Page 145 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
I swallow, gripping his hand, scanning his face. He seems to be completely honest at this moment. Sucking in a breath, I blow it out slowly.
I can feel something shifting between us. Some barrier that we both held up crumbles and falls away. Without really thinking about it, I reach down and slip off my heels. Then I go to the bathroom and wash off my lipstick, staring at my bare face in the mirror.
I’m ready to take this chance. Hunter may not like the real me, the Juliet with no lipstick and no heels. But… what if he does?
When I come back, Hunter is watching me with something soft and intense in his expression.
“This is how I want it to be between us,” I say. “No artifice. Just skin against skin.”
He stands and comes to me, his hands finding my face, thumbs brushing across my bare lips.
“You’re beautiful like this,” he says. “You’re beautiful all the time, but like this... this is just for me.”
I bite my lip, lead him by the hand, and lower him to the couch. We sink together into the crisp leather. His knee presses against my thigh for a moment, and I can feel the heat even through my skirt. I’m still humming with adrenaline. Not from the confrontation with his mother, but from the way we stripped ourselves bare in front of each other.
No more fucking walls up. No more pretense. Just two hurt animals licking each other’s wounds. Hunter leans back. I savor the anticipation sitting heavy between us. He’s watching me, wild and wary, like he’s waiting for me to flinch or run.
Instead, I plant my knees on either side of his, straddling him, and slowly unzip his hoodie from my body. It pools behind me on the couch, leaving me in nothing but a thin black lace bra and my tight black skirt. He’s seen me naked before, but not like this.
Not stripped of all my makeup, my heels kicked away, my hair still damp from the bathroom sink and falling wild around my face. I look down at him, waiting for a reaction. For any sign that he misses the polished, packaged version.
Hunter’s eyes go impossibly dark. His jaw tightens and I can see the vein in his neck straining.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he says. His voice is barely above a whisper. “You’re killing me.”
It’s my turn to shake. For all my bravado, I have no idea how to be vulnerable like this. I climb off his lap and sink to my knees between his legs, my palms running up his thighs, tracing the heavy muscle and the faint ridges of old scars. I feel him shudder beneath my touch.
I lean in and kiss his lips once, almost chaste, a thank-you for letting me in. Then I move to his neck, kissing the rough stubble there, inhaling the scent of his skin, the burnt vanilla of his cologne mixed with sweat and something uniquely him.
I tug his Henley up and he shrugs it off smoothly, leaving his chest bare to the waist. He is so fucking beautiful it’s unreal. I run my hands up his sides, marveling at the heat and the way his body tenses with every touch. He sits perfectly still, hands gripping the edge of the couch like I might disappear if he moves too fast. I take his hands and place them on my weighty breasts, guiding his palms to cup me. I want him to explore the difference between the world’s version of Juliet Monroe and the one kneeling in front of him now.
He doesn’t need instruction. He rolls my nipples between his rough fingers, pinching and tugging until the peaks go tight and achy, sending shockwaves of sensation straight to my core. I want him to touch me everywhere, but this is enough for now. This is about undoing all the years I spent being untouchable, unreachable, untouchable. I arch my back, head falling, and he laughs quietly, the sound low and reverent.
“Goddamn,” he mutters. “You’re so fucking perfect.”
I look up at him. “I’m not perfect.” My voice comes out smaller than I’d like. “No one’s ever accused me of that before.”
He grins. “They should have. Were you kneeling and looking up at them with those fuck-me eyes?”
I smirk and slide his sweatpants down, hooked on my fingers. He lifts himself up to help, slipping his boxer briefs off too. Hunter’s cock springs out, already flushed and straining. For a second I just stare at it, at him, at the contrast between the size of my hands and the sheer massiveness of his thick cock.
It’s long, pink, thick, and I can’t quite close my fingers around the tip. Metal winks at me from where he’s pierced; his entire cock is a walking red flag. One that I’mhungryfor.
His dick is intimidating. Not just that, but it’sabsurd. If this were any other moment, I’d try to make some cutting joke about overcompensation. But right now I just want to worship the fact that he’s here, he’s real, and for the moment, he’smine.
Chapter33
Juliet
Iwrap my hand around him, feeling the velvet heat and the slickness already leaking from the tip. He inhales sharply, and I marvel at the way his entire body responds, like a machine perfectly tuned to my touch. I stroke him, slow at first, letting my thumb glide over the head, watching as his eyes flutter closed and his head tips back. I play with his piercing and he hisses.
“Good?” I murmur.
“Good,” he grits out. “Just very sensitive, Firecracker.”
“Mm.” I lean in and kiss the sensitive spot just beneath the crown, tasting salt and skin, feeling the tremor that ripples through him. “You taste like you smell.”
“Is that a good thing?”
