J.H. 86 | The Inevitable Nothingness

Fifteen | Parker

IF THERE WAS EVER A PLACE ON EARTH CLOSE TO HEAVEN, this was it. Right here, in a quiet street in Toronto, in Jack Hughes childhood bedroom. The lights turned off with nothing but his nightstand lamp casting a dim yellow glow around the room. He's hovering over me, helping me to claw his shirt off desperately, like I needed to feel his skin against mine, like it was the last thing I'd ever do.

It's gone before I know it, and immediately my eyes flicker from his face down to his chest. His skin is beautiful, soft, a perfect scar on his left shoulder that maybe he's had forever. His arms are toned and perfectly capable as he hold his weight up, and he looks down at me, searching my eyes as I take in every inch of him.

"What is it?" He whispers, his voice sounding uncertain, but I can't imagine why.

I snap my gaze back to him, his ocean eyes trying to find answers to questions I didn't even know yet. My heart does a hiccup, because somehow I always forget how gorgeous he is. I cup his cheeks, stroking the skin of his temples with my thumbs. He leans into my touch, closing his eyes at the feeling.

"You're perfect," I whisper, gliding the tops of my fingers over his features, starting from his hair to his jaw, down the bridge of his nose, then over his bottom lip. "I'm so lucky."

A smile ghosts over his lips at my words, and he takes this as his queue to pull me up to him by my wrists, so I'm sitting right in front of him with furrowed eyebrows.

His hands trail down my arms, so gently it tickles, and I scrunch my nose at the feeling, then he's touching my waist, then my hips, until he's toying with the hem of my baby yellow summer dress littered with tiny daisies. But again, he looks unsure, his bottom lip wedged between his teeth as he contemplates whether or not to go through with it.

And so I give him some guidance, because I don't want him to feel unsure, I want him to love me. I stand from the bed, right in front of him, and he turns to me like it's natural, allowing me to stand between his legs as he watches me curiously.

I slip out of the strapless dress with ease, letting it pool at my ankles on Jack's bedroom floor and leaving me in nothing but a pair of baby pink lace briefs.

Jack's breath hitches, followed by a furious blush that reaches the tips of his ears, and I know he wants to touch, I can tell he does, but he's holding himself back, trying to do what's right by me. I furrow my eyebrows, reach for his left hand, and guide it to my heart, which is hammering out of my chest, almost painfully.

A shy smile breaks out over his lips as he feels my erratic heartbeat. He grabs my left hand, bringing it to his own chest, his heart and exact match to mine. Wild, chaotic, unsettled. Like he needs me.

He keeps his hand in place on my heart, still afraid to touch me, but I want to show him that it's okay, that I want to be touched, and so I take a step closer to him, right between his legs, my fingers diving to the ends of his hair, and I pull, much like I had during movie night.

Only this time, the reaction I get is a million times better, because he moans, quiet and sweet and perfect.

"Jack," I whisper, hoping he'll look at me. He does. "Please touch me."

He blinks, swallows thickly, then nods. His hand that's on my heart starts to move, his fingertips gliding effortlessly over the skin of my collarbones, my shoulders, down my spine, over my hip, settling on my waist. Then his right hand joins, and he slides them up my hips and over my ribs, until he's toying with the buds of my nipples, his thumbs flicking me gently, swiping over my skin in a way that forces a shudder out of me.

"D-do that again," I beg.

He does.

My head tips back, and a noise that sounds suspiciously like a whimper tumbles out. And the best part is that my tiny moan ears me praise from him.