by E. S. Maria
This kiss is not as gentle as earlier. He’s kissing me like a man deprived of oxygen, and I’m kissing him back like I have all the air he needs. He sucks on my lower lip; then, he leaves kisses on my jaw … that scarred jaw.
Oh no!
I move my head subtly, hoping this movement will make his lips move downwards, or back to my waiting mouth … anywhere but there.
But once again, I feel his lips retracing their steps, and he starts leaving tiny, torturous kisses along my scar.
This time, I’m not so subtle when I turn my head away, but he gently cups the unscarred side of my face so I have no more room to move.
“Don’t, Hannah,” he whispers against my cheek, “Let me.”
“No! It’s disgusting. It’s ugly,” my voice rises, as tears of shame threaten to flood my eyes.
How can he even think that this awful scar is worth touching, let alone worth kissing?
Feeling sick to the stomach, I push him away, stepping further away from him.
“Why would you kiss my scar like that? Can’t you see it’s horrible? Every time I feel it, I’m reminded of that night when Paul died because of me. This, Atticus is a part of my fucking punishment! I’m cursed, and I can’t do anything about it.”
“Nothing about your face is ugly, Hannah. And you are not cursed. What you think is abominable is actually a reminder of your survival, of your resilience ... of your second chance. It’s a gift. That’s why I want to kiss your scar because, believe it or not, I’m thankful for it. To me, it's a stunning addition to the amazing person I’m still completely in love with.”
I’m stunned, my mouth agape, but I can’t utter a single word. Instead, my tears begin to fall.
Atticus sees the beauty in my ugliness, and the positive in all of my negativity. It’s a sentiment I’m not allowed to deserve.
“Hannah,” he whispers and my body goes rigid as I feel his arms wrap around me, “please don’t cry.” He tilts my head up, and I close my eyes. It’s a stupid thing to do. I’m blind after all. But I can’t let him in … I can’t face him. I’m too afraid that maybe, somehow, he’ll see how undeserving I am of his words … his song … his love.
Oh my God.
He just said he’s in love with me.
Still. He said still.
Atticus is wiping the tears off my face. I reach up to hold onto his forearms.
“You said you still love me,” I manage to choke out.
“Songbird, I never stopped.”
My heart feels like it’s about to explode. “Please … can you just kiss me? Please?” I plead softly.
He does, with no hesitation.
And he’s kissing me passionately, lovingly.
Then his hands make their way downwards, his fingers finding the break between my top and my jeans. And as soon as I feel his fingertips on my bare skin, I gasp.
“Unbutton my shirt,” he says with a voice thick with desire.
“Okay.” I nervously reach for his chest, trying to feel what type of shirt he’s wearing, but I can’t seem to think straight, my heart racing, and my fingers trembling.
“Trust what you feel,” he says, and he guides my hands over the middle of his shirt.
My fingertips graze the opening of his button-down shirt. I carefully open each button, surprised at how deftly I’m doing so. When I feel that I’ve unbuttoned all of them, my fingers seem to have a mind of its own as it spreads his shirt apart.
His breath hitches, as does mine, when my fingertips touch the warm skin of his chest. I push one side of his shirt further, hopefully exposing the side of his chest where his heart lies. Then I place my hand over it, promptly feeling the strong beating of his heart.
Unable to help myself, I take one step forward, until my lips are a hair’s breadth away from his chest. I take in his scent, masculine, clean―very Atticus. Then I close my eyes and press my lips right on the skin where his pulse is beating.
“Hannah,” he moans. But I refuse to stop, tasting him as I move upwards until I reach the middle.
“What are you doing to me?” he roughly whispers.
“Same thing you’re doing to me,” I whisper back, my lips not leaving his skin.
With a pained groan, Atticus lifts me up and roughly lays me on his bed. I feel him hovering just above me, using his knee to open my legs wider.
“My beautiful Songbird,” he says, as he pushes strands of hair from my face.
I almost choke on a sob. I feel the heartfelt sincerity in his voice, and it’s the sweetest torture. I reach up to wrap my arms around his shoulders, pushing him down so I can press my lips against his. When his tongue pushes past, I lightly suck it, earning me a guttural groan. Then I feel his hands move down to the hem of my top, gripping it. And just as he tries to pull up my shirt, I raise my arms over my head to make it easier for him. Before long, my top is gone, followed by my shoes, then my jeans, leaving me only in a pair of my underwear that I’m positive is unmatched. I feel the chill of the salty sea breeze coming from what I assume is an open window, but it’s when his now naked body is on top of mine, do I feel tiny goose bumps on my skin.
“Hmm,” he says, his fingertips lightly grazing my skin, arousing every sense I have at my disposal, “Feeling chilly, or is this because of me?”
“Both,” I breathe back, biting my lower lip, “but mostly because of you.”
“Hmm,” he says again, before I feel his lips on the curve of my breast, as he nibbles his way upwards and back to my mouth. He kisses me so passionately that my legs wrap around his waist, lifting my hips up to gain some friction. He knows what I need, and he dips his lower body down and begins undulating his hips against my already throbbing apex.
And he’s hard … hard and amazing against me.
I don’t need my eyes to remember how incredible he feels against me.
Somewhere along the way, our underwear has been shed, leaving both Atticus and I completely naked.
“I wish I can see you,” I croak out.
Atticus shifts positions, and I feel the bed dip right next to me.
“Use your hands to remember me, Hannah. It’s just like you playing the guitar ... close your eyes and strum.” Atticus takes my hands and places them on top of his bare chest.
And so with my heart beating out of my chest, I lift myself off the bed and swing my leg over his torso, placing my palms flat on his chest to find my balance.
“God, I’m not gonna last long with you on top, baby,” he tells me in a pained voice.
I place a forefinger over my lips, “Shh, I’m trying to concentrate here.”
And with one deep breath, I close my eyes and ‘strum.’
It seems weird that I feel the need to close my eyes when I play guitar. But closing my eyes helps me focus, giving me a mental picture of the placement of my fingers, and a clearer memory of the notes from the music sheets I’ve memorised.
And now, as I use my highly sensitised fingertips to reexplore Atticus’s body, I close my eyes and start to rebuild an updated picture of him … piece by piece … part by part. I start from his arms, feeling every sinew, every muscle. He feels larger, with muscles more pronounced. My heart breaks a little when my fingertips graze over the scar on his upper arm, courtesy of his piss-drunk excuse of a father who swung a broken beer glass at him in anger for not giving him his busking money. The glass shard missed his face, but his upper right arm bore the brunt instead. And from my memory of him last year, his one tattoo is now joined by many more, as his whole right arm is now adorned with beautiful works of art. I remember him telling me the story of each and every single tattoo, and I actually felt a tinge of hurt when I realised that none of his tattoo stories included our story. But I pushed the disappointment away. I was committed to Paul at that time, so I had no right to ask Atticus why our story wasn’t worth a tattoo.
But in one night, I managed to forget my commitment to Paul, thanks to Atticus and his power over me.
God, I’m a
bad person. I’m such a bad person.
“Come back to me, Hannah,” Atticus’s gentle voice pulls me back to him.
“I’m here … don’t worry, I’m here,” I tell him, as I move my hands to his hair, which feels longer, but still soft and silky. Then my fingertips travel to his face, hovering over his eyes: green with speck of gold from memory. He has the kind of eyes that you can easily get lost in, just as I have done so many times before. His sculptured jaw is now covered with what feels like a short beard. I’d give anything to see him with it, and if the visual I have in my head is the same as what he actually looks like, I know for sure that he looks sexy as hell. Then my forefinger glides along his lips, and I squeal when he nips at my fingertip. But he makes up for it when he holds my hand and kisses the same forefinger. I have to bite on my lower lip to stop myself from moaning. Both of my hands are now tracing the length of his neck, and I smile when I feel his pulse thudding faster. Knowing his excitement is building to fever pitch makes my insides clench. When my hands sweep across his chest, Atticus lets out an uneven breath, and I smile to myself, knowing that I’m slowly undoing him. But it’s my turn to let out a sigh as soon as my fingertips are reacquainted with Atticus’s abs, because now, they feel more cut, more pronounced than the six-pack I remember.
“You’ve been working out,” I tell him, trying to sound cool so he won’t notice my drooling.
“Gotta take out my frustrations somewhere, right?” Atticus answers, sighing jaggedly.
My brows scrunch together. “Frustration over what?” I ask, licking my lips while I trace the deep grooves just above his hipbones, wishing it were my tongue tracing this sexy, sculpted line instead.
“Frustration over not having you.” Atticus suddenly grabs me by the waist and flips me on my back. The sudden move makes me gasp, and I’m excited beyond belief.
Before I can utter a single word, Atticus smashes his mouth on mine with an intensity that makes every bone in my body turn to mush.
“I want you so badly, it fucking hurts. Please make this pain go away, Hannah,” he pleads with me while pressing his hard self against my wetness.
I nod like a crazy person, “Yes, Atticus. I need you too.”
He reaches past me, and I use this chance to taste the skin on his chest, unable to help myself. Seriously, how can someone taste this good? He groans, just as I hear a drawer opening and closing, followed by what sounds like a foil wrapper being ripped open.
Atticus positions himself in-between my legs, and as he whispers my name, he enters me fully with one thrust, knocking the air out of me.
“Oh my God,” I cry out, tilting my head back from the pleasure, as I savour the fullness of him inside of me.
He laces our fingers tightly, raising our linked hands above my head as he continues to thrust inside of me―slowly at first, but growing stronger, faster, deeper. My moans mingle with his own as the pressure building inside of me grows to explosive heights.
Because I feel everything.
I feel him. I feel them all.
And wow, Atticus is waking all of my senses and they are in full alert: his sounds of satisfaction, the feel of his hard body against mine, and light chest hair tickling my torso, his taste … if sexy has a taste, then Atticus tastes just that: sexy. And finally his scent, mixed in with the scent of sex is just complete sensory overload.
And damn, how he feels inside of me cannot be put into words.
It’s too much. It’s way too much for me to hold on.
“Oh … God ... Atticus!” I screech out as the throbbing inside of me becomes too much to bear, and I come. Hard. So hard my whole body convulses in its aftermath.
It doesn’t take long before Atticus follows, and as he comes, I pull him down so I can kiss him, loving the reverberation of his groans as they become more intense.
And then he’s still, as I am, and the only sounds that break the silence are our hearts beating strongly in unison.
“Wow. Wow,” he whispers against my lips.
“Yeah, wow,” I answer back.
That’s the thing about orgasms. As you wait for euphoria to settle, your brains seem to stop functioning altogether.
He buries his head against the crook of my neck, and his breathing is ticklish on that sensitive spot. “Sorry. I tried to lower my pace, but I just couldn’t hold it in any longer. I’ve been dreaming about this moment for so long that I’ve gotten impatient. But I’ll be a lot better the second time around, and I’m fucking ready. Just say the word.”
I try to hide the grin on my face when I answer, “Hold on, tiger. Second time around? You’re getting awfully cocky, aren’t you?”
He kisses my neck, and I giggle even harder when he finds that super sensitive spot. “When was I ever not cocky?”
“You got me,” I giggle some more.
A moment passes before Atticus whispers back, “I sure hope so.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Hannah’s Sixteenth Birthday
It’s true.
My life pretty much rules right now.
I just turned sixteen, and my amazing family is throwing me an epic birthday party at the local Surf Club, and everyone I’ve invited are here and having a great time.
But most of all, Atticus Foster, arguably the hottest, most promising singer, songwriter that has ever graced this coastal town, is performing at my party.
Oh, and have I mentioned that Atticus Foster is my boyfriend?
My. Boyfriend.
Mine.
Sure, I insist that we keep it a secret from my family, not because I’m ashamed of him but because I don’t want Brodie or my parents to interfere. I know they’ll try to talk me out of a relationship with Atticus because they don’t want me to get hurt when he leaves. I have a feeling though that they’ve figured us out already, and they’re just waiting for us to confirm it.
I mean hello? My family’s not dumb. There are only so many times we can find excuses to ‘practise’ in the shed together. And, my guitar playing has improved so much that having Atticus over for more ‘lessons’ is now becoming harder to justify.
But after tonight, I plan on telling the whole world what Atticus Foster means to me.
God, it feels so good to be able to finally do that.
Who knows? Maybe if Atticus sees how much I’m committed to him, he will do the same and decide to stay, or at least wait for me until I graduate so we can move to the city together.
Hopeful much? Maybe.
Or maybe I’ve finally realised that I don’t want to live my life without Atticus in it.
And speaking of the hot devil, I’m watching him as he’s setting up onstage. Strands of his longish dark blonde hair have fallen on his face, and he haphazardly rakes them back.
Hmm, maybe I should go over there and help him.
Nah, he’s got this. I’ll just stand here and enjoy the view.
Brodie’s band Halcyon has just finished their set, and it’s now Atticus’s turn. He scans the hall, and finds me immediately. He ignores the group of girls from my school who are trying to catch his eye, jutting their chests out to make their boobs look bigger. It annoys me, and I know I shouldn’t be upset on my own birthday party, but this is one of the reasons why I want everyone to know that Atticus is mine.
But maybe I’m just being an idiot.
Atticus might have been a total player before but ever since we got together, his wandering eyes are focused only at me.
And he confirms it when he gives me a wink before flashing the smile that puts his dimple on full display. Thank goodness I’m sitting down, otherwise my legs would probably give out. I hear Patty whispering for me to keep my legs crossed and to restrain myself from throwing any piece of my underwear, or myself, at him mid-performance. I just giggle back in response.
The only people who know about my true relationship with Atticus are my best friends, Brook and Patty. They understand where I’m coming from, and why I have to keep things under the radar, at
least for the time being.
And once in a while, they help me out by covering for me so I can go out on a proper date with Atticus. Sometimes we even go somewhere as far as the city so there won’t be any chance of us being seen by someone we know. There, he treats me to lunch, then we watch the talented buskers at Pitt Street Mall. I always tell him that those buskers have nothing on him, and it’s true. But on the inside I’m dying a little, because as much as I’m fully aware that our relationship may have an expiration date, a part of me is still clinging to that hope that he’ll change his mind and stay.
But on the other hand, it will be a huge disservice to society if they don’t get a chance to hear any of Atticus’s songs. He’s an amazing songwriter for such a young age. He writes with genuine emotion because the music and the lyrics he creates are borne from his own life story.
Atticus places the strap over his head and plants his sexy bum on the bar stool right behind him.
This is where he belongs―onstage, but definitely somewhere a whole lot bigger than a surf club hall.
He’s bound for greater things.
Maybe it’ll make me the worst girlfriend in history if I stand in his way.
“Oh God, look at how he’s looking at you, Han. He looks like he wants to eat you up!” Patty tells me lightheartedly.
I can barely respond to her observation because I’m too busy melting under Atticus’s gaze.
But that’s his effect on me. His smile or even the way he looks at me feels like we’re the only two people in the room. Anything or anyone else doesn’t matter.
It takes all of my self-control to stop myself from bum-rushing the stage and getting into fourth base with him in front of everyone.
He doesn’t know about it, but tonight, tonight is the night that I’ll give it up.
By it, I mean my virginity.
Just thinking about it gives me butterflies in my stomach―nervous, excited butterflies.
Atticus has been extremely patient, never asking me to do anything further until I’m truly ready. The thing is, we’ve been together for over six months, and I know that it must’ve been hard for him to hold back, especially since he’s used to girls throwing themselves at him.