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On the third pass, when he reached my wrists, he paused before shifting his large hands to the hem of my tank top.
“So, if you’re covered in this ‘skin’ you speak of, there must be more of it under here…” he decided. His knuckles brushed against my midriff and I sucked in a sharp breath, mimicking his actions from earlier. With a gentle tug, my top landed in a messy heap on the floor.
It never stood a chance.
I could feel heat blossoming across my chest, the tops of my breasts rising and falling with each ragged breath I took.
Jake’s eyes became black pools. The chestnut hue was gone, its warmth replaced by an infinite depth. I wanted to dive into that limitless chasm; perhaps it would offer relief from the flames that were threatening to burn me.
He touched me again. Slowly. As if he were memorizing every inch of me. The curve of my collarbone. The hidden cleft of my cleavage. The swell of flesh above the cup of my bra.
Jake dipped his fingers inside, brushing the top of my nipples. Goosebumps spread across my skin. And then he was at the sides, the back of his knuckles lazily learning the curves of each.
He was driving me insane. I wanted to touch him, to see him, to feel him the way he was experiencing my body. I squirmed against him, impatient.
“Ok, ok,” I huffed. “It’s only fair that I get my hands on you, too.” Jake continued his ministrations, giving me a tiny nod that he understood, but he wasn’t about to stop his exploration. It was just as well.
But when he took the weight of my breasts in his hands, something inside me snapped. I attacked his shirt like a rabid animal, pawing and desperately trying to rid him of it. A grand scenario played out in my mind, ripping it open, buttons flying in all directions, where it would eventually join my tank top on the floor.
But life chose cruel moments to play jokes. I yanked. I tugged. I even growled, hoping the added effort would be enough to send those buttons into orbit. But nothing happened. “For real?” I fumed. “They make that look so easy in the movies!”
Jake hid a smile against my chest and kissed my fevered skin, unperturbed by my plight. “That’s because the costume department loosens all the threading before the scene.” His voice was low and muffled against me. “You smell like coconut…”
I made a strangled, annoyed sound and went for the buttons, starting at the top. Good old fashioned manual undressing would have to do, evidently.
“Well, next time you decide to wear,” I paused, peaking at the label at the back of his neck, “thisCanalibrand, you should opt for Old Navy. I’m sure Old Navy has shitty craftsmanship.”
“Buy shirts with shitty buttons,” he commented, pulling his head back to look at me. “Noted. Although, I rather enjoy the look of concentration you’re wearing.” He pressed a fingertip between my brows, attempting to smooth the deep line.
“Very funny,” I mumbled. “Ah ha!” I shouted victoriously. I got the last button undone and his shirt hung at his sides, exposing a vertical six-inch portion of his torso. “Off,” I demanded.
“You’re bossy,” he laughed, but began shrugging out of the offensive article.
“And you’re obedient,” I quipped.
His shoulders flexed with the movement and his biceps bulged when he balled it up and threw it across the room like a crumpled piece of paper. And thenfinallyhe was shirtless.
“Holy shit,” I breathed. Like him, my hands went to his chest, the overwhelming curiosity driving my every move. Feeling his pecs through his shirt hadnothingon this.
Jake was sculpted, carved from marble and just as smooth. Satiny skin covered powerful muscles, their definition made evident by small shadows cast across his torso. Each ab was compact and stacked reminding me of the underside of an egg carton.
I traced each bump. “I thought this was just photoshopped…”
“Don’t get too used to it…I’m an unemployed actor now and you know what that means?”
I knew what it would mean for me, but Jake and I were totally different in regards to our discipline. Picturing Jake sleeping in until 1:30 in the afternoon and having a pint of ice cream for breakfast was as farfetched as me bench pressing my own weight.
When I didn’t reply, he offered, “Carbs. This,” he motioned to his stomach, “will be soft and doughy before you know it.”
A disbelieving snort escaped me. I ignored him, instead continuing my exploration. My hands went further until they found the delicious dip at his hip bones before disappearing into his waistband.
I took him in like I was viewing a masterpiece, because, essentially, I was. Broad shoulders, proportioned pecs, defined abs, strong arms…this image would live rent free in my brain for eternity.
“If you keep touching me like that,” he hedged on a shaky breath, “I can’t promise you—”
Words failed him as I boldly licked a nipple and hooked my hands inside his waistband, emulating the move he made with my bra.
“Mmm, can’t keep what promise…?” I taunted, continuing to taste him with little flicks of my tongue while he broke out in goosebumps.
