“What are we practicing right now, exactly? Other than making my dick so hard it might burst?”
I nod, staring at his penis and feeling very mature and matter-of-fact about it. No, this is good. Normal. “We’re practicing talking about sex. I’ll need to be open about it one day when I do it, right? So I might as well get comfortable talking to a man about … ” I flail my hand around as I search for the right words. “Bodies. I should get comfortable talking about bodies. Seeing bodies.”
“Yeah?” He replies from behind his hands. “Then tell me about how wet you are right now.”
That brings my train of thought to a screeching halt.
He drops his hands from his face, now wearing an expression I don’t recognize. His eyes have gone dark, almost titanium, growing more turbulent the lower they travel. “Lose the sweater and let’s see if your nipples are hard.”
My mouth drops open, but I don’t respond.
“You want to practice talking about sex? Let’s practice.” His raspy voice vibrates across my skin like a touch. Somehow, his cock fills even more of his shorts.
I hesitate for only a second before I reach down and peel the sweater off, keeping it clutched in my lap. My fingers dig into it, using it as a shield for his question about … lower.
When I glance down, my hard nipples are pointing straight at him through the thin cotton bodice of my dress, like my body is screaming, This one! Do this one!
He seems momentarily surprised by my boldness before the expression slips away.
Then he growls, “Fucking knew it.” His tongue darts out over his lips, but he makes no move to change his position or reach for me.
I chance another look at his crotch and watch him reach down to adjust himself, a quiet groan escaping me as I do. My brain spirals. How must that feel? Taste? He does it so casually, with such surety.
I bet he fucks like that too. Like he just knows he’s good at it. No bumbling. No stuttering.
I bet Beau Eaton knows how to handle a woman’s body like a pro.
“Are you wet, Bailey?”
Boom, there’s the proof.
A shiver races down my spine, and my eyes flutter shut. I squeeze my thighs together and press my sweater down harder over my lap, feeling the way my pussy slides as my hips twist ever so slightly.
“You are, aren’t you?”
I keep my eyes closed because I don’t know if I can handle seeing him right now.
“Tell me.”
I pant, my body going hot. It’s too much. Talking about sex is one thing, but I feel like I might combust. And the fact of the matter is, this seems like seriously blurring whatever lines Beau and I have laid out. I know I’m going to have to touch him—kiss him—but that’s in public. That’s for show.
Whatever this is right now? It’s none of those things.
It’s private. It’s intimate. And considering the fact that no one else is here … it’s not for show.
I push to standing and finally meet his gaze, one that’s now laced with confusion. “The only thing I’m telling you is that I’m going to go back to my trailer and get cleaned up so I can apply for jobs.”
His chest rises and falls, and he catches up to whatever whiplash I just put him through. But he doesn’t fight it. He blinks and his eyes clear, like we both just experienced a possession and are coming back to reality.
He props his hands against the ground and rights himself, unfolding long limbs as he comes to stand before me—towering over me.
He stares down at his feet, toes wiggling on the sandy ground. In the morning light, the damage to them is clearly visible. The skin stretched just a little too tight. Smooth spots. Bumpy spots. Spots that are redder, spots that are whiter. Just past the bridge of his feet, it swaps back to smooth, regular skin.
A border. One side holds all the pain, but if you cover it up? It’s like nothing ever happened.
I want to ask questions, but I don’t. Nothing worse than people rummaging through your trauma just so they can rubberneck.
I know the sensation, and I won’t subject Beau to it. If he wants to tell me his stories, he will.
He notices me staring, and he winces. I recognize the look on his face because I’ve experienced it.
Embarrassment.
I feel inclined to snap him out of it.
My gaze falls to the dog tags around his neck. I reach for them, the bumps in the chain sliding through my fingers, but his eyes stay trained on his feet.
I give the chain a tug, startling him out of his moment. “Don’t do that.”