I pull at the jeans, and he helps me, lifting, wiggling. I bring the jeans off, turn the legs inside right and fold them, set them aside. Now only in his underwear, Kane regards me as I take in his body. Narrow hips, thick legs. Strong, powerful legs. In his right thigh, at the middle, just outward from the center, is a small, round, puckered scar.
I look at him, touching the scar. “From being shot?”
He nods.
“Does it hurt, still?”
He shakes his head. “Not usually. Bullet nicked the bone, though, so if there’s a thunderstorm comin’, sometimes the bone’ll throb a bit.” He pulls his leg up, twisting it away, touching another scar on the back of his thigh. “Lucky. Went right through—nicked the bone and ricocheted out. If it had hit the bone, I’d have been really fucked.”
He drops his leg again, resumes his former position—hands laced behind his head, lounging casually and confidently on his back.
I run my hands up his thighs. They are as massive as all the rest of him, with a thin dusting of blond hairs, which are a bit scratchy, in a delightful way. The bulge at his center remains hidden behind the black material of his underwear. It is a thick ridge, and the material is tight, stretchy, outlining the shape of what lies beneath the fabric. It makes my mouth grow dry.
I swallow hard, look at him, then at his privates. With a deep, tremulous breath, I pull his underwear down—the front catches on the large, bulging ridge, and I pull the front away from his torso. He lifts his hips, and I drag the undergarment down past his bottom. Once there, he hooks a toe in them and kicks them off in a smooth knifing of one leg.
He is naked, and I am speechless.
His broad shoulders and thick, heavy chest taper to his hard abdomen, and then narrow further to his hips, where a sharpVcuts inward to his private area. And here my eyes catch, and stay.
It is a thick column of flesh, rigid and hard yet sheathed in soft flesh. The upper portion is a round bulge, with a groove beneath it. There are ripples in the skin, and veins. It lies along his body, flat against his belly, the very tip of it resting just beneath his navel. It is very long, and very thick. My hands are very small and delicate, and I find myself wondering if one of my hands would even circle around it all of the way. I do not think so.
Beneath the shaft, there is a heavy sac, formed of two distinct bulges. He does not have the curly hairs I do—mine grows in a thick thatch, and his is merely a thin dusting of blond hair, slightly darker than anywhere else.
“You have much less of the hair here than I do,” I remark.
He laughs, a short bark. “That’syour first comment?”
I frown. “Should it not be?”
He laughs, his hand moving affectionately on my thigh. “Just funny to me that that’s what you think of first.”
I look down at myself. “I have very much hair.”
He angles toward me so his hand reaches to my jaw. “Babe. You’re perfect.”
“I am only noting the differences.”
“Well, the truth is, I trim it.”
I blink at him. “You trim it? You mean you give yourself a haircut,here?” I touch his thigh, not quite daring to touch him there yet.
“Yeah.”
I look down again. “Could I do this as well?”
“You want to, yeah.”
I consider this. “I would be afraid. I do not know how.”
He smiles. “I can help you.”
“You would do this?”
“Sure.”
“Would you like it, if I were to trim myself, there?”
He rubs his thumb over my lip. “Whatever you want, I’m good with.”
