More Than Him

by Jay McLean

  I shrugged. "I told you, searching for your porn collection."

  He let me pass. I turned the light on in the small room and looked around. He chewed his lip, his hands going in his pockets.

  And then I saw it: a box on the top shelf. I smirked at him. He shook his head. A blush crept to his cheeks.

  "Busted," I told him.

  I got on my toes and tried to reach for it.

  I sensed him before I felt him. The warmth of his hard chest against my back made me tense. "It's not what you think it is." His voice was hoarse.

  "Yeah?" I asked, hoping my nerves didn't show. When any part of us connected, it was more than just physical. Or even emotional. It was a collision of comfort and unease. Gut-wrenching and heartwarming. He did this to me. We did this to each other. "So, what is it then?"

  I heard his shaky breath against my ear. Then his hand settled on my hip as he pressed into me. I let out a moan. It had been a year since I’d felt a guy like this. This close. This hard. He reached up with his spare hand and pulled down the box. Then, with the hand still on my hip, he guided me to turn around. He didn't step back and away from me; in fact, he moved closer, and closer, until my body was up against the wall under the shelf. He pulled back slightly, his arm raised, gripping the bar above my head. There were no hangers on it, no clothes; the small space was empty, apart from a few boxes on the floor against the walls. The sleeve of his shirt bunched together, allowing me to see his tattoo again.

  "Amanda," he whispered, then opened the box between us. Inside were dozens of pendant glass vials, like the one he’d given me that day in the rain. The day he’d promised me that we would make new memories, ones that I wasn't afraid of. He said that we'd be amazing. We really could have been.

  My hand reached in for one. Each vile was in a ziplock bag with a date and location handwritten. "Every time it rained, I thought of you." He sniffed one. My eyes lifted to his. "I wanted to send you these, but I just—I don't know . . ."

  "There's so many in here."

  He nodded. "There are four more boxes."

  "Why?"

  "For the same reason you came here every other week. It made me feel closer to you. It made me miss you less."

  "Why didn't you just come home then?"

  He placed the box back on the shelf, and pressed his body against me. "Because I'm a coward. And an asshole. And I don't deserve to have you in my life, let alone here, in my room."

  Wrapping his hand around my neck, he brought me closer to him. "Don't you dare kiss me," I told him. I wasn't ready for it. Not yet. But soon. Maybe once my head was out of the clouds and my heart could handle it.

  "Okay," he agreed. Then leaned in close and brushed my lips with his.

  "What are you doing?" I whispered against them. I didn't pull back. I let my heart control my head, which made my actions confusing.

  "Not kissing you," he confirmed. He moved his lips away from mine, trailed them up my jaw and to my ear. He nibbled gently, just underneath it. Then his lips parted and his tongue darted out, as he moved down my neck, so fucking slowly. He paused on my shoulder, moving the strap of my dress to the side, and his teeth skimmed along my skin.

  My hands flattened on his stomach. I could feel the dips of his muscles. "You said you wouldn't kiss me," I breathed out.

  "I'm not." His mouth never left my shoulder.

  "So what are you doing?" My voice was strained. My breathing was heavy. I squeezed my legs together.

  He pulled away and looked into my eyes. "Remembering you."

  My head flung back and hit the wall behind me. I heard him moan from deep in his throat, just before I felt his mouth on my neck, his tongue flicking slowly, gently against my throat. "Oh my God." I sighed. My hands moved lower on him. I couldn't control them, even if I’d tried. They passed the band of his shorts and brushed against his hard-on.

  He groaned into my neck, vibrating my skin. I felt it all the way in my core.

  My body felt like it was on fire, ready to combust. He removed the other strap from my shoulder and licked and sucked there, right before his hand gripped the side of my chest. His thumb skimmed across my already strained nipple. He placed his knee between my legs and separated them. It was too much. Too many things happening at once. His thumb on my nipple, his mouth on my skin, and his legs between mine—I couldn't take much more.

  He pulled away abruptly, and I almost felt grateful. But he just looked at me; his eyes were the darkest I'd ever seen them. They seemed to widen slightly, like something had just dawned on him.

  "Fuck," he spat through clenched teeth. I could feel the material of my dress shifting against my breasts with each breath. His eyes zoned in on my chest. In a flash, he'd removed the straps from my arms and was standing there, studying me, as if wondering what to do next. He smirked slightly. His next action had been decided. And then he did it. He yanked my dress down, just enough so that my breasts were free. His breathing was so heavy, so short. He was panting. He rubbed his hand against his dick, just once. But the image of it was enough to drive me insane.

  Then his hands held mine, pulling them away from him and raising them above my head. His mouth was still on my neck, licking, sucking. I felt him everywhere. He shifted my hands until they gripped the bar above me. "Keep them there."

  And then he moved.

  The instant his mouth covered my nipple, my grip on the bar tightened. I cried out in pleasure. But it wasn't enough, not for him. He spread my legs—with his hand this time. I felt his fingers skim my folds through my panties. I could've come. If I wasn't so embarrassed about how wet I was—I would have.

  He switched breasts, making sure they both got the same attention. My arms were still raised, gripped tight against the cold metal. Somehow, without me realizing, my hips were moving. His hand on me, moving ever so slightly, just enough that my clit could feel the friction of his palm.

  Then his tongue on my breast stopped moving. I thought we were done. But he sucked on it.

  Hard.

  I was too consumed with the pleasure of his mouth that I didn't even know how or when it happened. I felt the cold air on my wet sex and my panties around my ankles. He started on the outside, fingering and spreading my wetness, making circles around my nub. One finger slid in and out, replaced my two. He started moving them, slowly.

  I got lost in the fog of his actions. I wanted to touch him. I wanted him to feel as good as I felt. "You're so fucking wet." He watched my face as his flattened tongue moved from one nipple to the other.

  "I want to touch you," I told him.

  "No."

  "Please," I begged.

  His fingers moved faster, harder, more determined. I felt myself building. I wanted to hold out. It was too soon. I wanted to feel this intensity longer. I'd started thrusting into his hand. It'd only been seconds, not even minutes. There was no slow build-up, no warning. His fingers, his mouth—all of him—were so determined to make me feel. To make me want. To make me his.

  And I was. Whether he was around to know it or feel it.

  I was always his.

  Three years ago to the day—on our very first date—I became his.

  His fingers took up a rhythm. He knew I was close. "Baby," he murmured. My legs squeezed tight around his hand and-

  "Oh my God," I moaned. I repeated the words over and over as his movements slowed and my vision cleared. When my breathing settled I opened my eyes, just as he reached into his shorts to adjust himself. I went weak at the knees. I let go of the bar and slid down the wall until my ass hit the floor. "Holy shit." My body was still trembling with the aftermath of the most intense orgasm I'd ever had. My head felt heavy, so heavy. I could barely lift it to see his reaction. He smirked, right before he walked out of the tiny space in the closet. A second later, I heard the stream of water turn on from a shower.

  16

  Amanda

  I sat on his bed and waited while he was in his bathroom. He came out and paused mid-step when he
saw me. I wasn't sure why; I didn't know what he was expecting.

  "Hey," he said quietly, taking a seat next to me.

  I looked at the floor, feeling a little awkward. "Hey."

  "I thought for sure you'd bail."

  The thought hadn't even crossed my mind. I turned to face him, but his gaze was focused off in the distance. "M . . . maybe I should go."

  His eyes darted to me. "What? No." He stood up. "I mean—of course if you have to—but I don't want you to." He cursed under his breath, and started pacing the floor. "I wanted to ask you to stay with me tonight . . . if you wanted to."

  "I don't—"

  He cut in. "Of course you don't want to. I'm an idiot—"

  I got to my feet and stood in front of him. "I was just going to say that I don't have anything to wear."

  "Oh." A small smile appeared. "That's it?"

  I nodded. My own smile matched his.

  "Easy fix," he announced. He led me to the bathroom, shrugged out of his shirt and handed it to me.

  When I returned, he was lying in bed with his hands behind his head, waiting for me. I didn't know what we were doing. I don't think he did, either. We didn't discuss it; maybe if we did it would have ruined the moment.

  He put his arm out for me, like he used to do every night. I could see the tattoo on it so clearly. I lay down next to him and rested my head where he wanted it. His hand began playing with my hair. "Mm," I hummed. It was so familiar. So perfect. I moved closer and nuzzled into his neck. My leg covered his. I placed my hand over his heart; I could feel it pounding through his chest.

  All of a sudden, I was crying. I wasn't sobbing or weeping but the tears fell silently onto his shoulder. His heart thumped faster, harder. "It's going to be okay, Amanda." He kissed my head. "I promise," he said. "I'm going to make it okay."

  I let out a small sob. He had no idea. It wasn't up to him to make things right. We were both to blame. It wasn't just him. It was me, too.

  "Shh," he soothed. He continued to stroke my hair until the tears subsided and sleep overcame me.

  ***

  He was crying. He was asleep, but he was crying. He mumbled something, and it sounded like my name. His head thrashed from side to side. I sat up and turned on the nightlight. I didn't know what else to do. His face was pained. It broke my heart. "Stop," he quivered, still asleep. And then tears fell from his shut eyes.

  "Logan!" I shook his heavy shoulders. "Wake up."

  He didn't. I shook him harder.

  Then, with lightning fast speed, he gripped my wrist tight, making me wince in pain. "Logan," I cried out.

  His eyes snapped open. He sucked in a breath, as if he'd just come up from drowning. His eyes were glazed.

  I tried to pull my hand from his grip, but he didn't loosen his hold. "Logan, it hurts."

  "What?" he croaked.

  I started to pry his fingers from their death grip.

  "Shit!" His fingers straightened, releasing me instantly. "Fuck, I'm sorry." His breathing was loud, heavy.

  "It's okay." I massaged my wrist, trying to recirculate the blood.

  He held it in both his hands and did it for me. His thumbs massaged the area I'd tried so hard to hide. He pulled it towards his lips and kissed it once, twice, then placed my palm over his heart.

  He sighed. "I'm sorry," he repeated. "How bad was it?"

  I shrugged. "I have nothing to compare it to."

  He nodded, picked up my hand again and looked at my wrist. "I'm not going to ask you, but you'll tell me when you're ready, right?"

  "Yes," I said truthfully.

  "Good."

  "Does it happen often—the nightmares?"

  He nodded again.

  Sweat had built on his hairline; I wiped it away with my fingers and sat cross-legged next to him. I knew what he was feeling. The aftermath of nightmares was painful. The images plagued in your memory overshadowed the relief that it was just a dream. He blew out a breath and rubbed his hand against his jaw. "I forgot to take my meds," he admitted quietly.

  "Xanax?" I asked.

  His eyes narrowed.

  "I saw them in your bathroom. I wasn't snooping, swear it."

  He looked up at the ceiling. "Yeah."

  "Can I ask you about it?"

  He eyed me now, a look on his face I couldn't decipher. "Of course," he said. "I'll never keep anything from you. Come here." He held out his arm again, but I chose instead to lie on top of him. He didn't complain.

  My forearms rested on his chest, my head only inches away from his. "I researched it—Xanax—treatment for anxiety . . . you have anxiety . . . or panic attacks?"

  He nodded slowly.

  "And it causes the pounding in here." I placed my hand over his heart again.

  "Yes," he confirmed.

  "And you were supposed to take it tonight, but you were here?"

  "Yes," he said again.

  "What causes it?"

  His eyes became uneasy, but he still answered. "I have flashbacks. Not just when I sleep. Sometimes things can set them off."

  "Of that night?" I swallowed the knot in my throat. "Do I set it off?"

  "No." He was quick to respond. "Not all." He placed his hand under my shirt, and started rubbing slow circles on my back. "And not just of that night," he continued. "Even stuff from when I was a kid that I'd suppressed. I'm still working through it, or trying, anyway."

  "I'm so sorry," I told him.

  He licked his lips. "Not at all your fault."

  "Have you spoken to her—Megan?"

  He inhaled sharply. "No. I know she's okay, that's all that matters. But I don't want to see her, not until I get my shit together."

  "I get that."

  "Any more questions?" He smiled at me. Those damn dimples. My fingers traced the dips. His eyes drifted shut. "I missed you so much," he said.

  I wanted to tell him that I missed him, too. Every day. But it wouldn't heal us completely. It wouldn't change the past.

  My gaze caught on his tattoo and my fingers moved on their own, tracing the words. When did he get it? I wish I could've waited until he was ready, but the words were out before I could stop them. "What does your tattoo mean?"

  He threaded his fingers through my hair and moved it away from my face. "It means shadow passes, light remains. You're my light, Amanda. In a life full of shadows, and darkness, and monsters, you're my light. When the blackness fades, and the memories subside, you'll be there. You're always there." The corners of his lips lifted. "You know, the first time I saw you at Jake's, at the wake—that's what I called you. In the most horrible of circumstances, that's what you were to me—a light in the darkness. That's what you became, and that’s what you stayed. In my head. In my heart. My light. Forever."

  My heart beat out of my chest. I wanted to pick it up and hand it to him, tell him that it belonged to him, and that I had no right to possess it.

  But I couldn't do that. So I did the one thing I could do.

  I kissed him.

  And just like the very first time, and all of the times after that, I lost myself in his touch, and in his kiss. I completely lost myself in Logan Matthews.

  I didn't want the kissing to lead to somewhere it wasn't supposed to go, and even though I felt him hard against my stomach, he must've felt the same way, because we pulled apart after a few minutes. He licked his lips and moaned in approval. I moved to get off him, but he held me there. "Stay right here, please?"

  "Am I not hurting you?"

  "No," he said quietly. "You're healing me."

  Logan

  She wasn't in bed when I woke up. A panic settled at the pit of my stomach. I kept my eyes shut, not wanting reality to set in, but then I heard movement and her footsteps coming closer. I prayed that this wasn't one of my usual dreams. Last night felt too real. I think I'd die if it wasn't.

  I felt the bed dip and her fingertips on my cheeks. Only then did I feel it safe enough to open my eyes. She hovered above me, her hair curtaining
her face.

  "Hey handsome," she greeted me. It made me smile like an idiot. Her smile matched mine, and her fingers poked my cheeks. "I missed these dimples.

  Pulling her down and under the sheets with me, I whispered in her ear, "I wanted to tell you something last night, but things got a little . . . um . . . out of hand?"

  She giggled into my chest and wrapped her arms and legs around me, getting as close as she could get. "Yeah? What's that?"

  I lifted her face and kissed her on her lips quickly. Once. Twice. A trillion times over. I couldn't get enough. She laughed into my mouth. Then I said it. "Happy three-year anniversary."

  "No way!" She pushed against my chest. "You remembered?"

  "Of course I remembered." I kissed her again. "How could I forget the day I found my person?"

  ***

  She wanted to take all the glass vials with her. I didn't argue. They were hers, anyway.

  The smell of coffee wafting in from the kitchen convinced her to stay a little while longer. We walked in, hand in hand, just as Dad rushed in to gather his things. He tried to hide his smile, but it was clearly impossible for him.

  "Morning," he greeted Amanda and kissed her on the cheek.

  "Hands off my woman," I joked.

  Amanda laughed. "Woman need coffee from crazy caveman."

  Dad chuckled and shook his head as he left the room.

  I rubbed my hands together. "Looks like it's just you and me. What ever shall we do?"

  She leaned her back on the counter and crossed her arms. "I told you. Your woman needs coffee. Get on it."

  "Jeez," I rolled my eyes. "No wonder they call you Demander."

  Of course I did what she asked. She still had my balls in her pockets.

  After handing her a coffee, I placed my arms on the counter, on either side of her. "I wish we could spend the day together." I sounded like a desperate asshole of the extremely whipped variety but I didn't care, it was the truth.

  She took a sip of her coffee and set it back on the counter, and then brought me closer with her arms around my neck. "I know, me too." She sighed. "But I have classes, and then I have to work."