Airborne

17. Love's in the Air

Brody

Throwing myself into one off the cracked-up brickwork, my fist connects with a bunch of loose ones and track them as they tumble over like building blocks. My eyes prickle, and I'm cursing myself for being such a baby. The ache in my chest is still there, and it takes a few deep breaths to settle it, at least enough so it's bearable.

The thought of her beneath me is stuck on repeat in my mind, how she moaned, kissed, and looked at me is maddening. Staring down at the hard tent in my jeans, the idea of release is tempting, but not what I want. It's her. Everything comes back to her.

But can I face her with a raging hard on—one that she caused in fact?

The longer I stare at it, the more frustrated I become. Never have I once considered touching myself, the need never being there, and yet she brings out the deepest parts of me I have yet to explore.

Gritting my teeth, my fingers drop the zipper, the relief in having no pressure against it is enough to ease the burning pain, but the need to release is another agony all on its own.

Gripping myself, just the contact sends a wave of pleasure through me. Imagining Chloe's lips pressed against mine, her fingers trailing over my body, nails scraping lightly before she kisses a trail from my abs back up to my lips while her hand slides down my body before cupping me. I groan, devouring her with my mouth, but when she grips me tightly, a hiss passes my lips as my hips unconsciously buck against her.

"I'm going to move, OK?"

"Please," I strain.

The image of her touch replacing mine is beautiful. Soft, long strokes, a testing squeeze, and her other hand cups me again before releasing. Her hand grips me and pumps harder, her lips working mine while her free hand plays with my hair, and the sound of her voice has me bucking fiercely, and my release sprays against the wall. A rough groan comes from me as I thrust once more, finishing the process.

I know one thing for sure, if I was to ever share a moment like this with Chloe, it would be mind-blowing, and beyond words.

But would I deserve to share something passionate with her?

Searching for something to clean up, my head hangs low as I make my way back, and to my surprise she's sat there patiently waiting for me.

"You didn't ditch me?" she calls, and I'm chuckling.

"Never."

She pats the spot in front of her with tip of her shoe, and I'm obeying. Her cheeks are flushed, and I can only imagine what must be running through her mind.

Bending down, she picks up a bow and my eyes widen. "You made me a bow?"

"And some arrows, you were gone for a little while so I thought I might as well for in case you returned."

She doesn't want to talk about what happened. Not the best, but it will have to do.

"Thank you, Pocahontas," I tease, and she smiles a small one.

Hopping to her feet, she comes to my side with the new bow, and my fingers take it gratefully, showing their appreciation by running up and down the length.

"Alright, arm's length from your body, pull the string back, use whatever hand you're comfortable with—for me, I use my right hand for the string."

Doing as told the best I can, she huffs and starts inching closer to my side. Her hands shift my stance, and she props my arms into the position she deems correct. She angles me at a side stance, and her chest brushes my bicep.