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He licks his lips, our eyes melting into one another, “Because I loved you. I’ve loved you longer than I’ve been legally allowed to.”
My heart skips, butterflies trapped in my stomach, flapping excitedly. Because he loves me. Even though he shouldn’t.
He shouldn't love me, he shouldn't want to have anything to do with me. “You loved me?” I ask.
“Loved, love, obsessed, it doesn't matter.” He says softly.
“It matters to me.” I slowly begin unbuttoning his wet shirt. Pushing it over his mountainous shoulders and soaking up the sight of his skin and muscles. I’ve never seen him without a shirt.
I allow my hands to fall over his neck, down his chiseled chest and back over the bulging muscles of his arms. I touch every uneven blemish of scars on his body. Way too many for a man of his age.
My hands fall to his belt, slowly undoing it. Suddenly, he lifts me, standing as he kicks and battles with his slacks to rid himself of them and his boxer briefs.
Atticus lifts me above him, sitting me on his shoulders so my intimate part is positioned at his mouth. My back slams into the tile, and his mouth comes down on me, making me cry out and wiggle against him. My hands balance on his head as I hold on for dear life. His free hand trails up my body, latching onto my breast, kneading and squeezing until I’m coming, soaking his face with my release.
Gently, he lets me fall down his body, capturing my throat and spearing my mouth with his hot tongue. His other hand wraps around my leg, hooking it over his hip before thrusting in.
I gasp around him, my nails sinking into his skin. He bucks into me, my back sliding up and down the tile wall with every thrust.
I grip his chin, peppering kisses up his jaw over the scar that reaches under his eye. He shudders , his thrust growing lazy and slow. He captures my neck, turning my head so our noses brush. He kisses me slowly, almost lovingly as he rubs his tongue against mine. His other hand trails down my stomach, rubbing my clit to the rhythms of his thrust.
“Atticus,” I whisper-gasp.
“Are you going to be a good girl and cum for me?”
“Yes.”
“Suffocate my cock in your tiny little pussy? Hmm, Little Bird? Are you going to milk me?”
“Yes, yes,” I chant, feeling the climb of my orgasm before it washes over me, taking him with me as he growls into my ear.
Our release drips down my legs but he doesn’t stop, he keeps slowly fucking me against the wall. Sending me over again, and again. Until I’m so sensitive I’m crying.
“I want you to remember what I feel like.” He whispers.
Spentand in the master bed this time, I lay in Atticus’ sleeping arms. But I can’t sleep. Instead I pull the sheet down to his waist, placing hard hickeys in the shape of a heart on his chest. But as I move down his waist, I pause. My fingers running over the musicnotes. And with clarity, I realize it’s my song… the one I wrote for him and he has the full song.
“What are you doing, Little Bird?” He murmurs, eyes peeking open to look down at me.
“You… you have the song I wrote.” I say dumbfounded.
He doesn’t say anything, just watches me as I study the ending of the song. Mesmerizing it whole.
I grab a black dress shirt of his, slipping it on and padding barefoot to the piano in the living room that overlooks the city.
I place my fingers on the piano, looking up in time to see Atticus sitting on the top of the piano in a pair of sweats and nothing else.
Atticus sits on top of the piano, listening to me play his song. “I’m not worth the time and energy to write a song for.” He says once I’m done.
I scoff, “You’re everything to me, Atticus.”
My fingers rejoice, playing over the keys and when I hit the final notes happy tears leak as I hear the familiar song in its entirety
“It’s been you the whole time. The song stuck in my head and permanently glued to my soul,” I look up at him, smiling.
It’s always been him.
Chapter 29
