Beneath The Skin (A College Obsession Romance) (41 page)

“Hold still.”

I focus. I let the image of her burn into my memory, as if I really do hold a camera in my grasp.

Aim. Focus.

Flash.

I rise from the floor, step onto the stage, and stand by my model. She looks up at me, wordless, and her shimmering eyes say everything that the both of us are feeling. I take hold of her face gently, then bring my mouth to hers.

Explosions, red-hot and palpable.

A flavor that ignites every nerve in my body.

Her touch, waking the regions of my brain that scream
I need this woman
and
I’m never letting her go again
.

She clings to the buttons of my shirt, pulling gently, tugging here, tugging there, feeling blindly for her way in.

I help her by slowly undoing the buttons, not wanting to break from our kiss. Slowly the shirt releases me, slowly the material pulls out from my pants, and then it opens up, dropping off my back.

But it’s not enough; she wants more. Her fingers tug at my pants, undoing them. I let her have this one, bringing my hands to her face and caressing it as our mouths explore one another. It feels like the first time, like we’ve never truly touched.

It’s like we were, all these months, pressed up against each other’s bodies with some imaginary second skin in the way, never truly feeling one another, never quite knowing one another.

Something’s changed. Something in each of us has been freed.

And then my pants open, freeing something else.

After they drop to my ankles, I kick them off, and still Nell’s greedy fingers persist, hooking in the waistband of my boxer briefs. I feel her take her time, tracing the rim and teasing me.

My cock throbs in response, desperate to get out.

Our lips still locked, my hands run slowly down her body until they reach her breasts, cupping them. I feel her nipples harden under my fingers, exposed as they are to me. Nell responds with a deep moan, encouraging me as I massage her breasts with my big hands.

Her fingers slip inside. She wraps around my cock.

Now it’s my turn to moan.

Slowly, my boxer briefs slide down my skin, revealing the last part of me to her. Kicking them away, I feel the cool air of the room on every inch of my sensitive body. One hand on my cock, her other hand explores my hip and the side of my ass cheek where it dimples. She grabs a healthy handful of it, pulling me toward her with need.

All I want to do is answer that need.

I break from the kiss at long last, then run my hands down her smooth, soft body and lower to my knees. With her up on that stool, I slip my hands between her legs and pull them apart. As if by instinct, her fingers slide up my face and entangle themselves in my hair, ready to brace. Yeah, she knows what’s coming.

I move my face between her thighs and let out my tongue, raking it softly up her pussy. She trembles in response. Her fingers dig into my hair, which tells me I’m doing it right.

Painstakingly slow, I work her up, licking from bottom to top, lapping up every inch of her and earning every little moan she lets out.

The tighter she grips my hair, the tighter I grip her thighs.

Finally, I pull her clit into my mouth, sucking gently and slowly working her up into a state of insanity. I feel her thighs clench, squeezing my head between them. I fucking love the way she headlocks me with them, suffocating me with her unrivaled pleasure.

The moans grow louder. My cock grows harder. I can’t wait any longer; I have to have her now.

When I pull away from her, she moans with frustration, until she sees me grab my pants and fish a condom out of the pocket. Tearing off the wrapper, she watches me in surprise as I roll it down my length.

“You kept a condom in your tuxedo pants?” she asks, baffled.

I give her a look. “Have we met?”

And then I wrap my hands around the small of her back and lift her slightly off the stool, positioning her perfectly. Just the tip touches her. She squirms, desperate for me to enter her.

“I don’t think you’re ready for this,” I taunt her.

“Fuck me.”

I let just the tip inside. She quivers, her eyes rocking back.

“Definitely not ready.”

“Brant. Please. God.”

An inch slides in. I make sure to watch her face. I want to see every little twitch of her muscles. I want to notice every flit of her eyes. I want to capture each bite and pull and suck of her lips as I enter her.

I lean into her face. “Do you want me?”

“Yes,” she sighs, fraught with urgency.

And then I enter her, full force. She groans loudly, clinging to my body for dear life as I start to pump her deeply. Torches and works of passion surround the building, and here we are, two human torches on a stool generating a fire that no torch or brazier or blazing bonfire can compare to. And here we are, a work of passion two lifetimes in the making.

I feel her tightening on my cock already. I know she’s close, but I can’t let her get off yet. I slow down and thrust my mouth at hers, tasting her, forcing her to keep pace with me and savor every long, tormenting moment of my desire for her.

She claws into me, forcing me to feel every pinch of hers.

With our lips interlocked and our tongues wrestling for dominance in our mouths, I cling tight to her and pick up the pace. My heart hammers against my chest. My throat constricts, feeling the impending wave of orgasm. She must feel it too, if the scars she’s making down my shoulder blades are any indication.

I feel myself rushing to the edge. She tightens, rushing to her own.

Our bodies react together, flexing and tensing as our mouths part and our breaths turn into cries. I empty into her as she crashes into her orgasm.

I feel it from my arms to my bucking thighs. I empty into her so deeply, it never seems to end until the chasm in my chest is filled up, until I feel flipped inside-out, until my brain is flooded with the bliss of relief.

We collapse in the exact position we’re in, clutched to one another on that fateful stool. I hold her tightly, protectively, lovingly … and she grips me, her legs wrapped around my waist. In and out we breathe, cherishing the incomparable closeness we’ve just discovered.

How have I been missing this my whole life? Nell has completely undone me. I’m ruined, in all the best ways possible.

“That part I said,” she murmurs quietly, her chin resting on my shoulder. “That part about me being a better artist without you …”

“Yeah?”

She grips me tighter, then breathes in my ear: “I was wrong.” She pulls away and meets my eyes. “I’m just darkness without you. Brant, you make me a better person.”

“And I was just a player without a game,” I tell her. “You helped me find myself. I’m just … dirty bed sheets without you.”

She wrinkles her face. “Dirty bed sheets? Gross.”

“Not if you’re the reason they’re dirty,” I growl into her ear, and when she laughs, I close her mouth with a deep, warm kiss.

I love this woman.

NELL

- Six Months Later -

Dessie and Clayton’s house is remarkably packed, though I guess that’s to be expected at a celebration of this magnitude.

It’s the evening, but the sun still paints the sky a brilliant orange with pink and crimson highlights, and it looks downright beautiful pouring over the fence of the backyard where everyone is gathered.

No, no one’s getting married. In fact, quite the opposite. It’s a party for everyone who’s graduated this year, myself included. And really, a graduation is a lot like a divorce. Except everyone’s happy.

“I’m so unhappy.”

I face Sam, who stands by my side in a green lace top and her huge thick-rimmed glasses. It’s hard to say if Sam is sulking because she only ever seems to sport one particular facial expression, and she does it expertly: deadpan. I feel like her furiously angry face, her arm-chillingly excited face, and her bored-to-tears face are all exactly the same. There’s something oddly comforting in that fact.

“Why?” I ask after kicking back the bottle in my hand.

She squints into the sunset. “All my best friends are graduating. And even people I don’t know all that well, but kinda wish I got to know better.”

“Like who?”

“You.” She shrugs. “I don’t have any close artist friends.”

“I don’t have any close musician friends,” I note. “Unless you count the band that lives across the hall from me.”

“Dessie’s graduating and moving back to New York,” Sam goes on, speaking once again in perfect monotone without any slight sense of punctuation or breath. “Clayton is going with her, obviously, and that shouldn’t come as a surprise but it does, kinda, not really, and then Chloe is going too because of something to do with her sister—I didn’t know she has a sister, but she does—and then Eric’s graduating, which I guess isn’t that big a deal because he’s still living with Brant, but I just have this feeling I won’t see any of them again, I don’t know. Why didn’t I make any friends of my own? Why are all of my friends
Dessie’s
friends? I make bad life choices.”

I frown. “You still have Dmitri. He’s got another year to go, if he keeps on track. And then Tomas too, right?”

She faces me suddenly. “Is it true that Brant’s dropping out?”

The question knocks me in the face. Not because I didn’t know, but because I didn’t realize Brant told anyone else. I thought we were keeping it a secret. “I, um … Who told you that?” I ask vaguely.

“Oh.” Sam’s a quick one. “Maybe it’s a secret. I don’t think Dmitri was supposed to tell me. I figured you’d know, since you—”

“I did.”

“Oh. Well, um … Dmitri tells me things. But he doesn’t always tell me not to tell others those things. I hate secrets.”

I smirk knowingly, then clutch my belly anxiously, curious about Brant’s whereabouts.
Where the hell is he?
I wonder, biting my lip.

“So how do you feel about that?”

I flinch, stirred from my thoughts. “About Brant dropping out?” Sam nods. “It’s his decision. I mean, you know him. Well, through Dessie and Clayton, somewhat. You know what he’s like.”

“Twenty different majors in four years. New girlfriend every week. No direction in life.”

Sam knows how to put it bluntly. “Well …”

“You basically saved his life.”

Now it’s my turn to blink in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“Now he’s got all the things,” she answers simply. “He settled on one major. He has a direction in life now. And he’s got you.” Then Sam smiles. Or at least I think that’s what’s happening on her face. “Thank you for coming into his life, Nell. And by proxy, coming into mine. I wish I could’ve made art with you at some point.”

Unexpectedly, I find myself touched by Sam’s words. “Thank you, Sam.”

“I just stated facts, really. Nothing to thank me for.” She shrugs and glances off at the sunset again.

“You know, with you and Dmitri being such good friends, I think we’ll be seeing a lot of each other anyway. Brant’s still living there. I’m still in my place. Maybe you can come over sometime and we can … I don’t know … share inspirations or something. Maybe you can give that band next door to me a goddamned clue. Y’know, save some poorly abused instruments.”

“I have enough on my plate saving an abused one of my own,” she says sulkily, then her gaze drifts off to a particular someone standing by the grill—Tomas, who seems to be obsessed with poking at and flipping the burgers.

“He seems like a nice guy,” I encourage her with a smile.

“The nicest,” she groans. Then, with a minute shrug, she says, “Tell Brant congratulations on his decision. I think it takes a lot of bravery to cut ties with a school and leap into the artistic foray headlong. And if he suddenly decides yet again to change his career path, I can maybe give him a recommendation at the music school. I would peg him to be a cellist.” She offers me a muted smile, then makes her way across the grass toward Tomas, who greets her with a smile and seems to offer her a burger.