You asked him not to shave anymore. No, not in that caveman sort of way, but in the scruffy, sexy kind. The kind that makes people stare and want to scratch through it, that gives that clean baby face just a little bit of a rouged look, the hot kind of older that has women and men alike linger with their eyes and often undressing him in their mind. You don’t mind – he is an international superstar, billions know his name and teasing their wet dreams is just part of the image, of making the Justin Timberlake Experience perfect, the character he created that has millions screaming his name whenever he takes to a stage. You know how much time he has put into building this image, over how many metaphorical corpses he walked while trying to act like he didn’t care, like it didn’t break him inside. How much he gained, how much more he lost. You know his career will always come first to him because otherwise all those losses were for nothing. So you don’t ask much of him, stay as the silent reprieve he gets to take when he needs it, when he gets to have it and that is – will have to be – enough. You only ask that when you meet, only you matter. A few hours, a few days, however long he can and wants but during that time it’s him and you and nothing else.
And you ask him to keep the beard.
There are many good reasons why, all of which you listed when he looked at you funny – brow furred, scratching his left eyebrow like he does – but you know they were all a lie. You don’t give a flying fuck how he looks to others since he looks good no matter if soft and baby faced or scruffy and manly. He takes care of his body and it shows in all the right ways but none of those will ever outshine the strength and presents he brings into a room without trying. The shy little boy from Memphis, the egomaniac prince of pop that only twitches a finger and has a whole crowd doing his bidding, they all come together to form a man with a soul so warm and strong most of his strength goes into protecting it just so he makes it through in a world where having a soul is a weakness to be exploited. But you digress; need to get out of this habit of waxing poetically about the man no one knows you know.
Asking him to keep the beard had one purely superficial reason. Just for yourself and maybe it’s a little fucked up but you’re way past the point of no return. It’s to keep him close even when he is far away. Nothing more, nothing less.
Your thighs will never be the same, soft creamy skin forever vandalized in his image after 2 years of being his … well, just being his. Because every time he leaves, you want to feel it. Feel the ache between your legs when his car vanishes around the corner and the burn of his loving all over your skin when you sit in board meetings the next day, when no one sees you squeeze your legs together under the table just to feel a thrill of the pain shoot up from your core all over your body. And sometimes, when it has been a while, you like to run your hands along the rough skin between your legs when it’s just you and there is a new interview, new pictures or just some old VH1 special of the golden boyband days. Because then, in those moments, he seems like a stranger, unreal in the way big celebrities are but then you touch yourself, touch where he bit and chafed you a week, a month ago and you know the truth. Know that you know more than most, that when your fingers slip from dry to wet skin and you rub and pant to whatever flickers over your screen, it’s not a made-up man in your head, it’s him and he is real.
Just Justin, you both sometimes joke. And maybe Just Justin is another character, another part of him that is neither made up nor entirely the truth but you don’t care because Just Justin is yours, a hundred percent and your stop-and-go love is more fulfilling than any boyfriend has been in the past. And it will stay that way as long as you can believe – convince yourself – that it is enough.
He likes marking you and you like letting him. Maybe it’s pathetic – you are a strong woman, you run your own department, you broker million dollar deals, you know how to run in high heels. You don’t need any man, you just need him and letting him claim you is the highlight of your time. You stopped wondering if it makes you weak months ago. How his fingers dig into your waist, your ass, your thighs to leave marks while he punches deep moans out of you with every twist of his tongue in your cleft. How the rhythmic scratch of his beard makes you squeeze your legs tight until he shoves two fingers in deep and your pussy sucks them down greedily, clenches around them while you come riding his face and wetting his beard with your juice. It always starts like that and it ends that way, it’s your own way of making the rules and he is happy to oblige, drinks from you like a man in the desert dying of thirst while you rub yourself along him so hard your skin burns. More than once you’ve taken real blemishes away from a rough round of fucking and you love it. Seeing them brings you more happiness than pain and when he touches them while he pounds into you hard and fast, sweat coating both of your bodies, there is nothing sweeter. Not that you are always rough and hard. You both have a sappy streak, have spend hours exploring each other’s bodies or just lying together, naked and sated, building a world that can never be in your bedroom, the kind that can only survive in the dark of night but gets pierced and destroyed by the morning sunrays.
But rough and hard, his thick dick making you choke, your wet hole milking him until he weeps, muscles shaking from the work out and marks, marks everywhere, that is how you like it most. And that is why he keeps the beard, so that you don’t go crazy, so that you can tell yourself the burning on your skin is the same as the burning in his eyes when he looks at you, the burning in your soul when he tells you he loves you and the burning hole in your heart every time he walks away.
