No Saint (Wild Men 6)

Toasted ravioli made from scratch is frankly the last thing on my mind and on my list right now. I wish I could be with Ross.

But then I enter the kitchen, see Dad’s big smile, and remember how Ross’s dad treated him, and I’m so grateful for mine. For my whole family. Spending an evening with him isn’t that bad. No matter how deep in love I am with Ross, I can’t shut the rest of the world outside.

Especially since even the deepest love can go unanswered, and this thing between Ross and me is so new it’s still green. I want to hope he loves me back, that his actions speak louder than the words I want to hear from him, but it’s too soon to tell...

***

I’m lying in my bed, and sleep eludes me. I’ve been counting glow-in-the-dark stars and I keep losing count. Stars aren’t meant to be counted. Like blessings.

My phone chimes and looking down, I find one message from Ross The Original Hottie. I tap to open it and find the text followed by a picture of him, and I admit I don’t read the words right away, stroking my fingertips over his photo and wishing I could touch warm skin.

It’s a close-up shot of his face. He looks like he’s lying down—on his bed, sofa or the floor, impossible to tell—his fair hair fanning out slightly, his eyes half-closed. He’s grinning at me.

He has written, ‘Wish you were here,’ and unexpectedly my eyes fill with tears.

What the hell, Luna. Stop this. He’s not far from here. You’re both going to sleep and see each other tomorrow. You don’t have to be with him every second of every day.

But I want to. It scares me how much I want to.

‘Hey,’ I type back. ‘Wish that, too.’

His next message is a selfie of him sitting in the rocking chair on his porch. So that’s where he is. His head is tilted back, and he’s bare-chested.

I clap a hand over my mouth, bawling becoming a real possibility. It’s the first time I’ve seen him bared since that day in the stream, and I bet he’s doing this on purpose, showing me his scars, deliberately keeping his T-shirt off.

There they are, the new scars from the still healing cuts under his ribs. The big, red scar from his father’s knife. The swan tattoo over his heart. And the older, white scars on his shoulders which I know continue down his back from his father’s belt.

‘You are beautiful,’ I type and send the text before I lose my nerve.

He really is. I can’t get enough, blowing up the picture for a better look at his eyes, his mouth, his pecs, his ripped stomach. Good God, this man, he’s sculpted as if of marble.

‘I prefer the term “hot stuff”’ he informs me, and I can almost hear his teasing voice in my ear. ‘Hell, “stud” would do, too.’

I grin in the darkness, speckled with the faint greenish light from the stars stuck to my ceiling. ‘Fine, Stud-Muffin.’

‘Well, that’s where I draw the line.’ A pause in his typing. Then, ‘Send me a pic of you?’

I hesitate. I swear, after convincing myself that I’m now self-assured and secure in my self-image, I’m not ready to take a selfie of myself without checking my hair and putting on some make-up. Will it show a double-chin? Will it show my not so perfect skin?

Oh, God’s sake. He just sent me a picture of all his scars.

Taking a deep breath, I smile for him and snap a picture. The flash almost blinds me, and when I glance at the pic quickly, I wince a little.

I send it before I change my mind, and type below ‘Hello from the dark side.’

No messages appear for long minutes and I absently chew on a fingernail, regretting my impulse to send that pic.

But then another chime sounds and I tap the message open to find a pic of... textile? A pile of denim...?

His crotch. Oh my God, he’s hard, that’s the tent of his hard-on inside his jeans.

A giggle escapes me, and the next moment a spark lights up in my belly, making me clench between my legs.

He’s hard because of me. And I want him. Not creeping out of the house and crossing the woods in the middle of the night to go find him is getting more and more difficult.

‘Good night, Ross,’ I finally type. ‘We should sleep.’

He doesn’t reply for a long time, and I’m already dozing off, images from dreams chasing each other behind my eyelids, when I hear another chime and bring my phone up to see.