No Saint (Wild Men 6)

I wrap her up in my darkness, buying time while I’m trying to think of a way to comfort her, reassure her. Her breath is feather-soft on my neck, her legs tangled with mine. She’s wearing a summer dress, white and blue, and my fingers brush over it, finding tiny buttons running along the front. Then I brush over bare smooth skin, and have to tamp down the want that flares whenever I’m around her.

“What kind of music do you like?”

I blink. “What?”

It’s the last damn thing I expected her to ask me tonight. When I look down, I find her eyes on me, wide and curious. Innocent.

“What music do you listen to?” she insists. “What hobbies do you have? What interests? It occurred to me that... I know practically nothing about you.”

“Apart from the asshole part.” I bare my teeth at her.

“No, I... you’re not like that, Ross.”

I laugh, and it comes out more bitter than I’d intended. “You sure about that?” She has such faith in me, it slays me. She’s... unlike any girl I’ve ever known. Honest, strong, persistent, sweet.

Everything I’m not.

“Yes, I am.”

It shuts me up, and gets me thinking. “Well I just like...classic rock and rap, I guess? I’m not really into music.”

She shifts against me, to see me better, a smile on her face. “Oh? What are you into, then?”

You, I think and bite back a sigh. “Engines. Cars. Bikes.”

“That can’t be all that interests you.”

“I dunno, sweet cheeks. I was never good at school, not like you were. I was never much for history and art, literature and the likes.”

“Your dad... probably didn’t approve of such time-wasting stuff, did he?”

I shake my head, feel heat seep into my face—anger, embarrassment when I remember Dad ranting about stuff I liked. “Art and music? Literature. You mean fairytales. That’s for sissies. You go work on that engine like a man, and I never want to hear again what your idiot of a teacher told you about art waves and bullshit. Men only talk of sports and cars, you hear me?”

“I don’t think... art is bad. Or music.” Wh

y is it so hard to get the words out?

I blink and she’s smiling at me expectantly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Rock is cool. I thought...” I duck my head, draw a breath. “I thought I’d learn to play the electric guitar one day.”

“Sounds great. I love rock music.”

I glance up, startled. “You do?” Her green eyes have that sparkle they get when she’s on... a mission, of sorts. When she gets an idea in her head that she deems important, one that makes her happy.

“Yeah. Dad got me into it since I was little. I have it on my phone. Want me to play you some songs?”

“Not now. I... like the silence.”

She nods, as if she understands. I hate silence, but I like hearing her voice. Finding out what she likes.

Then she catches me by surprise again when she asks, “Why do you like metal?”

“Metal?”

The blush on her face turns darker, touching the tips of her ears. It’s... fucking cute. “In your dick. You told me once, it was to “feel”. What did you mean by that?”

Ah fuck, she says “dick” like it’s such a bad word, and I’m rock hard, aching to stop this conversation or turn it down a dirty path leading straight to the gutter. But this seems important to her, like she really wants to know more about me.