I let my eyes fall closed as Wes sits up into me, his hands caressing every curve of my breasts until his thumbs finally stop along the lacy edge of the only nice bra I own. I wore it because Taryn bought it for me last year on my birthday. I wore it hoping Wes would see.
I wore it so he would take it off.
Impatient, I reach behind my own back and unclasp the hooks, and Wes's eyes flash with hunger. His head tilts slightly in question, for permission, and I lean my head back so I'm looking to the sky, all of me open to his touch.
The movement of his hands is gentle, his fingertips tracing my curves with a tickle, his thumbs gliding over the hard peaks as they move down my ribs to the bottom of my dress. Once there, Wes's confidence grows, and he pulls my dress higher until the only thing left is to remove it from me completely. He looks at me again here.
"I want you to. I trust you," I stare into him.
He lifts the layers of fabric over my head and his hands slide down my shoulders, pulling the straps of my bra along with them. My eyes can't quite make it to his as I sit before him, bare and wanting to be loved. The feel of his right hand on my cheek brings my gaze to him quickly, though.
"You're a beautiful girl, Josselyn," he says, using my full name. I sink into him, and close my eyes, my lips finding his quickly, not sure how to respond other than with this physical trust.
His mouth moves with mine until my lips are swollen and raw with our kiss, and slowly he kisses his way down my neck and shoulder until his mouth covers my right breast completely. My body grinds into him on instinct, his tongue on my nipple sending a wave of pulses down to my center. I push into him for relief, and his hands move from my ribs to my ass, pulling me against him as he groans.
He's careful with his touch, his fingertips flirting along the band where my panties hug my legs, but never breaching inside, though I'm desperate for him to. I lose myself in the feel of his teeth along my nipples though, and each time he sucks one into his mouth, I press into him below, until eventually the rhythm takes over control of my body in search of relief.
"Touch me, Wes. Please, just once. I need … " I beg, my center throbbing against the hardness underneath his pants. My hands move down his chest, wanting to feel him once, and just as I touch him, his hands slide under both sides of my panties, his fingers finding me wet and ready to explode.
"Wes … " I pant, unable to say anything more before his touch ignites a wave that rushes through me over and over again, my body moving with his touch and my hand moving against him. As I begin to come down, my core relaxing and my breath slowing, Wes pulls me against him tighter, his hand covering mine over his hard-on.
With his permission, I unzip his pants and release him, taking him completely in both hands and sliding my palms up and down, using the rise and fall of his chest as my guide. My head falls against his, and our lips barely touch, pausing between breaths as his teeth tug at my lower lip and drag across my sensitive skin. His hands grasp my ass firmly as he pulls me into him a few final times, and I feel him release under my touch, a deep groan escaping his throat.
I bury my head in his neck, my body flush against his, our skin hot. His hands loosen, but never let go totally, sliding up my back, tracing my spine, and folding around me so he can hug me close.
"I think we've pushed the limits of no traffic down the farm road. How about I help you get your dress back on?" he chuckles.
"I think that would be good," I say back, my voice coming out nervous, maybe a little embarrassed. Wes can tell, and as he pulls my dress to his side, he pauses, moving a hand to the side of my face, his eyes searching mine.
"Why are you looking at me?" I sigh, my face tingling from his attention.
"Don't do that," he shakes his head.
"What?" I say, looking down at my dress. I reach for it, but his hand catches mine.
"Feel ashamed. Don't do that," he says. I breathe in sharply once and flit my gaze back to him. "You're a beautiful girl, and you're allowed to feel things. And I wanted that … god, Joss, did I want that. If I pressured you … "
"You didn't," I look down, biting my lip. I look back up to him, my lip sliding loose with a smile. "You didn't. I wanted that too. And more."
"And more," he repeats after me. "God yes, and more."
I giggle and pull my dress up to my body, my arms and chest beginning to feel cold. He helps me pull it over my head, but leaves his hands on my cheeks after. "More can wait. I'm here with you … not because of more. I'm here because of you."
My body shivers, and I lean forward enough so my mouth dusts his with a kiss.
"I'm here because of you," I say, the meaning of that sentence deeper than Wes realizes.
Thirteen
The pumpkins disappeared at midnight.
Wes brought me home, and my father was passed out in the middle of the hallway, halfway to his bedroom. He helped me carry him to bed, and I kicked myself for believing in change.
Wes told me it would take time, my dad was making progress, but it felt like more of the same. Only this time, he lifted my hopes before dropping them to the ground.
I assumed this morning was off. That's why I didn't set my alarm. But Wes called. He called six times, dialing over and over again until I answered. He and my father were at the field, and he wanted to make sure I was coming.
"Goddamned functioning alcoholic," I mutter to myself, my finger caught in the heel of my running shoe as I try to slip it on without untying it. I find my cleats in the garage and stuff them in the side pocket of my equipment bag, then sling it over my shoulder and pound my feet heavily in protest throughout my walk to the school fields.
I didn't want to go. I wanted to stand him up. But Wes asked me to. I'm coming for Wes. Not for him.
I clear the gate and my eyes zero in on my father crouching, and the boy I dreamt about all night throwing from the mound. The scene is exactly as it was the first time I saw them working together. It's like I'm on one side of the glass, and they're on the other. They're laughing, talking freely, but the closer I get, the less chatter I hear, until I'm upon them and their talk has stopped.
My bag slides from my shoulder, falling heavy on the ground, a cloud of dust kicking up with its impact. They both pause their throwing, my dad standing, wiggling his legs as he rights himself after catching.
"Well," I say, hands on my hips. "I'm here. I didn't want to come. Because you're a liar," I seethe, my hand motioning to my father. "But I think I'm good, and I think I can be great, and I decided sometime in the last week or two that I'm going to play Division I ball. And fuck if I don't need your help to do it, so … here I am."
My father's eyes are locked on me, his expression empty. It irritates me.
"Either get mad or say you're sorry or something. Don't just stand there like that," I say.
"Joss," Wes whispers, stepping up next to me. My eyes dart to his, and the anger extinguishes with one look from him. My eyes fall, and I bend down to grab the straps of my bag.
"Sorry," I whisper. "I'm just … disappointed."
I drag my bag to the dugout and pull my cleats out to switch my shoes.
"I know," Wes says, his hands hanging on the dugout roof, his body leaning in over the steps. My mind drifts to last night, to his touch, and it soothes me.
"Let's do this," I say, tossing my running shoes on the bench and pulling my favorite bat from my bag. I step up to the plate to swing from the left side, where my father has been frozen since I arrived. Wes moves out to the mound.
"Start with that bat, over there. The one on the fence," my dad says. I glare at him, then glance to the small bat propped up to the side.
"I think I'll stick with mine," I say, my lips bunching with my shrug.
"Yours is too heavy. You're going to be slow until you get used to it again. That one's three ounces lighter," he says.
"It's a fucking T-ball bat," I say, shaking my head. I tap the plate twice and spit into the dirt, covering it with a kick of my cleat.
I nod to Wes, and he motions for approval from my father, which irritates me. I dig in and wait as Wes holds a ball, winding up to throw it into the zone. I swing fast, but I'm late, so I dig in again.
"It's an awkward angle, because you're throwing overhand," I say. "Do it again."
"Do you want me to try to throw the softballs? I can go underhand, but I'm not as accurate," Wes says, holding the ball up, signaling he'll swap it out.
I open my mouth to answer him, but my father cuts me off.
"Horse shit. The angle's just fine. She's late because she's stubborn. Let her miss ten or twelve more and then maybe she'll listen to me," he says from behind me. Ah, the familiar tone is back.