Page 282 of My Sweet Dollie, You Have to Love Me
“Sit in with me, please.” Her fingers toy with my ankles. “I really need you right now.”
“You have me. But turn around.” I stand, circling my finger. “I’m shyer than you.”
That may not be true, but if she faces me, she’ll see the tattoo, now that morning light is creeping through the windows. She’ll see the semi, I shouldn’t have just from looking at her body. At her pretty pink nipples that not only complement her hair but the glow on her cheeks, too. At the tiny gap she has between her legs?—
I stop myself from taking those thoughts further, feeling myself throb for her.
I strip, my pants catching on my hard cock and yanking it back. I hiss as I toss my clothes out, and the second they hit the floor, creating a small mountain on top of hers, I feel naked. I am naked, but I feel stripped to the bone, all my insecurities on show.
I settle in the water behind her, the clear liquid not hiding much of me at all.
“Are you okay?” she asks with a broken voice.
I tremble, having not been this exposed to someone since Colin. That thought rids me of any arousal.
I nod, and she smiles gently. Her body scoots back, settling between my tense thighs, and she gets comfortable, leaning back on me.
My cock floats between us, its softness kissing her spine every time she moves and creates a ripple effect in the water.
We sit in silence for the longest time, neither of us acknowledging my dick, the mess around us, or the fact that we grew up together, as family, and now, we’re naked, sharing a bath. Or that I’m shaking like a leaf blowing in the wind.
Needing to get out of my head, I squeeze a little conditioner from one of the bottles that line the edge into my hand.
With gentle strokes, I brush it through Dollie’s hair with my fingers.
“Seeing Chuckles again, that must have been hard on your mental health.”
“Yeah.” I keep massaging her head, my fingers quivering—like my voice—around the strands that cling to me.
“Is that why you wear the makeup?”
“Makeup? I haven’t worn makeup since you put mascara on me that one Christmas.”
“Okay then, the paint. Is that why you paint yourself up like a pretty clown?”
I stiffen.
“Like, is it some kind of therapy? At first, I thought you were trying to scare me, but I guess that was my own brainwashing. It was easier not to have you if I thought of you as anything other than my hero. If I believed Shane’s lies about you hating me.”
“Dollie, I?—”
She swallows, gazing back at me, waiting for my answer.
“I don’t.”
“You don’t what?”
“I don’t wear makeup. Paint.” My voice is as deathly quiet as my thoughts.
“But I see it.” Her eyes squint as her fingers rise from the water and move across my face, over what she’s envisioning as a red mouth that stretches across my cheeks. Her palms begin scrubbing there. “I don’t understand.”
Maybe she doesn’t, but things are making more sense to me.
Her words from a couple of days ago repeat in my head.
Does your freaky face not do it for her?
She was never talking about my scars, just the makeup that would be scary for her.
