Page 3 of Goode to Be Bad
The holdup is I’m a fucked-up mess and the idea of being anyone’s girlfriend gives me hives. The holdup is I have serious emotional damage I know I’ve never dealt with and have not a single clue how to begin even examining any of it, and it all centers around men and sex. But I wasn’t about to say any of that to Myles. Because he’d ask questions and I’m even less prepared to talk about my damage than I am to think about it or deal with it. Best to just ignore it.
“I’m with you, Myles. I’m not seeing anyone else. I like being with you, I want to continue being with you. Please, just don’t push it.”
His eyes bored into me, searching, seeking, drilling. “Okay, I guess I can do that.” He scrubbed his hair again, making it stand up on end. “Shit, babe. Just do me a favor and at least let me know when you’re ready to move on, okay?”
“It’s not like that, Myles,” I whispered. “You’re more than just a fuck-buddy to me.”
“But not enough to qualify as anything else.”
“It’s about me, not you.”
“But you won’t talk about what about you that is.”
I frowned, trying to follow what he meant. “Huh?”
He laughed. “That didn’t make any sense, did it? I just meant that you’re saying your unwillingness to put a label or box on what we are—even to call it a relationship, loosely—is about your holdup or hang-up or whatever. It’s not me, but you’re not about to talk to me about it right now.”
“Oh.” I tugged on a lock of my hair. “Yeah, I’d say that’s probably true.”
“You know, I like to think I know you really well. But then shit like this comes up and I realize I don’t know shit about you. You keep stuff super close to the chest.”
I hated this line of conversation. It made me jumpy and uncomfortable and squirmy and irritable. I hated being irritable. I paced away from him, to the window overlooking downtown Dallas. Tried to figure out a way out of it without just outright shutting him down. I felt him move behind me—heard the creak of the leather couch as his weight left it. Felt the air swirling with his presence behind me. He said nothing, didn’t touch me—just stood behind me. I turned. Put my back to the floor-to-ceiling window. Gazed up at him.
Myles North was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. Six-three, lean and hard, with thick messy hair a reddish-brown mahogany. Eyes blue as the sky, blue as arctic ice, but warm and fiery and fiercely intelligent and untamed and radiating a boyish playfulness and a ravenous sexuality. Everything about Myles turned me on, but his eyes almost more than anything. Almost. I mean, his hands, his mouth, and his cock turned me on more than anything, but his eyes were right there with them, firing me up and making me horny. Although, in some ways, the horniness his eyes gave me was more…cerebral, or in my heart, than in my body. Which was weird, and scary. Like everything about him.
His body was wicked. Delicious. Hard, shredded. Jupiter was the band’s personal trainer, and one of the trucks which followed the tour around was a semi dedicated entirely to fitness equipment, a fully mobile gym, and the guys all spent significant amounts of time working out together. Charlie and I had met them during an off-week, or what Myles called a “de-load” week, when they didn’t lift at all. Since then, Myles had spent at least thirty minutes working out every single day, maintaining peak physical condition. He was a madman on stage, wild and radiating intensity, jumping around and running back and forth along the stage, leaping from speaker stacks and basically going nuts for an hour or two, which required intense amounts of energy and fitness. That combined with his exercise routine and the healthy diet they all maintained—again due to Jupiter’s influence—meant all of the guys were fit and strong, but Myles was…absolutely shredded. Instagram fitness model level shredded—not bulky, just strong, fit, and hard, with ultralow body fat.
“What?” he said, smirking.
“Nothing.” I batted my eyelashes at him. “Just, you know…looking at the sexiest man I’ve ever seen.”
He lifted one eyebrow. “Ever?”
“Honestly, yeah.” I sidled closer to him, so only an inch separated us. “Ever. And I’ve seen a lot of sexy men.”
“Just looking at me, huh?” He hooked a finger through the belt loop of my cutoff jean shorts.
“Well, no.” I felt the flutter of unease settle as I entered more familiar and comfortable territory. “Just looking, and considering…other stuff.”
“Such as?”
I shrugged, demure and delicate and innocent. “Oh, just…things.” I reached down and peeled my shirt up, off—no bra, the tight T-shirt lifting my breasts and letting them fall with a heavy bounce as the tight white cotton let them go.
His eyes widened, as if, despite us having sex at least once a day every day since we met, he still couldn’t get over my body. Which felt…reallygood. “I’m on board so far,” he muttered.
I pushed his shirt up and off, because I liked looking at his ripped chest and abs. Now for the fun part: I sank to my knees and slowly unbuttoned his fly. Lowered the zipper. His bulge sprang out against the gray cotton of his boxer-briefs. Tugged his jeans down around his ankles—he lifted a bare foot and I slipped the leg off, then the other. His underwear next, and then he was gloriously naked for me. Tanned skin stretched tight around hard muscles, broad flat chest, an eight-pack razoring down to a sharp V-cut, which framed the most gorgeous male member I’ve ever had the privilege of laying eyes on. Long, but god, so thick. Thick enough to make me gasp every time he slid into me. Straight as an arrow, flat up against his belly.
Well, right now, he was still only partially erect—thickening but still dangling forward and pointing at the floor. This was one of my favorite things, him floppy, just begging for me to get him hard. Didn’t take much—he was staring down at me and watching me, anticipating, soaking up the sway of my boobs, and he was slowly hardening.
Not fast enough.
I slid my hands up the backs of his thighs. Cupped his buttocks, held the taut hard globes in my hands and kissed his thigh, just above his left knee. An inch higher, then across to his right thigh. Higher. Back and forth, kissing my way up one thigh and the other, alternating. To his hipbones. Licking his salty firm flesh, over his abs, under his belly button. Ran my tongue down his V-cut. He twitched, cock jerking, the tip lifting. His hands dangled at his sides, fingers curling into fists as he anticipated what I was going to do next. Like he didn’t know. Silly man.
I fitted the broad round head into my mouth. Slid him in, tongue fluttering.
“Fuck, Lex,” he growled. “Love your mouth, babe.”
I smiled at him—with my eyes, at least, my mouth being otherwise occupied. Let him fall out. He pointed straight forward, now, half erect. I licked him from root to tip along the underside, lifting him with my tongue and then rolling my mouth over the top to plunge him deep. Away. Flopping out again. Fingernails tracing designs on his buttocks, squeezing, palming. Nuzzling his cock with my nose, my lips, my chin. Toying with him.