Hardest to Love

by Sidney Ivens

  Now he was in there, naked.

  Remember. Love, not lust. The longer they resisted sex, the better their chances. Once he was done, she’d have to take care of that cut.

  Hmm. While he was in the rinse cycle, she could run downstairs and get the recipe box. Bring it to the kitchen to clean it. Maybe her aunt had some of that orange polish under the sink that would restore the wood grain and the hand-painted illustration. She’d do it for his mother, to honor her. Surprise him. Then she’d make them something to eat and they’d talk, the way loving couples did.

  She padded down the stairwell linking the third floor to the second and took a couple of steps back. Her hand went to her mouth. The middle level had been gutted, two-by-fours replacing former walls. Rolled-up blueprints and a laptop and file folders were stacked on a desk made of plywood.

  The bookstore had officially disappeared. But instead of the gut-punch and the sting of tears she expected, a strange calmness came over her. There was no nostalgic longing, just an awareness that the building was a chrysalis, undergoing a big change.

  She opened the storage room door and snapped on the light. The windowless room had been painted a clinical white, dust collecting on the floor from construction. A new queen-sized bed had been pushed against the wall, covered in a blue pin-stripe comforter. Next to the bed sat a pock-marked bed stand from Chris’s room. A lamp rested on top of it, and at its base was a leather grooming kit and a coupon for a free taco. A pair of work boots had been tossed in the corner.

  No sign of the recipe box.

  She scooted back outside into the vast space and lumber posts. Under plastic sheeting, she found a black-coated steel wardrobe and located the box, thankfully spared in the dumpster, protected between Sports Illustrated magazines in a garbage bag. She lifted its lid to yellowed index cards, his mother’s faded handwriting, the front card labeled “Pizza Puffs,” and in the margin, a smiley-faced “Yummers.” Her sweet note and looped penmanship charmed as much as the box.

  She turned to head back upstairs and on a silly impulse, darted back to the storage room. Setting the recipe box aside, she lifted one of the pillows to her face, filling her nose with his essence, a potent mix of male musk and cologne.

  Good Lord. Sniffing his pillowcase like some unhinged primate. Sure, science proved how a man’s scent aroused a woman, but she had better things to—what’s this?

  Hidden under the pillow was a dark purple velvet pouch with a cord drawstring.

  She reached for it.

  “Caught you.” His low voice came from the door.

  She dropped the pouch and pillow on top of it, heat flooding her cheeks.

  “Just seeing if you needed fresh sheets.” She resisted an eye roll. What an incredibly daft lie.

  The lines bracketing his mouth deepened with amusement. Shirtless, he padded inside on bare feet, dwarfing the small room with his size. While thinner, he still had strong biceps, pecs dusted with chest hair, a chiseled six-pack. He had a sexy way of standing, one hip higher, one leg bent in front of the other. His torso curved in a relaxed slouch, and the dark hair around his belly continued below the open snap of his jeans.

  She tried not to go slack-jawed.

  “Were we snooping?”

  “No.” Inwardly she cringed. Trust wasn’t built on lies.

  He raised an eyebrow at that and moved toward the bed stand. He opened his hand to let a red toothbrush and disposable shaver roll off his palm.

  She pointed at the stack behind him. “I wanted to clean up the recipe box.”

  “How Samaritan of you.” Long fingers slid open the drawer of the bed stand, and he tossed out navy boxer briefs, making it clear he wore no underwear. He rubbed the back of his neck and cocked his head to one side. “We kind of bonded back there, didn’t we?”

  She nodded.

  His gaze locked on her. “I can think of an even better way to bond.”

  Smiling, he moved slowly toward her, and they kept looking at each other. The room felt warmer. Her knees loosened and her legs trembled.

  She swallowed, aware the cotton panel of her panties was damp. She couldn’t give in, though. The woman who gave into Nick only assured her own heartbreak.

  With utter audacity, he lifted the corner of the comforter along with the top sheet and peeled them away from the fitted sheet below.

  She choked on her outrage. “You have unmitigated gall.”

  The side of his mouth curled upward. “How long does this act go on, Elena? ‘I’m not that kind of girl?’”

  “I’m not like other girls.”

  “Said every girl in the entire world.”

  Stung, she drew back, searching his face for the vulnerability she’d seen at the dumpster. Somehow his hot, dangerous eyes trivialized his earlier pain. “I thought back at the—”

  “You want to talk, is that it?” He stopped at the foot of the bed. “Pull me apart. Psychoanalyze me. What kind of books or movies I like, who cares?” In one impatient heave, he flung off the rest of the comforter, and the slippery fabric pooled on the floor. “I want you so badly that I can taste you.” He moved closer, the ripped muscles of his torso flexing, jeans snug on his thighs. “You want me, too. The clothes, the perfume. You’re absolutely luscious. But you want me with conditions attached.”

  “I want you . . . defenses down. Real.”

  He tapped both hands against his chest. “This is who I am.”

  “No. That’s slick and arrogant.”

  “Fine.” His eyes flashed angrily. “Live happily on your own, then, empowered by your vibrator.”

  A battery-operated piece of plastic could replace intimacy between two loving people? “I’ve never owned a vibrator.”

  “I’ll buy you one for Christmas. But it won’t feel half as good as me.”

  That knocked the breath out of her. “Go get a good dose of yourself.” She flung a fitness magazine with a cover of an airbrushed blonde on the bed, where it slipped off and joined the comforter on the floor. “Go back to Lexi to get your rocks off. She’s just like you.”

  “And you’re the saint. Saint Elena. A girl who denies what she wants. Sex and career.”

  “Maybe you’re more like your father than you think. What you really are is a lost boy without his mother.”

  “That’s a fucking cheap shot.” He crossed the room in two steps and hauled her against his hard chest. One of his hands steadied her chin to look up at him, and the savage glitter in his eyes scared her.

  Then his lips crashed on hers.

  They kissed with abandon, mouths coming together too hard, their hands sliding all over each other. Wanting him so long undid her, and she kissed him back ferociously. Her appetite for him trumped everything: common sense, logic, and her own heart.

  Her breaths came out in long huffs, her body set afire, her mind gone mad. He scooped her up, lifting her off the floor, cupping her buttocks. Then he carried her, spinning her around in his arms, the two of them kissing wildly. Her arms went around his neck, her hands buried in his hair, pulling at his dark damp ends, pulling as though she wanted to take it out by the roots. At times she’d hated the physical impact he had on her.

  They tumbled on the bed, the mattress and box spring bouncing, headboard bashing the wall. She wiggled underneath him, a feeble last-ditch effort to escape, to avoid regrets. No, no. Not like this. Not without his heart. Every time she attempted to move her head, he stopped her, his fingers bracketing her jaw.

  “Stop thinking.” Hot breaths near her ear, he slid warm lips along her neck, returning to her cheeks, tracing the curve of her forehead. “Let go.”

  “I can’t,” she breathed.

  “Challenge accepted,” he growled.

  Her hungry body responded to his greedy mouth, and she arched into his chest, loving the contrast of his hard-muscled body to her softer one. Her chewed-off nails scratched at the smooth skin of his back, the heady feel of muscles and sinew and strength.

  He began removi
ng any barrier between them. Her fists grabbed handfuls of the blue sheet as she writhed on the bed. Off flew her ballet flats, so prim and practical, one black shoe banking against the white wall, a casualty of their delirium.

  He was tearing at her jeans, fingers pawing at the snap fastener. Finally, he opened it and the waistband came loose, the release of it a godsend, an exquisite relief. He grasped the denim legs and yanked them off, the stiff fabric rustling.

  She crawled farther into the middle of the bed, and he followed. He climbed over her and pushed up her white top. His mouth was on her breast, teeth biting at the hardening nipple underneath the Lycra cup. Pulling the concealed nub into his mouth and suckling, making her ache, sending an electric pulse to the molten core of her, where sensation throbbed and almost hurt.

  He pulled at her panties, the silky panels coming apart at the seams. Naked below the waist, her bare cheeks hit the fitted sheet. and the cool air hit her most intimate space. Instinctively she brought her hands up to cover herself but he pushed them apart.

  “No. Let me see. You’re so beautiful.” He trailed his mouth along her inner thigh. “Hold up your arms. Do it now.”

  She made a weak effort to oblige him and got up on her elbows. He helped lift her up so he could free the trapped fabric of her shirt from her back. He pulled the bodice upward, over her shoulders. “That’s it.” His fingers fumbled for the clasp of her bra, and then it came loose. A rough, gravelly sound vibrated in his throat as he tugged the straps free of her arms and shoulders.

  Then came the shock of his wet mouth on her nipple, him pulling the nub between the ridge of his teeth. Sharp little nips followed by greedy, divine sucking of her flesh, his tongue wetting her skin. Pleasure rushed over her in a waterfall of tingles.

  She whimpered now, parting her legs, her frantic fingers digging at the denim belt loops of his jeans in an attempt to drag his hips into her.

  Knees bent, calves and feet on the bed, the rest of his muscled body upright, he reached for his denim fly, and then came a zzzip. A rustle of denim hitting the floor.

  Struck by shyness, she squeezed her eyes shut, unable to look at him. She could only feel her growing, desperate need.

  Oh, God. Now. Hurry.

  He formed a plank over her, his fingers explored her body’s thrumming core, his initial strokes making her cry out. He began to rub her most sensitive flesh in a circling motion. Applied a delicate amount of pressure, as though his thumb buffed a priceless gem in an undulating caress that made her want to scream and scratch and wail.

  “Hmm. Like that.” He smiled against her throat, beard stubble scratching her skin. “Getting wetter for me.”

  “Nick. God. Please.”

  “I like pleases, Elena. Try giving me another one.”

  “Please.”

  “Good.”

  Under his gentle yet ruthless coaxing, the tiny nub above her folds swelled in response. Became moist and viscous. Vaguely she heard moans and, in a daze, realized it was her own voice, hoarse, lost.

  “Open wider for me,” he whispered.

  She let him ease apart her thighs and felt the slick, thick tip of him enter her, push further into her, inch by inch, stretching her out until she felt she could hold no more.

  “God, you’re tight,” he said, his breath catching. Pinning her in place, hands on her hips, he pumped in and out. Once, and then twice.

  She cried out.

  His hips began working at a furious rhythm. “I can’t get enough of you. Can’t . . . get enough.”

  They were reaching the crescendo of their wild coupling, their thrusting becoming faster and more urgent. He pulled up both of her legs, fingers clamped around her ankles, pushing deep inside her. The headboard banged against the wall like it had been caught in a whirlwind. Never had she experienced such physical ferocity, this unbridled ecstasy. And she knew there was no going back, or any place she could hide. She loved him, body and soul.

  Light flickered in the darkness, two thin white candles positioned on top of a stack of books.

  “Amazing. The headboard didn’t crack.” Chuckling, he pulled her closer and kissed her forehead, his breaths blowing hairs from her skin. “Glad you keep candles and batteries handy.”

  “You remembered.”

  “Remember this, too.” His hand wandered under the sheet, finding tingling new places. Every muscle had liquefied.

  Darker than the room were her thoughts.

  Doubt poisoned any seedling of happiness, right down to the root. What they had was fragile, tenuous. The slightest stress or demand would end it. Yet every second she lingered here, the more she wanted it, graceful swans entwined to form a heart. That deep, romantic love. That’s what she foolishly wanted, a happily ever after.

  “You’re thinking too much.” His voice seemed deeper in the dark. He pulled her close to him, and they spooned, his erection wedging between her buttocks.

  She used the hem of the sheet to wipe her eyes dry. “What’s in the pouch?”

  He stopped stroking her.

  “My wisdom teeth,” he said. “I’m hoping the Tooth Fairy will help finance the bar.”

  He started to kiss her neck, but she wriggled away.

  Grrrr rumbled deep in his throat, and he pressed her to the mattress and tried covering her mouth with his.

  Again she squirmed free.

  “It won’t work, Elena.” He blew out an exasperated breath and rose up on an elbow, propping up his head on his hand. “What’s in the pouch stays private.”

  “Okay,” she whispered. “Tell me more about your mother.”

  “She’s getting harder for me to remember.” He flopped on his back. “All her photos and clothes were burned after she died.”

  “What?”

  “That’s why I held onto the compact. And later, the neighbor lady . . . Lois Taggert. She had her recipe box in her attic. Must’ve borrowed it.” The flickering candlelight cast shadows on his cheekbones and under his nose. He came out of his semi-trance, eyes becoming sharp again, lucid. “One of her daughters contacted me last year.”

  “Why?”

  “Lois died. They sold her house and cleared out all her stuff.”

  “Your father burned all your mother’s belongings?”

  Elbows jutting out, arms stretched above his dark head, Nick stared at the ceiling and shifted his hands under his neck.

  “How could he do such a horrible thing? Did he ever love her?”

  “She was too . . . soft for him. She let herself go.”

  “Let herself go? She sounded depressed. That’s not a reason to give up on someone you love.”

  “Dad’s a boot-strap guy. He’s all about image, which is great for maintaining a five-star hotel. Not so good for marriage.”

  “Which explains your five-star girls.”

  He rolled over, his shoulder blades facing her. The room had gotten colder, and she pulled the flat sheet over her breasts.

  She persisted, brushing light fingernails over his skin. “Is that why you avoid getting close? Because you’ll see flaws?”

  He abruptly got up, exposing the curve of his lean naked back, and the top of the crack between his buttocks. He retrieved his jeans, yanked them on, and zipped the fly.

  “Or because someone will see yours?”

  The flaw thing sticks. I pace around the gutted second level, ducking around a steel beam. The real truth why I can’t open up, is that it’s always been used against me. Held over my head like a whip. Anything resembling a “feeling” subjected to blistering ridicule. And habits die hard.

  If she’s asking about Mama, she’ll want to know more.

  I move toward the plywood desk, part of my “executive suite.”

  She’s gone upstairs to check on things and this dusty floor feels a hell of a lot emptier.

  Restless, I grab a red squeeze ball stamped with one of the construction company’s logos and compress its foam rubber to a quarter of its size in my fist. There’s no goin
g back from this one. From the puff hat and mittens to her Slavic accent and babushka, to the moment I first laid eyes on her, teaching that goofy class. Burrowed under my skin but good.

  I glance over my shoulder at the open storage door, the mattress askew, the striped sheet torn off the corner. Her jeans in a tangle on the floor.

  Continuing on the fast-food theme as before: Elena was an elaborate gourmet meal. We went full-out carnal-thon, lovemaking with delicate butterfly kisses, worked our way to a crescendo, headboard-banging fucking, my hands steady on her hips, her thighs opening wider, urging me to go deeper. Holding her in place as I pumped in and out, fast and hard, as she begged for me to continue. Her soft skin under my fingertips, her warm breaths near my ear. After the last time we climaxed, she nestled into the crook of my arm and dozed.

  I liked it. And it spooked me.

  But the pendulum always swings in the opposite direction, because suddenly I’m skeptical. No. It’s not going to work. We’ve had radically different lifestyles. Our worlds aren’t compatible. I’m too bottom-line, she sugar-coats. I’m blunt and harsh; she’ll skate around confrontation.

  Except when it comes to me. Then she’s ready to rumble.

  Grinning, I flex my shoulder where she managed to scratch me, but it’s a mark left by a kitten.

  I start thinking up more obstacles to why we can’t be together. She won’t mingle easily with my friends. They’ll think her a nerd, or an academic snob. To her, they’ll be coarse, spoiled party animals.

  But she’d hit it off with Tiffany. And Cos likes her.

  A rustling noise comes from the stairwell, and she appears, padding across the floor in terrycloth slippers, wearing the white business shirt I’d draped over the chair next to my desk. She swims in that shirt, the tails nearly hitting her knees.

  My heart does an odd flip-flop, and I forget all my objections. More reason to end this. I look forward to seeing her too much.

  “Auntie Rob and Chris are still asleep, so I made us some coffee.” She carries two mugs, steam rising from their tops, both a cafe au lait color. She sets them down on the plywood slab.