Daddy Crush - Adriana Anders Page 0,55

“Like the woman I’ve been waiting for. The woman I need. Like my woman.”

I can’t read her expression in the weak light from outside, but I hear her quick breathing. A second ago, I could think of nothing but getting inside her, but I won’t do that to her. Not the first time, at least.

I lean to one side and skim the tips of my fingers from her forehead, over the bump of her nose, to her mouth. I almost expect her to lick me, but she doesn’t. She just lays there, silent and still, like she knows I need this moment to learn her.

Hell, to learn myself.

I skim over her pointy chin and curved throat, between breasts I’ll need to spend months getting to know. Maybe years.

“So fucking precious,” I whisper, dipping into her belly button, then down, through wiry curls and lush, juicy labia, along one plush inner thigh, to the inside of her knee, over stubbled calf, sharp ankle, callused foot. Her toes are little, the nails textured, as if covered in layers and layers of polish, which I remember from this summer. Too impatient to take it off, she’d apply more. Colors, sparkles, wild designs.

I know this, because I paid very close attention to those little toes. I paid attention to everything. I just wouldn’t admit it.

“You’re not that macho,” she says, partway through my return trip—with my mouth, this time.

I taste her hip, where bone and fat create a curve so artistic, I know something divine had a hand in its creation. My nose slides up to caress her waist. “Huh?”

“My friends say you’re a macho, macho man.”

I snort and she giggles. “Like the song?”

“The what?”

“Never mind.” I drag my beard up her side, nudge her arm aside, and follow the line of her armpit—also stubbled—along her surprisingly muscular arm, to her hand. Her skin, stretched over tiny, delicate bones, is tough, her knuckles scarred, fingertips rough like mine. I kiss her, then slot my fingers between hers and tighten my hold, overwhelmed by something dark and protective.

“This thing between us, Jerusha.” Christ, my voice is rough. “Scares the shit out of me.”

Aside from a quick squeeze of her fingers, she doesn’t move.

“See, I may have my shit together at forty-three, but you’ve done that at twenty-five. You know the value of things, you’ve had to fight to get where you are. You’re young, but you’re strong.”

She nods, once.

“The thing is, sweetheart…I’m afraid.” Air puffs out of my lungs, as if just saying it is a relief. “Afraid I’ll make the same stupid mistakes. Afraid I’m not enough.” I lean so close my words touch her ear. “See, I don’t just want to be your first. I want to be your first and your last and everything in between. So, yeah, I love you. So much it scares the shit out of me.”

“Say it again.”

“You heard me. I love you, sweetheart.”

Her teeth glow bright in the dim light. I want to lick that smile, to sip it up, to do whatever it takes to make it last forever.

“I think you like that I’m a stupid macho, macho man who needs time to work things out.” I bop her nose with the tip of my index finger. “I think you like that I’m older, but not all that much wiser. I think you like having to fight for what you want. So maybe, just maybe you’ll understand that I needed to fight for you, too. In my messed-up man way.”

“By fight, you mean sling me over your shoulder and haul me upstairs?” Her voice is high and light, but I don’t think the question’s as off-hand as it seems. “Or is that the deep internal struggle you’ve dealt with this week?”

“Listen, you’re so open to things, so ready to do and see and explore. Jerusha, you’ve gone on more dates in the last few months than I have in ten years.”

“That’s ’cause you’re boring.”

“Cautious.”

“Boring.

“And yet, you love me.”

“Touchée.” I hear her smile.

“You, Jerusha Graff, are fucking irresistible. You’re wide-eyed and wide-open. You grab life by the throat, you suck it all in and you live. It’s the most honest, most…glorious thing I’ve ever seen. And here I am, trudging along, trying to get things right the what? Fourth time around?”

She gasps. “Are you thrice divorced?”

“Just the once. But, unlike you, I’ve had my share of failed relationships.”

“You scare me, too.” She rubs her face to mine, the move luxurious. “But in the best way.”

“Listen.” I shift