by Kim Holden
While I’m thinking about what he’s just said, replaying the words in my mind, he places a hand behind each calf and lifts my legs until my feet are even with my seat. Then pulls his legs together until his knees touch and rests my feet on top of them. “You don’t see the woman I see.” His hands part my legs and he lowers them until each of my knees touches the outside of his. I’m trying to listen, but my focus is shifting from the things his lips are saying, to the things his hands are saying. The story is unfolding in his touch. His hands find my knees again, but this time they slide slowly up my thighs. Mid-thigh they roll to the outside toward my hips. At my hips, he doesn’t stop until his hands are cupping me from behind and he slides me forward until I’m sitting on his lap, straddling him.
And now my heart is racing and I’ve never been more aware of touch and how it can set all five senses in motion than I am at this moment. I want to take in everything about him, everything about us, but I’m not sure what to focus on first. So I keep my eyes downcast and I put all of my attention on the feel of his hands moving up and down my back … up and down … in a slow and soothing massage. The repetitive motion coaxes my eyelids closed. And as soon as I’m plunged into darkness it awakens a need inside me. I need to touch him more than I’ve ever needed anything in my life, so I place my hands on his sides near his ribcage. He doesn’t have a shirt on and he’s still warm from his shower. My eyes remain closed but I feel him lean in until our chests are brushing and his mouth is at my ear. And the conversation, a compelling combination of words and touch, continues. “I couldn’t have played without you there tonight. I panicked when I got on stage and I couldn’t find you in the crowd, that’s why I asked you and Pax to move up front. I feel different when you’re around. I feel better, like maybe I can deal with all the shit. I don’t know what it is about you, but you make me want to be Gus again. Both sides. I had so much fun tonight. I haven’t played like that in over a year.”
Hearing that, hearing the healing and hope in his voice, sends my heart soaring. “You have no idea how happy that makes me,” I say into his shoulder.
He’s still at my ear. “Thank you. It was you.” His hands make their way up my back again, continuing until they’re on either side of my neck and his thumbs are resting under my chin. He urges my head to turn to the left with his thumbs, fully exposing my scars, and says, “I meant what I said earlier.” A soft kiss falls on my marked cheek and my eyes tighten shut. “Pretty girl. You’re beautiful.” Another kiss paints another scar. “Every,” another kiss, “thing,” another kiss, “about,” another kiss, “you,” this kiss falls lower on my neck, “is fucking perfect.”
I’m getting dizzy with him touching me like this so I open my eyes and turn my head to face him.
(Gus)
When she opens her eyes, they’re dark and shining. She’s looking at me like she did earlier tonight while I was on stage. The look is undiluted sexual need, pure and radiant. But there’s also something else. She’s trusting me with the most vulnerable part of her, and she’s not backing away from it. That courage? It’s incredibly sexy.
I can’t go another second without her mouth on mine and take her face in my hands at the same time she reaches for mine. The moment my lips touch hers, I want to be inside. And my teeth lead the journey of exploration; tugging at her bottom lip I trace it with the tip of my tongue. The act prompts her fingers to snap apart and rake through my hair until her palms are covering my ears, blocking out the silence in the room and all I can hear is my own heartbeat thundering in my chest. It mirrors the desperation I feel.
Releasing her lip I plunge inside, she’s ready for me. Our tongues brush gently at first, but it’s only seconds before the need amps up to an all-out war inside her mouth. The most beautiful fucking duel I’ve ever tasted.
She pulls away gently. “Gus?” Her voice is breathy, air more than sound.
It’s the first time she’s ever called me Gus. And goddamn, it feels like acceptance and approval; she finally let me in. “Call me Gus again.”
“Gus.” It’s the same whisper.
We kiss, and the tangle resumes momentarily before I answer. “Yeah?”
Her hips announce their intention at the same time she grasps my hair in her hands at the base of my neck. “I need you—” It sounds like an admission more than a demand.
I cut her off with another kiss, because, Jesus Christ, her voice—that breathy, faint confession. It’s all driving me wild. And forget about her hands in my hair. That always does it for me.
Her hips roll again and I meet them, pressing my erection into her. Her whole body tenses and the grip on my hair intensifies. I groan, because, shit, this feels so fucking good. I need to get us out of here before we end up fucking on top of the kitchen island, because that’s what’s going to happen in about two minutes if I don’t move us to my room. With her arms still around my neck, I stand and she wraps her legs around me. It’s a good thing I know my way around this house in the dark because I’m not parting my mouth from hers so I can watch where I’m walking. I’ll rely on my memory and instinct to get us there because the rest of me is too goddamn busy.
I set her down when we reach our destination. Two steps inside and the door’s shut behind me and my shorts are on the floor.
She’s fighting the button on her jeans when her eyes lift and she sees me standing in front of her naked. Air escapes her lungs in gasp of shock … and want. So. Much. Want.
I step toward her and remove her hands from her jeans and take over for her. She lets me, so I shimmy her jeans and panties down her long legs. When I reach for the hem of her shirt, I look at her questioningly. She never bares the scars I know are underneath and I know this moment could go either way. And I’m fine with that. I only want her to give me what she’s comfortable giving me. So when she nods and raises her arms allowing me to slip her shirt up and off, I’m cheering inside. Cheering on her courage. The scarring is limited to her right side and her arm. It’s not shocking. It’s what I expected. And it’s just her. And everything about her is beautiful. Her eyes are downcast again. Lifting her chin, I point to my eyes. “Eyes right here.” Our eyes meet.
And in her eyes I see unease threatening her confidence. “No one’s ever seen me like this.”
“Lucky me. Because. You. Are. Beautiful.” And now I’m feeling a little triumphant because obviously even fucking Michael wasn’t given this gift. “Thank you.”
Now she’s smiling with relief and the confidence is returning. “Thank you.” And then the smile twists into desire again.
My eyes drop to her body. She’s standing before me in just a white cotton bra. Goddamn, I thought I was aching before, but that’s ratcheted my desire to all-out pain. I reach behind her and unclasp her bra and before it’s slipped down her arms, I’ve got her breasts in my hands. My thumbs sweep softly across her nipples and they harden at my touch. It’s an immediate reaction that never fails to excite me.
Her breathing has increased again and each breath is full of urgency, as if she’s trying to suppress any vocal reaction to the pleasure she’s experiencing.
I run my eyes up and down her body one more time—it’s visual foreplay. Her body is gorgeous. And then I look her in the eyes. “You okay?” She’s so quiet, which is in stark contrast to everything else her body is saying.
She nods.
“I can’t seem to do much right lately, but I swear to God, Scout, that I will make you feel so … damn … good. Just say the word.”
Her eyes are pleading now, and her hands are anxiously stroking the small of my back. It’s a restrained gesture that hints at the promise of uninhibited abandon. “Please.”
I don’t waste any time wrapping my arms around her and pulling her against me. Damn, her skin. She’s all skin. Beautiful, warm, sensitive, nerve-filled skin. I feel her. I haven’t felt anyone for months and months. Women were just bodies to satisfy my need. But with Scout, I feel her. I feel everything about her.
“You don’t have to be quiet, pretty girl. Feel this with me.”
That’s all the persuasion she needed. “Mmm.” The moan is relief and ecstasy, accompanied by an exhalation that’s one of the sexiest sounds I’ve ever heard a woman make. Like she’s lost all control. It’s the abandon I knew was penned up inside.
Her head’s resting on my pillow now. I’m grinding my hips against her, with her, and she’s holding me tighter and tighter to her body, like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go.
We’re just looking into each other’s eyes when that goddamn sexy moan comes again.
“Talk to me Scout. Tell me what you need.” I want to hear it all.
She pants out, “Now. I need you now, Gus. I can’t wait.”
Neither can I. I kiss her and then roll off of her and reach into the drawer of my nightstand for a condom. I’ve got it ripped open and rolled on in record time.
She doesn’t make any attempt to take the lead or to reposition herself, so I nestled between her legs on my knees. Holy shit, I haven’t been this fucking turned on in so long. I forgot what this felt like. I want to go slow. I want to lick every inch of her body. I want to touch her and tease her. I want this to last. But, she’s ready, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t right there with her. I’m so fucking ready.
I’m raised up on my knees before her. Looking at her. She’s beautiful. Her dark hair is fanned out around her head. Her eyes are bright and fixed on mine. Her chest is rising and falling with each pull of breath, nipples swollen and hard.
I lower down so my ass is resting on my heels and splay my fingers under her, my thumbs against her hip bones. Grasping her firmly, I slowly slide her up my thighs. Goddamn, her skin again. On me. I’m going to explode.
Her legs are bent at the knee on either side of me, her perfect ass resting on my thighs. I position myself at her entrance and have to admit that I can’t help but stare at us … touching. At the most intimate, private parts of us about to meet, about to become one. All I want to do is watch me be welcomed and swallowed up by her.
My hands pull her into me at the same time my hips push me into her. It’s slow and exaggerated and she gasps when I fill her, a rush of air and uninhibited satisfaction. Her need being sated.
I feel her legs tense and her body meets my every move. Her eyes are closed and her face looks slack with pleasure and pursed with concentration. This is not the Scout I’ve known for the past few months. This is Scout from the dream I overheard months ago. This is Scout letting go and giving in to everything her body’s craving. Giving in to everything it’s getting from me. Giving in to everything it’s giving to me. She’s so fucking into this. And so am I.
So.
Am.
I.
Fuck.
My eyes drop back to our connection. Me gliding out of her and gliding back in. Over and over. Everything’s building. I can feel it in her, too.
I switch positions without breaking our connection, so that I’m lying on top of her. Skin, all of it, touching again. Her arms and legs are wrapped around me. My mouth on hers. The movement of her hips is turning my world upside down in the best way possible. She’s so fucking tight, and she’s pulsing around me.
“That’s it sweetheart, let it go,” I pant.
She does. God, does she ever. It’s moans, and unintelligible sexy sounds, and words distorted by release.
That’s it. I’m done for. It’s coming. Coming. Coming. “Oh, fuck. Fuck,” I call out.
She’s still writhing around me and the last thing I hear come from her mouth is, “Kiss me, Gus.”
I do.
Again.
And again.
Monday, January 1
(Gus)
I know before I open my eyes that she’s not in bed with me anymore. She fell asleep with her arm around me, her head lying on my pillow, her long legs tangled with mine. I couldn’t sleep. Or more accurately didn’t sleep but only for a few hours this morning.
I lay there with her.
And with myself.
And I was at peace.
It’s been so damn long since I was at peace, that I didn’t want to give it up to sleep for fear it wouldn’t be there when I woke up.
I was right.
It’s not here.
She’s not here.
And I know she’s not far away. She’s probably just out for a run, or maybe she’s eating breakfast. But she’s not here. Her nearness brings me peace.
And now that I’ve felt it, I crave it. Like my fucking cigarettes, I crave it.
I’m roused from thought by the sound of my phone buzzing on my nightstand. “Jesus Christ, who’s calling at the crack of—” I was going to say dawn, but when I look at my clock it reads almost twelve o’clock, so I chill out and finish with, “—noon?” It’s MFDM. I clear my throat and answer, “Happy New Year, kemosabe.”
“Happy New Year to you, Gustov.”
“What’s going on in your world this morning?” I ask while crawling out of bed and searching for some underwear, or at the very least some shorts.
“Word on the street is you played a local bar last night?”
“Damn, news travels fast. Word is correct.”
“Good news travels fast. I also hear you’ve got some songs ready.”
I pick up my shorts from where I shed them last night and slip them on. “Shit, that’s a lot of intel. Who’re you paying to watch me these days?”
He knows I’m kidding. MFDM and I get along well, and have since the first day we met. “No one. I talked to Franco this morning.”
“Ah. Good call, going straight to the source.”
“That’s how I roll,” he answers. He’s a fairly serious guy, so when he tries to sound hip it always cracks me up and just ends up being funny instead. Which is probably better. I do funny pretty well.
I’m laughing. “Right? Cut to chase, dude. Where’s this conversation headed?”
“Studio in L.A. tomorrow morning. It’s booked for the month. So is an apartment, same complex as last time. I need you guys there by ten o’clock.”
My stomach clenches and I literally see the remnants of last night’s peace fly out the goddamn window. Recording the last album was stressful. I don’t want stressful right now, not when I’d finally released it. But I say what I need to say. “We’ll be there. And dude?”
“Yeah, Gustov?”
“New year and all, can you just call me Gus? I need to do this album and tour as Gus, not Gustov.”
“Sure, Gus.” When he says it, there’s something in his voice I can’t put my finger on. It sounds like approval. Like when you’re little and you do something that tickles the shit out of your parent and they tell you good job. That’s what it sounds like.
I make calls to Franco, Jamie, and Robbie. They’re hyped. They’re ready.
I wish I was. I mean, I am, but at the same time I’m not.
I don’t know what else to do with myself, so I pull my duffle bag out of my closet and I start throwing clothes in. Each movement feels robotic. I’m getting used to packing up my life. But right now the only thing I’m thinking about taking with me, is the one thing I can’t.
Her.
(Scout)
I got out of bed early this morning and went for a long run. The adrenaline from last night carried over and had me pushing my normal pace and distance. I felt different this morning. I felt accepted. Confident. I ran in a short-sleeved T-shirt. I haven’t bared my arms since before the
accident. And I didn’t care when people looked at me, because I knew that the one person who matters thinks I'm beautiful.
I ate and I’ve showered. And I’m standing at his bedroom door in shorts and a short-sleeved Rook T-shirt I stole from Paxton. Just as I’m about to knock, my stomach knots. And I start doubting myself again. What do I say? How do I act? Everything’s different now.
But I take a deep breath and I knock anyway, because if last night taught me anything, it’s that inaction is never rewarded. Results are the consequence of being an active participant in life. Because I’ve never felt more alive than I did last night.
When he answers, he looks tired. His hair is pulled back in a ponytail and the shorts he’s wearing are riding low on his hips. God, he’s so beautiful. His mouth spreads into a small smile, but it doesn’t look happy like it did only hours ago. “Hi,” I whisper.
He reaches for my hand and laces his fingers through mine. “Hi,” he whispers back. I see his lips move more than I hear him. His grip on my fingers is gentle and he’s rubbing his thumb across the back of my hand. “Nice shirt.” With that he does smile slightly. A real smile.
I smile, too. “Yeah, I saw them play live once. They’re all right.” I wink to let him know I’m teasing and his smile widens. “You want something to eat?” I ask. “I can make you some eggs.”
He shakes his head and pulls me into a hug. He’s squeezing me so tight. Something is wrong. Because I don’t hear well, I’ve always paid closer attention to the other ways in which people communicate. And this hug? It’s full of dread.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, not sure I want to hear the answer. My heart is breaking at the possibilities, none of which involve me. I can handle getting hurt; I’ve done it my whole life. He doesn’t need any more.
He turns us until I’m looking at a bag on his bed packed with clothes. I know that bag. It’s the bag he had on the tour bus. It’s the bag he travels with. The one he takes with him when he’s not home.