CHAPTER 31 (1)
Timothy’s kissing me. He’s dark and warm and thrilling, and when his tongue presses against my lips, I welcome him inside. It feels as if all I’ve ever wanted is to have him inside me—though I often think I’m part of him instead. I’m the stars, burning and shifting, and Timothy’s my sky, the dark and velvet eternity I live for. If tonight hasn’t already changed me, I know now that it will. Timothy’s steel arms bring my hips against his. He’s a brick wall, hard and unrelenting, and I want every inch of him. Catcalls go up from somewhere. Timothy pulls back, his breath rough, his gaze liquid desire. I thread my fingers in his hair, grinning. “What’s that face?” he demands. “That night we danced together, I decided your hair wasn’t long enough to pull. I’m glad I was wrong.” His growl sends heat pooling between my thighs. “Upstairs. Now.” We stumble toward the stairwell, and the door closes after us. “Please tell me Rica and Andie aren’t home.” He takes the steps two at a time. I try to keep up, my fingers laced with his. “Don’t think so.” I hope to hell Andie’s still at the performance and Rica’s… wherever she disappears to. On six, we trip down the hall, passing only one other girl on the way to my room, who offers me a thumbs up as she takes us in. I push open the door, relieved to find it empty, then I tug my hand from his and head for my closet. I take a ballet flat and hang it on the door handle. “It’s not a sock, but she’ll figure it out.” I shut the door after us. The laughter fades from his face, replaced by intensity as he realizes the same thing as I do. It’s been five years since I had a crush on Timothy. Two since I fell in love with him. A year and a half since he broke my heart. And now we’re going to do this. Timothy backs me toward the bed until my calves hit the side. I’m older now. Wiser. This doesn’t mean I’m losing my head or my heart. But as he reaches behind his head and strips off his shirt, tossing it on the floor by the bed, I nearly swallow my tongue. His shoulders are broader than I remember, his abs and pecs even more defined. Timothy’s so distractingly attractive with clothes on it should be illegal for him to take them off. “Holy… You’re like art,” I blurt, and his sudden smile cracks the mask of intensity on his face. He’s muscled and beautiful, and I want to trace my hand over every inch of him, especially when those muscles leap under my touch. But the ink swirling up his shoulder, across the left half of his chest, brings back a tiny portion of my brain power and has me questioning something beyond how it would feel to have his body over mine, driving into me. “What are these?” I murmur, tracing the lines as he holds himself over me. One looks like a flower over his pec, which connects to the vines down his arm. One beneath it looks like an old-fashioned ship rocked by waves. Farther down his ribs is a compass. Timothy rasps out a breath. “You wanna do this now?” He’s testy and turned on, but I can’t help myself. “Yes.” He inches back so I can bend to inspect him. “This one, I got this one after I came to New York.” He points to the ship. “This one after I started at Vanier.” The compass. “This one this summer.” The flower. I bite my lip. “Tell me what they mean.” “Later. Turn.” I do as he asks, and he lifts my hair, laying it over one shoulder. His touch grazes between my shoulder blades, finding the zipper and working it down. “The ink I want to hear about is all the words you wrote me on this.” He strokes a finger across my skin, and I shiver. Cool air hits my back as the straps slide off my shoulders. The dress skims down my body, falling to the floor. Timothy’s lips graze my ear from behind. “Show me where you put me.” My entire body is humming when he turns me back to face him, and his expression strips away the rest of my defenses. He’s gorgeous. A fiery prince set out to claim what’s his. I point to my wrist. “Here.” He lifts it, presses an open-mouthed kiss to the skin there, and I shiver. “And here.” My finger brushes my stomach, next to my navel. Timothy’s hands smooth down my sides, and he bends, his lips hot on my stomach. I grab his hair as I swallow, the feeling of his wet mouth sending need pooling between my thighs. “Don’t stop now.” His voice is barely audible. I point to the inside of my thigh. “Here.” With a dark look, he drops to his knees. Then he strokes a finger up my skin, close to my panties. I sway. I want him to touch me. I need it more than air. He bends toward my center, my panties the only thing between his mouth and where I’m slowly burning up. His lips graze my skin on the inside of my thigh. “Every word you wrote I’ll trace with my tongue.” It’s too much. I’m overwhelmed. But before I can respond, he rises and steps away, nodding at my bra and panties. “Take them off.” He says it softly—a question, not a command—but the fact that he’s asking makes it impossible to deny him. With shaking hands, I reach for the back of the bra and unhook it. It slides down my arms and falls to the floor. Swallowing, I hook my fingers in my panties and slide them down too.
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