Page 39 of Love Set Free

“Okay. I guess,” I grudgingly answer.

“Good. Then we can go ahead and watch a movie—or a couple of movies—tonight, like we planned, and we can forget all about my finger until tomorrow.”

I’m not so sure that’ll happen, although based on how I do keep forgetting about it, it certainly is possible. More importantly, I really don’t want to make Phoenix angry with me by forcing him to do something he doesn’t want to. And I do want to pass the night with just the two of us together.

So, I let the subject drop and turn my attention back to the TV when Phoenix asks, “What about this one?”

The TV is showing the title of a movie I’ve never heard of, with a brief bit about what the movie is about, next to the image of two actors I don’t recognize in the slightest. Not that that’s saying much. Even back when I still had a laptop—before I had to pawn it to buy groceries—the best I could do to see movies was to check them out of the local library and watch them on my computer. That was a couple years ago, so I’m not surprised that I’m not familiar with the movie, or the actors in it, that Phoenix is suggesting.

But watching the movie isn’t the part of watching a movie with Phoenix I’m looking forward to, so I just reply, “Sure. Looks good to me.”

As the movie plays, I’m paying just enough attention to it to figure out that it’s a romcom. Or maybe not, I rethink as a plane explodes on the screen, just after the lead actor and actress manage to escape, of course.

What’s much more important for me to be paying attention to is how nice Phoenix smells. He used the same hotel soap andshampoo that I did this morning, I’m pretty sure. But for some reason, the stuff smells so much better on him.

And the way he feels, curled around me and holding me close, that’s also so much more interesting than some old dumb Hollywood action movie. Er, still possibly a romcom, ’cause there’s now a bunch of flirting and goo-goo eyes between the actors. I honestly can’t tell which it’s supposed to be, and I just can’t find it in myself to give a crap.

I really did enjoy the way Phoenix found pleasure with me this morning. And I’ve definitely been enjoying the couple kisses we’ve exchanged. And really, isn’t making out on a couch while “watching” a movie a time-honored American tradition? I certainly think so.

For the meeting at the Consulate, Phoenix had snagged the one dressier shirt that had been in the pile of clothes left in my room—pale, coral-ish pink, with short sleeves and buttons that shimmered like a freshly-plucked-from-the-ocean pearl. Not even attempting to be subtle about it, I let my fingers trail down Phoenix’s chest, following that line of buttons.

“Hmm. What are you up to, sweetheart?”

Phoenix doesn’t sound upset about what my fingers are doing, merely curious. Hopeful? I’m kind of hoping so.

“Oh, nothing,” I reply.

But contradicting my words, my fingers continue their course. Down, down, down, bump, bump, bumping over each button, and skimming along the soft, almost silky, fabric of Phoenix’s shirt in between them. Until, finally, my fingers reach the bottom edge of the shirt, laying bunched and gathered where it meets the waist of his almond-colored shorts. And then, swift as a fish slipping off a hook, my fingers dip and dart underneath his shirt, seeking and finding the soft, warm skin of his stomach.

“That doesn’t…that doesn’t feel like ‘nothing’, Jackson.”

The catch in his voice, and the slight quiver Phoenix can’t hide, along with the sudden tension running through his body, gives me a jolt of greedy enjoyment. None of the girls I’ve touched in the past were ever so responsive as Phoenix is, at least, not that I can recall. And the fact that it’s me doing this to him…that I’m the one affecting him this way…Jesus, I can’t get enough.

“Shh… Never you mind what I’m up to,” I tell him, my fingers taking a slow glide up the silken skin covering Phoenix’s rigid abdomen. “You just go on and keep on watchin’ the movie.”

Phoenix’s stomach is flat, but, unlike mine, which is just flat and scrawny, Phoenix has noticeably defined abs. My fingertips eagerly trace over the gentle swells, along the ridges and dipping down into the shallow valleys between them. I feel the soft brush of hair tickle my fingers as they move, and I find that I like that too. I’m liking everything I’m finding out about Phoenix and I want to find out more. Want to explore more of him.

I settle the hand I have under his shirt in the center of his chest, the thrum of his heartbeat an enticing tempo vibrating against my palm, and with my other hand, I reach over to begin popping open Phoenix’s shirt buttons. I want to be able to see with my eyes, the delightful landscape my fingers have been exploring.

But before I can get more than just the first button open, I find myself on my back on the sofa, with an impatiently turned-on Phoenix on top of me.

“Fuck. Shouldn’t be doing this. I know it’s not… You can’t actually want this. But I can’t… You don’t know what you do to me.”

His breath is hot on my neck as he pants words of want and need. I want to object to his denials. I do want this. I do want exactly what he’s doing. But Phoenix keeps talking, and I’m too caught up in enjoying the feel of his body pressing down onme to summon up the ability to string more than two words together.

“Ah, Phee. Shit, so good. Like this.”

“I’ve got to have you,” Phoenix mutters, the words pressed against the skin of my neck as he drags his lips along that trembling, sensitive expanse. “I’ve got to. Please let me. Even if you don’t want… Please, please want, sweetheart. Because I can’t help myself.”

I wrench my right hand loose from between us and rocket it up to the back of his head. My fingers spear through the soft strands of Phoenix’s hair, holding his head in place against me as I implore him, “Yes. Please, yes. Anything.”

A belt jangles as it’s unbuckled and it’s only as I notice the tugging at my waist that I realize it must’ve been mine. Phoenix undid my belt and now his fingers are hurriedly unfastening my pants. I’ve no idea what he’s planning to do with me and I don’t care. When I said he could do anything with me, I meant anything.

In the few days since I finally was able to set eyes on Phoenix, my eyes have catalogued as many details about his appearance as I can manage. And I’ve definitely noticed how elegant and graceful his long, slender fingers look. Now, I also know that they’re nimble, gentle, and warm—so, so fucking warm—as they slide their way through the loosened opening of my pants, gliding down to cup and fondle my junk.

“Jesus. You’re…you’re not even hard, Jackson.”

No, no, I’m not. Not even a little bit. I’m not surprised by this—my dick didn’t get hard this morning when Phoenix rubbed off against me and I’ve never gotten hard with arousal for any other man before. But while I’m not upset over my dick being limp, Phoenix most definitely sounds as though he is.

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