, please.” I pause. “Okay, fine. Boston, please…tug on my…tits. With your mouth. God.” I hide my face against his shoulder and feel his whole body shake with laughter.

“Babe, you write stuff far dirtier. Why is it so hard to ask me to play with your breasts?” He’s teasing but also curious.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “It’s different with you. More real,” and he smiles, pleased.

“I’m glad,” he says softly, and lowers his head to me, and I’m crazy with the sensation of his lips along my neck, because I’m so sensitive there. He can tell, and he starts dropping kisses and little bites up and down my neck, and when he finds the spot that makes me really squirm, he bites down hard and I cry out and beg. “Boston, please.” I can smell my arousal on his tongue and that only increases my passion. I love the smell of our sex together.

“All right, since you asked me so nice and all.”

He grins and lowers his head and closes his lips over one nipple, and when he sucks, I wail out a little sound of pleasure, because his mouth is hot and wet and it feels so damn good. He licks back and forth across and bites down, letting his teeth graze my skin, and I almost can’t stand it, and then he does the same thing to the other one.

“Abby, I love your tits,” he says, almost reverently. “I want to suck them every day. Jesus.” And he bends his mouth back down, but this time he trails lower and sticks out his tongue and licks me, a strong bold stroke all along my soft sensitive skin, and I cry out his name and buck up into his face.

“Don’t move,” he scolds me, and pinches one nipple as a warning, but it’s a good hurt, the kind he knows I like, and I love that we can do this. We can play a little rough and I am so safe in his hands, because I know he’s only going to do the things we both like and need. I can’t believe how matched we are, how much I love every single touch, every lick, every bite, every squeeze.

“I’m already planning what I want to do to you,” he announces, looking up, his lips wet. He licks them deliberately and I toss my head back and sigh, waiting, but he runs one hand up my belly slowly and grabs my shoulder. “Look at my eyes,” he says.

First I look down my body, my pale skin, his dark hair and slightly darker body along mine, my softness, his strength. I like to see us together. Then I look up, and his eyes are warm and full of light and love and a little danger.

“I’m going to fuck you so good and so hard,” he decides, “that you’ll never want to run away. Next time you need to run, Abby, you run to me, understand? Never away from me.”

I try to nod but just toss my head again and moan, wanting him to touch me.

“Because we’re a team now,” he warns, although a smile twitches on his lips. “We’re a team, babe, so if you ever feel worried about stuff, or other women, or anything, you tell me. And even if I can’t fix it, I’ll try my best. I promise.” His voice is earnest. “I’m never going to understand why you sometimes don’t think you’re beautiful, but I do understand that you need to hear me say it. I’m going to tell you and show you every goddamn day.” He raises one eyebrow. “Okay?”

“Yes, please, I want that every day,” I murmur.

“In fact, I’m going to make
you
say it,” he says. “Tell me, Abby. Tell me that you’re pretty.”

“I’m pretty. Can you put your mouth back, please?”

He obliges, ducking his head down and licking me again, long slow teasing strokes of his tongue along my quivering flesh, and I cry out, trying to get away, to get closer, because the feeling is too much and not enough at once.

“Say it again,” he demands.

“I’m pretty.”

“Again.”

“I’m pretty!” This time I scream it out because he licks right on top of my clit and the sensation drives me insane.

“Good start,” he says, pleased, then flips me onto my stomach. “Time for a little reminder, though, Abs. Get on my lap.” He sits up on the edge of the bed and pats his thighs. I look at him with some foreboding, I suppose, because he smiles and gestures.
Come here
. “I just want you to sit on my lap for a minute,” he cajoles. So I do. The feeling of him commanding me is so hot I think I could orgasm right now, just from that stern voice, that look on his face.

I rub my naked breasts along his chest as I get into place, and wiggle as I settle in, feeling his hard arousal swell further under my soft skin. He sucks in his breath and grabs my hair with one hand, winds it up into a ponytail, then strokes the back of my neck and down my spine with one finger, all the way down to the crack of my ass. Then he says, “Ask me to finger you.”

“Boston!” I’m embarrassed again.

“You liked it so much last time, I thought I’d do it again. You need to ask, though.” I feel moisture surge between my legs at that thought. He kisses my neck where he bit, then bites my earlobe. His breath on my skin is unreal.

I swallow hard. I do want it again. “Please—touch me, Boston. With your fingers.” I move on his lap, feeding both of our arousal, and he surprises me with a light slap across my hip. I squeal and jerk and he chuckles. “Settle down, Abs, just gettin’ started here.”

He shifts me around so I’m straddling him, and I whimper at the touch of his cock at my belly. The sensation lights me on fire.

“Aw, Abs, you feelin’ hot?” he teases.

“Mmmm,” is all I can manage in reply, and I roll off his lap, pull him back down to the bed, and wind my body around his. I reach down to stroke his cock, firm and erect, warm in my hand. “Very,” I murmur, sliding my fingers into my mouth to wet them and reaching back down. “How about you?”

“Oh, yeah,” he replies, and groans when I slink down along his chest, dropping kisses along the way, until I take him into my mouth. He tastes good; a little salty, and his own essence. The scent is intoxicating. I like having him in my mouth, bringing him pleasure. I lick and suck until he takes my head and gently pulls me away.

“If you keep doing that I won’t be able to wait,” he tells me. “Besides, I want to make you call out my name again.” He grins and I let my eyes flutter closed. “You told me once that my fingers look like magic working the camera. Let me try that on you.”

He puts both of his hands on my body, and, oh, God. Two fingers glide into my pussy—three, now, and he’s using his thumb to stroke my clit. I cry out at the electric touch and jerk on the bed.

“Easy,” he soothes me, and softens his touch, stroking and teasing until I’m melted into a puddle of desire. His other hand is under me, on my ass, and he puts a finger into me there, too—and it’s dirty and wicked and perfect. He’s rubbing me with both hands, pumping, flicking, rubbing, swirling, and it’s too much. I begin pumping my hips into his hands, finding a rhythm that suits the need growing in my body, and soon I’m nearly convulsing on the bed, shoving myself into his arms, crying out. “Boston!” I wail. I’m about to peak, I know it, it’s coming—

He takes his hands out and I almost cry with disappointment. He pulls me up to him and takes my face in his hands, one strong hand on each of my cheeks, and looks into my eyes, checking me, asking me, telling me that he loves me. And I say it back to him, and then our mouths attack each other, a cry, a prayer, a wish, a blessing for each other and this union we’re making together.

And when he lays me back down and enters me, his eyes burning into mine, he says, “I’m yours, Abby.” And I start crying from happiness, from joy, from the exquisite pleasure that comes from knowing you’ve finally found that one person who completes you.

He moves, slowly at first, then harder, and soon I’m pushing back into him, clutching at his sweaty muscular body with all my strength, meeting him thrust for thrust, and we’re both trembling with exertion and arousal. He says, “Ready?” and grins. I nod once, and he reaches down and strokes me with his fingers, still thrusting, and I shatter around his touch, clenching down hard, and cry out for a long time as the pleasure bursts behind my eyelids and in my clit and all through my body, in waves and sparkles and surges. He swears and says my name, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard in my life, better than any symphony, better than all the waves on all the blue oceans of the planet: This man, roaring my name as if it’s the only thing in the world that means a damn thing.

This is the perfect ending to all of my stories. I’ve finally stitched together all of the pieces of my ragged life into one cohesive fabric, and he’s the seam. He’s the one who lets me know I’m perfect just the way I am. And I’m going to do the same for him. We’re going to write a new story together, the story of Abby and Boston, starting right now.

The End