Page 34 of When It's Us
“You’ve got more bites,” he says without looking up from my foot propped on his knee.
I’d been so distracted by the veins in his hands as he doctored up my blisters that I hadn’t noticed I was still scratching. This time, higher up on my thigh.
“Oh, it’s okay,” I say a little too breathlessly. “These ones aren’t as bad.”
“There’s more than one?” he asks, crumpling up the empty wrappers and gesturing to me. “Stand up.”
“It’s really fine, I’ll be ok—”
“I’m not going to be able to sleep with you itching all night and neither will you.”
His dark blue eyes find mine in the dim light. “I’ve had my face buried in your cunt, California,” he murmurs. “I think I can handle seeing you in your underwear.”
The vulgarity of his words, delivered in that low, almost tender tone, hits me straight between the legs. My mind flashes to both times he had his face buried between my thighs.
I bite my lip, replaying every second—how perfect he felt in my mouth, how I’d never wanted anything so badly. How I clung to every filthy word as he absolutely wrecked me.
Make a choice. Which do you want more, huh? My cock or air. 'Cause right now, you’re not getting both.
He lets his eyes drift up my body, and the look he’s wearing tells me he’s probably also thinking about one or both of those nights.
I’m literally the most shameless of hussies when it comes to this man, and I suspect he knows it.
He quirks a brow at me as if issuing a challenge. And oh my God, do I want to accept it. Feeling his hands—his mouth—on me again after all this time is all I can think about.
I let out a shaky breath and hook my fingers under the hem of my shirt, pulling it up to expose my thighs to him. Our eyes lock and every single one of my nerve endings lights up. All it would take is a flick of his wrist, and I’d be exposed to him again.
Hutch swallows hard and his eyes run over my bare legs. He could be looking for mosquito bites, but I don’t think so. I wonder if he’s having as hard a time as I am. I’m trying really fucking hard not to rip off my shirt and climb him like a tree.
“Show me.” The command is low, and it drops right between my legs.
It’s almost like my hands move of their own accord, the cotton beneath my fingertips as I slide it up ever so slightly to point out the three or four mosquito bites on my upper thigh.
Hutch nods, dropping his gaze back to his hands, but instead of squirting the cream onto my fingers, he squirts it on his own. And then his strong fingers are on my skin, and it takes every bit of restraint to not moan like a touch-starved whore.
“Feel okay?” he asks, voice deep and full of gravel.
“Mmhmm,” I hum, reveling in the feeling of his touch on me. The slow drag of his fingers over the bites shouldn’t be sensual, but it is. Fortunately, it relieves some of the itch but simultaneouslysparks heat low in my belly, causing an itch that longs to be scratched in a very different way.
There’s no way he doesn’t know how turned on I am—I’m practically dripping for him. Exactly like every other time, I’m a total slut for his touch. It would take nothing to close the space between us, to step into the V of his splayed knees, shift a few inches, and have his hands on me—exploring every inch of bare skin.
The pull to touch him is strong, but somehow, I hold back.
We don’t do tender. We don’t do sweet. But the way he’s taking care of me—not just now, but earlier too—has me wondering if maybe…we could.
No.What the hell, Ginger? You can’t seriously be thinking like that. You’re touch-starved and lonely, and any red-blooded woman would be reacting the same way.
Hutch’s voice pulls me from my mental spiral. “Are there any more?”
My gaze flits to his and I shake my head, stepping back. “No. I think you got them all,” I say, barely recognizing my own voice. “Thank you.”
He nods, recapping the cream and setting it to the side. I move to straighten my shirt over my hips but his fingers, calloused and warm, move to cover mine, causing goosebumps to break out over my skin, and I can’t help the little moan that escapes.
I was not prepared for hair-down Hutch; the spread of his tattoos up close and personal, or the spicy, yet woodsy and somehow smokey scent of his skin. In the tiny, darkened van, he seems even bigger, somehow larger than life and so goddamn sexy.
“Your hair’s longer,” I murmur, loving how the sun has lightened the messy waves since I last saw him. It falls past his collarbones now, brushing over those massive shoulders.
The words don’t even make sense—long hair’s never been my thing. But here we are. “I like it.”
