Page 118 of Loving Wild
He rakes his top teeth over his bottom lip a couple of times, and I cross my legs in an attempt at stilling the reaction that causes inside me. He quirks a brow and smiles.
“Fanny flutters?” he questions.
I nod.
He nods.
And smiles.
I melt.
“Take off your hoodie.”
I attempt to do this as seductively as possible but quickly learn, unless you practice on the regular, there is no seductive way to take off a hoodie. My arms get caught, my hair gets tangled, and it all ends up in a bit of a shit show. Panting, I finally pull it down my arms, throw it to the floor, and blow at the hair that has now flopped in my face.
Gabe’s grin lights up the room.
“Just pull your elastic thing out, let your hair down.”
This, now this I can do seductively. Pulling out my scrunchie, I slide it on my wrist before tipping my head forward. This is also a learning curve, and what I learn is leaning forward, tipping your head upside down and shaking it after a day of drinking Sangria and cowboys, will leave you a little discombobulated. I stagger one way, then the other. Forwards, then back before I finally think to lift my head up. I’m closer to the door than I realise, and the back of my head cracks against it as I straighten.
“Shit . . .” Gabe says as he starts to move off the bed. I hold up my palm to stop him.
“It’s fine. I’m okay. Sounded worse than it felt,” I tell him through the stars now dancing in front of my eyes.
Gabe pushes back to the bed and watches me for a few seconds. I watch him right back.
“T-shirt,” is all he says, but that lift of his chin lets me know what he means.
This time, I have no issue pulling off my T to reveal the burnt orange bikini top I’m wearing underneath. I’ve not worn a bikini in years but saw this one and loved the colour. I have the bottoms on under my shorts but haven’t dared take my shorts off all day.
I’ll probably never wear it as a two-piece, except maybe on my own for a swim at home, but I felt good when I put it on this morning.
The top is a halter neck, with a frilly edge on each of the cups at the cleavage. It has underwire for support, and another reason I love it is that it makes my tits look great.
“Your tits look fucking amazing,” Gabe says. “Take off your shorts.”
I unbutton and unzip the denim cut-offs I made from an old pair of jeans that no longer fit. They’re loose and fit more on my hips than my waist, but I’ve been sitting in them all day, they’ve probably left marks on my skin. The cut of the bikini bottoms means that my wobbly belly and my stretchmarks are also partly visible, and I know all of this will look ugly.
My alcohol-fuelled confidence evaporates.
“Ren. Shorts. Off,” Gabe again orders. My eyes meet his, he raises his brows and nods below my waist.
“Off,” he says quietly.
I slide my shorts over my hips, then move my hands to press against my lower belly and join them together before my shorts even hit the floor. Without looking up at Gabe, I kick my shorts off and to the side of the room.
“Ren, look at me.”
My eyes take their time, but finally meet his. I watch as he shakes his head.
“Don’t do that. I thought we were past all this. Don’t cover yourself.”
“You’re so perfect,” is all I have as an answer.
“Andyouare fucking perfect for me.Sofucking gorgeous.”
I take in a breath because by the way my lungs feel like they’re about to burst, I’ve forgotten to breathe for the last little while.
