Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100466 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100466 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
His hard, warm body against mine. The scent of his citrus shampoo.
He holds me there for a moment, then he releases me, and we move toward the dance floor. Not that it's a specific floor. More a section of the concrete outside. And people aren't dancing really. They're throbbing in time with the music, bopping their head, or swaying or grinding.
There's no control or form or grace.
Only the pure sensation of music and movement.
"Do you know how to do anything but waltz?" I whisper-yell in his ear.
He nods and brings his hands to my hips.
For a song, we stay there, swaying together, close, but not close enough.
I want to move toward him, but something stops me. A hesitation. A fear. The logic that only comes with sobriety.
Maybe this is a bad idea.
Maybe I can't play the games he plays.
I tried BDSM once. I made an account on a dating app, but everyone I met went straight to discussing sex, and they made it sound so strange and sterile. Impersonal.
I still went for it. I met a guy with a taste for restraints. I went on two dates. I went home with him.
But then he offered to tie me up, and I couldn't do it. Even though he was respectful and safe at every turn, I didn't trust him. I didn't want to experience this with him.
I'm not a romantic. I don't need to love the people I fuck. But I need to like them. I need to trust them.
And there was no way I could trust a near stranger.
But, at the moment, I see the logic in semi-anonymous kinky sex.
With Jackson, there's so much at stake. My closest friendship. My family. My relationship with him too.
What if I'm not what he wants?
What if he's not what I need?
This just might ruin everything.
Then he pulls me closer, and I forget all those concerns. He feels so good against me.
What else could possibly matter?
I wrap my arms around Jackson's shoulders, and I move in time with the music.
He moves with me, pressing his hips to mine.
Slowly, my body melts into his, my thighs around his leg, my chest against his chest, my cheek against his cheek, my hands against his skin.
It is easier not looking at him.
I don't have to think about what it means or who can see.
I close my eyes and let the beat flow through my body.
I didn't inherit my father's talent. I can't hum a melody or keep time, but I still love the feeling of music flowing through my veins. I love the way it syncs up with my heartbeat, breath, movements. I love the way it overtakes me.
It's visceral, and spiritual, and intellectual.
The perfect mix of body, soul, mind.
It sends calm racing through my veins. Calm and excitement. How is that possible? Some mix of neurotransmitters. The focus. The sense of touch, of Jackson and me in sync.
Human beings are social animals.
We feel good when we connect. And we want to connect physically. Through touch. Through movement.
There's new research. Shared physical experiences bond us. That's part of why sex is so important to relationships.
Why it's so hard to fuck without feelings.
For a few songs, we melt into each other in perfect harmony.
My inhibitions dissolve. It's only me and the music and Jackson Steele.
I'm not sure how much time passes. It might be ten minutes. It might be two hours. I'm only aware of a tap on my shoulder and Jackson's body leaving mine.
Zack.
Of course.
He rounds us up and heads to the bar.
It's a little quieter here. Quiet enough to talk.
"The grooms are getting tired." Zack shakes his head the tragedy. "Leaving for the same reason Cassie and Damon are." Zack hails the bartender and orders a round of shots for everyone, minus Damon.
And Cassie.
She insists she wants to go home mostly sober.
"Aren't we a little old for this?" Jackson asks.
Zack shakes his head. "You really do hate fun, don't you?" He turns as the bartender pours a round of shots. "I asked for your favorite thing. A blow job." He winks at Kenji. "The traditional way to drink these is with your hands behind your back. I won't ask everyone to do that. But you two… I hear you have plenty of practice." He winks again.
The grooms look at each other with that perfect mix of shamelessness and love.
I'm not sure how the bartender creates almost a dozen blow jobs so quickly. The shot is a mix of almond and cream liqueur topped with whipped cream. I guess the dollop of white semi-solid is vaguely reminiscent of semen.
The grooms go first, but instead of putting their hands behind their backs, they lock hands and they bring their bodies to the bar.
It's the most romantic, tacky shot I've ever seen.
One body shot was enough for me. I play along, but I drink this one the normal way. I toast and I swallow.