by Tessa Bailey
They stayed that way for long moments, swaying side to side, their mouths hovering so close she could taste the mint on his breath. His thumbs massaged her scalp. It was exactly where she wanted to be, even though every second with Rory seemed to hold a fine edge of uncertainty. He was so unpredictable. Every action, every word, his thoughts. She couldn’t even predict herself around him. Yet at the same time, she wouldn’t budge from that spot on the boardwalk if a meteor was hurtling toward earth.
“Even though I couldn’t stand him, I’m glad you didn’t fight tonight,” she whispered. “I’m proud of you for stopping.”
Rory melted into her, pushing his face into the crook of her neck. Inhaling. “Yeah?”
“Uh huh.”
“Turns out the one thing worse than watching you fall down is seeing you scared of me. Really scared. Like you didn’t know me.”
“I wasn’t scared of you, Rory. I was scared for you.”
He lifted his head, searching her face with a questioning expression.
Olive gave in to her impulses, sliding her hands up beneath his T-shirt and resting them on his chest, thrilling at the way his heart kicked into an erratic rhythm under her palms. “When you told me about the man you put in the hospital, you were so sad. I don’t think you like fighting. I was scared tonight of you doing something else you’d regret.” Her fingernails moved in a light circle over his heart. “You got it backwards. I was looking at you like I knew you.”
Rory stared down at her. “If you keep looking at me just like this, I’ll never use my fists again.” Finally, he rode his open mouth over hers, letting their tongues flick together, dance away and stroke back, the kiss deepening on a mutual groan. Olive’s back was pressed to the boardwalk rail, Rory’s right arm sliding between the barrier and her hips, urging her up and into the cradle of his body. When her tummy met the stiffness behind the fly of his jeans, she broke the kiss on a gasp, her head falling back and allowing Rory to raze the curve of her neck with his teeth, his forearm yanking her up on her toes. Closer, close as humanly possible.
“Rory.”
His mouth traveled lower and Olive felt damp heat through the thin silk of her tank top, right over her nipple. Felt his lips close around the bud, a male groan vibrating her head to toe. His hair was a mess by the time their mouths were level again, his eyes glazed. “Yeah, baby?”
Olive gathered her courage and reached for the thing she needed more than oxygen in that moment. Him. Them. Alone. “Do you have the ingredients at your house to make me a white Russian?”
A small fraction of the lust displayed on his face was replaced by hesitancy—and Olive’s stomach twisted at the proof that he was still not a hundred percent into this. Them. Still thought she was too young, he was too wrong. Too bad. That his past had caused too much damage. Whatever the reason, her guard was already shooting back into place to prevent the inevitable hurt—
“Yeah. I’ve got the ingredients to make a minor a drink.” With a dry half-smile, he twined their fingers together and tugged her toward the boardwalk steps, which led to the sidewalk and the town beyond. “Come on, sunbeam. Let’s go break the law.”
Chapter Ten
Rory inhaled deeply and held his breath, just so Olive’s fingertips would bite into his chest. Fuck, it felt amazing. Her thighs were wrapped around his hips and the purr of his bike’s engine caused just enough friction to poke holes in his self-control. Thank God, too. Lust was distracting him from the possibility of getting in an accident. They were only riding fifteen blocks and he’d given her his helmet. At nearly one in the morning, the avenues were quiet. He’d never been in so much as a scrape on his bike. And yet, there was a fine layer of sweat on his skin over having the responsibility of Olive holding on to him for her safety, his eyes straining while searching for potholes or jaywalkers on the road ahead.
Was he actually bringing Olive home?
Forget the fact that the Prince bachelor pad needed a serious facelift and Olive was probably used to much finer surroundings. He was more worried about what happened when they arrived. Would she stay the night?
Rory’s molars ground together as blood rushed below his belt. Jesus, he hadn’t forgotten over the last two weeks what it was like to kiss Olive, but he must have suppressed the full experience of it so he wouldn’t lose his mind while staying away from her. When her mouth opened beneath his, the rush was potent enough to clear his mind of anything but getting more. Absorbing the texture of her mouth, the flesh under his hands. His sole purpose became giving and taking and giving and taking until normal functions like breathing became an afterthought. She was breathing.
A large part of Rory still warned him to stay away from Olive. She was the kind of girl a man worked a lifetime to keep. He’d only been busting his ass for two weeks. That was nothing. He’d done nothing to deserve the trusting hands molded to his chest. The stigma of his past choices would always follow him around and, in turn, Olive, if they stayed together.
If they stayed together?
Rory laughed silently and without humor. He hadn’t really let her go in the first place, had he? Following her to class, riding past her building on the off chance he’d catch a glimpse. Now they’d found their way back into one another’s lives and she would probably spend the night in his bed. They were together. There was no going back.
Not for him.
He would die before putting that kind of pressure on her, though. This intelligent girl with the fucking world at her disposal, as it should be.
So Rory made a deal with himself. One that made his throat tighten and fear of the unknown take root. He’d allow himself to have Olive. He’d give her everything he knew how. If she decided someday that it wasn’t enough, he’d force himself to accept it.
Rory was still having a hard time swallowing as they pulled up in front of the house. He climbed off the bike, unhooking the helmet strap carefully from beneath her chin, his fingers unusually clumsy because he couldn’t concentrate around that smile.
“That was…”
“What?”
“Addictive,” she breathed, running her hands over the body of his bike. “I want one.”
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
Rory wrapped his hands around Olive’s waist and plucked her off the bike. “Do we need reminding about the walking in front of a bus incident? How about your near-drowning experience?” He took her hand and led her up the stoop to his front door, which he unlocked with a quick twist of the keys. “Now you’ve got a gash on your head. My heart can’t take it, sunbeam. Don’t do me like this.”
“Sorry. I’m duty bound as a woman to get a motorcycle now because a man told me no.” She gave him a pitying look. “I already decided on a red one.”
“Olive,” he growled, picking her up as they entered the kitchen. She squealed and twisted in his arms, leaving their bodies melded together and her feet off the ground. He opened his mouth to tell her once again, in no uncertain terms, he’d watch her ride a motorcycle over his dead body. Instead, he said, “Why don’t I teach you how to ride mine and we’ll see how it goes?
Her smile sent his heart up into his mouth. “You’ll really teach me?”
“Yeah.” God, he had it so fucking bad. “You’re already going to be the death of me. Just make sure you’re not the death of you, too.”
There they were again, their bodies straining to get closer, their mouths poised in that just about to kiss position, chests beginning to heave. Rory’s dick was in full protest mode, making its argument for instant gratification with a torturous throb. He could kiss her now, but he wouldn’t be able to stop…and God help him, he actually wanted to take it slow. Take it slow. Rory wasn’t sure he’d ever played that phrase in his head before, let alone spoken it aloud.
So be it. He’d just come home to an empty house with the girl who ruled his every waking thought. They were surrounded in quiet and all time restraints had faded away, making them two people coming hom
e from a long day. Kind of like playing house, except his intentions were far more adult in nature. Simply put, he wanted the experience of witnessing Olive in his kitchen, in his staircase. Wanted to hear her footsteps on the floorboards.
Reluctantly, he eased Olive to her feet with a kiss to the forehead. “Want me to show you around?”
“Sure,” she murmured, visibly shaking herself. “Yes.”
He laced their fingers together, unable to stop himself from kissing her knuckles, brushing them with his thumb. “There’s a front door, but we never use it. We just come in through the kitchen.”
“What is that?” She pointed at the big, dented steel container sitting on the counter beside the stove.
“Those are Jiya’s spices.” He led her over to the metal drum and popped off the lid, revealing the compartments within. “These are kind of the staple Indian spices. Black mustard seeds, dried chili pepper, hardar—that’s turmeric powder—and a cumin coriander mixture.” He smiled. “If it weren’t for her, we’d probably eat nothing but takeout. She makes us help, though, so we’re getting better. I can make khichdi now without looking at the recipe.”
She leaned in and sniffed the spices. “I don’t think I’ve ever had it.”
“I’ll be your first.”
Olive’s eyes shot to his, drifting low to his mouth. Pink climbed her neck and Rory barely resisted following that color change with his tongue. “Um, speaking of firsts…” Olive said huskily. “I believe I’m owed a white Russian.”
Rory sighed through a smile. “I was hoping you’d forget.”
She leaned a hip against the counter. “You’re really in a moral quandary over giving me one alcoholic beverage?”
“Yeah.” After dragging a hand through his hair, he reached into the cabinet above the stove and took out their resident bottle of Absolut vodka. “I really am.”
“I’m in college. It’s the designated time for drunken revelry.”
Rory took a clean glass out of the dishwasher and filled it with ice from the fridge. He measured out vodka, Kahlua and milk, then dumped all the contents into a martini shaker, watching her through narrowed eyes as he mixed and cooled the ingredients. “I made it light.”
She kept her attention on his face as he transferred the icy, light brown concoction back into the glass. “You know,” she started. “If we’re going to…”
“What?”
The pink climbed from her neck to her cheeks, making her skin flushed and even more sexy than usual. “Well, if I’m d-dating someone who works at a bar, I’ll probably have a drink once in a while, right?”
His cock grew uncomfortably heavy over the word dating. I’m going to take this girl on dates. Bring her home afterward. Have her all to myself. Was this even reality? “Yeah, you probably will,” he said, his voice low. After a moment’s hesitation, he slid her the drink across the counter. “Sometimes I equate alcohol with bad decisions. My own, especially. But you helped me make a good one tonight and…I just want to do the same for you. As often as I can.”
Her gray eyes were inquisitive, always reading between the lines. “You’ve probably seen a lot of people make bad decisions in the bar.” A beat passed wherein he said nothing. “What about at home?”
Rory tried to clear the sudden clutter in his throat. “My dad drank some,” he said, turning away to put the bottles back in their places. “A lot, actually.”
“Where is he now?”
“We don’t know,” Rory answered, still unable to look at her. “My mother is in Bayside, though. Living with her sister back in Queens where she grew up,” he said, trading one uncomfortable subject for another. He couldn’t seem to keep himself from telling Olive the shit in his head, though. Not when she projected total understanding and a lack of judgment that made him forget things like secrets and uncomfortable truths. “Her birthday is next week, actually.”
Olive studied him. “Are you going?”
Rory shook his head. “I never go. I…can’t.” Finished with his task of putting away the bottles and closing the cabinets, he stuck his hands on his hips. Breathed in and out. “I haven’t gone to see her since everything happened. Since I went away when I was eighteen. So I’ve missed more than a couple.”
“That’s a long time.” She slipped her hand around the cocktail but made no move to pick it up. “Why do you stay away?”
As always, when he thought of his mother, he remembered the look on her face in the courtroom the day he was sentenced. She’d raised three boys and lived with an abusive husband, so she’d known disappointment well. Still, he’d never seen it line her face more deeply than it had that day. “Jamie and Andrew weren’t living in the house when it happened. I was the only one left here with my parents. I could run interference with my father. Make sure I was home when he was drinking and feeling mean. He’d stopped putting his hands on her by then or he knew what would happen.” Rory rubbed at the ache in his sternum, but the friction only made it worse. “There was nothing to stop him once I was put away, Olive. I can’t believe I left her alone with him. If I’d been there, I would have saved her.”
“Rory,” she whispered, her face pained. “I’m so sorry for your mother. No one should have to live in fear like that. But you can’t punish yourself for something that happened so long ago. Even if you hadn’t gone away, you couldn’t have stayed here forever. I don’t know your mother, but I’m sure she wouldn’t have wanted to put the responsibility of protecting her on you. Not indefinitely. It wouldn’t have been fair.” Olive kept coming toward him until she laid her head on his chest, wrapping her arms around his waist. “You’ve been feeling guilty enough to stay away for six years. If you ever tell me again you’re a bad guy, I’m going to…to…”
Rory tried to be quiet about letting go of the breath he’d been holding. “What, sunbeam?”
“Pout. I’ll pout.”
Jesus. Rory had never felt lighter in his life. He’d just told this girl the ugly truth about his family and how he’d been carrying the responsibility for his mother’s pain…and she seemed to have found something beautiful in the midst of so much ugly. She hadn’t even taken the time to think about whether or not he was to blame, simply declaring he wasn’t. God, how tempting it was to believe her, but he’d been packed to the gills with regret and guilt for so long, he could only let a small degree of it go. “How will you pout? Show me.”
She tilted her head back so Rory could see her duck lips and thunderous frown. “How is this? Are you scared?”
“Ah, baby. I’m terrified.”
Olive smiled and planted a kiss over his heart. The gesture started casual, but they made eye contact while her lips were still pressed to the spot and the atmosphere changed. There was an awareness on Olive’s face that said she heard the wild rapping of that organ against his rib cage. Both of their breathing changed and in an instant, the closeness of their bodies was no longer meant to comfort.
“I’ll go to the birthday party with you,” Olive murmured, shifting her sweet curves against him. “If you want.”
A knot formed in his throat. “You would do that for me?”
She nodded. “Promise.”
Trying to disguise how much that offer humbled him, Rory swallowed hard, reaching over to pick up the drink he’d made and holding it to her lips. “Take a sip. I’m not going to inflict my hang-ups on you. Ever. Understand?” When Olive nodded and did as she was told, watching him silently over the rim of the glass, he was jealous over the cool liquid that met and slid across her tongue, down her throat. Fuck, just watching her take the sip made his balls feel twice their usual weight. If he didn’t kiss her soon, he was going to go mad. She licked her lips after she’d taken her fill, and Rory cinched his hips forward, just enough to inform her of the effect she had. Constantly. Her lids fluttered, her pupils blocking out some of the gray of her irises, and she murmured his name like a prayer.
Rory set the glass down and plowed his hands into her hair, holding fast a
s he walked her backward toward the staircase. The one that led to his bedroom. Even as a voice in the back of his head reminded him he wasn’t good enough to be Olive’s first time, the gravitational pull between them wasn’t giving him a choice. He needed her. He needed her. But his conscience forced him to offer one more out. One more, before he lost sight of the right thing to do.
“I can bring you home,” he rasped, grazing their lips together. “Just say the word.”
Olive’s breath caught as she scrutinized him, the importance of what could happen once they got upstairs written in her eyes. Probably his, too. “I’m staying.”
Chapter Eleven
Olive was ready to get naked before they reached the top of the stairs.
Pretty intrepid for a girl who’d only gone as far as kissing with a member of the opposite sex—and some on-top-of-the-clothes groping once at church camp, but it had been so unskilled and awkward, she’d stricken it from the record. Rory would not be unskilled. One need only to examine the facts to arrive at such a conclusion.
Oh God, did she mentally monologue in essay format when she was turned on? Whatever. It was helping keep her focused. And she wanted to remember every single moment of tonight. So. Facts.
He wasn’t rushed. Hadn’t even kissed her yet, merely walking her into the dark bedroom and breathing against her lips. Breathing, rubbing their mouths together, humming. Stroking her hair and every so often reminding her of the raised flesh behind his fly. This wasn’t a young, inexperienced guy with his orgasm on a hair trigger. He was seducing her even though there was no need. She’d been seduced the morning they’d shared milkshakes.
Rory ran his thumbs in hook patterns behind her ears, massaging the spots she didn’t even know were sensitive. What else did he know about her body she didn’t? When she woke up tomorrow morning, what secrets would she have learned? Excitement raced up and down her arms like spiky pinwheels, clashing with nerves to leave her trembling, breathless.