by DL White
"You're not cold, you liar. Far from it. I feel everything."
An eyebrow lifts. "Everything?"
"Mmmhmmm."
"Like?"
“Mmm… the heat you're giving off from here." He dips to kiss my neck, tiny drops of rain along my skin. "And here," he continues, as he slides down my body, taking first one nipple and then the other into his mouth. My body convulses with the rhythm of his tongue rasping over the dark brown tips.
"And finally..." He works his way down my belly and over my mound to my core, the most intimate, sensitive part of me. His tongue snakes out, testing and teasing, flicking and poking until I'm writhing and practically screaming. I grab his head and arch my hips and sink into orgasmic bliss for the I've-lost-count-of-how-many-times.
"Told you, you weren't cold."
In a few minutes, I turn so that I'm lying next to him. One arm is draped around me, his hand resting on the rise of my hip. A large part of me wishes we didn't have to move.
"So..." I begin but then stop. I have so many questions. I don't want to ruin the mood, but I'm lucid enough that my common sense tiptoes in and drops nuggets into my mind. Namely, what the hell is going on?
"So?" He teases, rubbing whatever skin he can manage to cover by roving my hip and ass. "You never held back when the conversation was bitter, so don't start now that it’s sweet. I'm a big boy. I can take whatever you have to say."
I know he's right. Deep down, I do. But now that he's here, now that we seem to have reconciled, I don't want to be the reason that something else happens.
"Is there any reason I should be concerned? We didn't use condoms. I don't even own condoms."
"You don't have a gigantic bag of condoms stashed under your bed?"
I laugh, even though he's picking on me. "Shut up."
"Whatever happened to those? Did you use them all?”
"Are you asking if I have used hundreds of condoms on men that aren't you? Are you that big of a boy? Can you take that?"
"Good point. Never mind."
His palm rasps against beard stubble as he runs a hand down the side of his face. “I would never try to be with you if I knew I had something. I get tested regularly. If you want to see my results, I'll show you."
"You don't have to do that. I believe you."
"We have fought every day for the last... however many years, but I wouldn't expose you to something.”
"I know. We had a crazy fight, but you waited for me to be done with my run before you left."
"I’m an asshole and a gentleman."
I laugh because it's true.
"What about you? You're not trying to trap me into becoming a dad, are you? Are we going to be the next Keith and Brandess, who can't talk about anything but their kids' soccer and golf leagues and PTA and how much sleep we don't get?"
"I’ve been on the pill since I had to go on it with you. I'm not worried about getting pregnant but if you are–"
"I'm not worried about anything. I'm right where I want to be. If something happens, it happens. I can handle it. Can you?"
I lift my head so that I can see his face. It's still unbelievable that he's here. "Yeah," I say, and smile. "I can."
20
"I hate to leave, but I have a ton of stuff to do for Nate’s party, and I haven’t packed for the trip, either."
Reluctantly, I follow Preston to the front door. It's been a blissful afternoon. My whole life has changed in eight hours. We laid in bed until we couldn't stand the hunger anymore, so I got up and made us sandwiches, we watched a movie, and made out like we never could when we were teenagers.
He turns when he reaches the door and opens his arms. I step into them and let him pull me close, then wrap my arms around him and squeeze. I don't want him to go.
What a weird thing to say about Preston Reid.
“Yeah, we both have stuff to do."
His hands rub my back, up and down—big, veiny, strong hands. I love them. “But you know, I’m thinking... "
I pull back so I can see him and grab his hands. “About?”
"Two sets of hands pack faster than one."
Confused, my head tilts to the left. "Huh?"
"Grab your stuff, pack a few more things, and come home with me. We have to be at the hotel tomorrow anyway."
"I–"
"You're already packed, aren't you? I know you. You've probably been packed for a month already."
Of course, he’s right. If I needed to walk out the door and fly to St Lucia right now, I could. But...
"Whatever protests you're coming up with right now, put them away. Come home with me."
I step back, instantly overwhelmed. “This is all happening so fast; my head is spinning. I think maybe I need some time–"
"You’ve had eighteen years. That’s not enough time?”
I'm honestly shocked at how quickly he went right back there. I open my mouth to argue, but he's already wincing at his own words and squeezes my hands, lost in his.
"I'm sorry. That was stupid. Look, have you seen the tub in my house? It’s huge. I'll run you a big ass rose smelling bubble bath, and you can sit in the tub and have all the time in the world to yourself."
I'm tempted. I’m crazy, but I’m tempted. Steal away to Preston's house and let the past eight hours sink in? It's not something I'd do. Which makes me want to do it.
I can't fight his pleading eyes. "I need to check my bags and change. And I need to drive my car, so you may as well go ahead of me."
“Nope. Nice try. We can take separate cars, but if your car isn't right behind mine, I'm not leaving." He turns me around and pushes me toward my bedroom. "Go check your bags. Do what you have to do. Take your time, don't forget anything. Let me know when you're ready."
While I'm in the bedroom, he settles into the couch again, grabs the remote and starts flipping channels. I open my bags and check that I have everything I need since I won't be home until after the trip. While I'm repacking, I steal glances at him in the living room; his legs are stretched out in front of him, feet propped on the coffee table.
I expected that a change in our relationship would make him less aggressive, but he isn't. He's aggressive in a different way. And… I like it.
Once I've double checked my bags and changed my clothes, I wheel my suitcases out to the living room and grab my purse from the coffee table. Preston turns the TV off and stands.
"Got everything? Passport? ID? Phone charger? I'll forget mine."
I dig through my purse to check yet again. My ID is securely tucked away, along with my bank card and credit cards. My passport is there as well. I mentally run down my checklist again, making sure I have all of the clothes, shoes, and accessories I need. Satisfied, I nod at Preston.
"Let's go, then." He grabs the handle of each suitcase and rolls them toward the door. I wait for him to step out and follow, locking the door behind me. Preston lifts each bag as if it weighs nothing at all and carts them down the steps. Once he reaches the landing, he stops next to his car, pulls out his key, and presses a button.
The trunk pops open, and he drops my suitcases into the yawning dark space.
"Why are you putting those in your car?"
He reaches for me, pulling me close until I am near enough to kiss. "I'm holding them, hostage," he says, then heads around to the driver's seat. "If you don't end up at my house, you don't get your stuff back."
He pops the latch on the door of his Benz and ducks inside. The engine purrs to life, and the headlights come on. The passenger side window slides down, and Preston leans over the console.
"Look, I know you want to maintain some control here, but we're going to all the same places this weekend. You could be crazy, throw caution to the wind, and, I don't know, trust me. I'll take care of you."
After a brief moment of hesitation, I open the passenger side door and slide in, sinking back against the leather seats. Seeming pleased with himself, Preston raises the window on my side and puts the car in dri
ve, pushing it forward out of the spot he backed into earlier.
"It's not about trust, you know. It's not about control either."
"It's not?" I see him glance at me briefly before his eyes return to the road. "Then what's it about?"
"It's about being normal."
"What do you mean normal?"
“I don't want anyone to know. If we start showing up to things together, in the same car, like we're together..."
"They know us. They’ll figure it out.”
"I don't want to help them figure it out. I want everything, from the outside, to look normal for us."
"Don’t you think our friends will be happy for us?"
"Yeah, that's the problem," I mutter. “There will be so many I-told-you-sos. Do you know how many times I told Morgan that this wedding planning thing wouldn't work?"
"About as often as I told Nate. But it did work. So?"
"So, I don't..." I sigh. I don't think I can explain it to him so he'll understand.
"You don't want to give them the satisfaction of knowing they were right?"
"Yes."
"So, you'd rather settle for being the last person to see the obvious."
I turn my head to stare at the side of his face. "I was the only one ignoring the obvious?"
He doesn’t respond, and I know why. I wasn’t acting alone; we fed off of each other.
"Everyone will be so excited about us that it'll take away from the wedding. We didn't spend all this time and money and hard work for no one to notice it. I don't want to upstage Nate and Morgan.”
He nods, finally. Regretfully. “Alright. But we have to find a way to be together. I have no problem with laying low for a while, but I'm over being without you. I hope you agree."
"When do I get the big ass rose scented bubble bath you promised?"
The head of Preston's California king is a perfect spot to survey the entire room. He's lived in this house for five years, and I've never been in his bedroom. At first, I refused to come, not wanting to stare at the spot where we'd shared so many intimate moments. Morgan dragged me here one day, and over time, I got used to ignoring the other side of the lake.
Preston's room is the master suite. A set of double doors open to reveal a fireplace on one wall and the biggest four poster walnut bed I've ever seen on another. Two sliding doors lead to a balcony that overlooks the patio and fire pit. The room is decorated in black and grey with splashes of color from the comforter to the art on the walls to the sheer drapes. It's classy without being overbearingly masculine.
I find myself thinking that I could stand to live there, with minimal changes.
"When I’m packed. Are you folding or complaining?"
He points toward the leaning tower of T-shirts stacked next to me. Spread open across the bed is a suitcase that could hold his entire wardrobe. "How many shirts do you have there?"
I count them quickly and tell him, "Nine. But we’re only going for seven days."
"I need options. What if it rains? I might need something long sleeved."
"Switch out a couple long sleeved with a couple of t-shirts."
"Did you not hear me? I need options."
He places a few long-sleeved shirts into the suitcase and motions for me to put the stack of t-shirts in beside them. Next, he drops in two pairs of jeans and a pile of shoes, including a few pairs of stark white sneakers.
"Do you think I need anything formal except for my tux?"
"I brought a couple of nice dresses. Not formal but dressy. To wear to dinner and stuff."
"Okay." He digs through his closet and pulls out a few button-down shirts, all fresh from the dry cleaners and color coordinated. "Ties?"
I shake my head. "No ties."
"Great." He folds the shirts and lays them into the suitcase, then begins to layer the rest of the things he's packed and staged across the bed-swim trunks, underwear, socks. "I need to pack my bathroom stuff and a couple of things in a bag for tomorrow night. Let's run your bath now."
Ten minutes later, rose-scented bubbles surround me. He wasn't kidding; the tub is huge. And deep. I have to sit up straight.
“Why do you have a rose-scented bubble bath?"
He steps into the bathroom. "Do you want to know the answer to that?"
I grin. "Never mind."
"You sure? I can tell you. See, there was this girl that—"
"Oh, my gahhh..." I relax a little and let my head sink below the surface. Seconds later, I sit up straight again and laugh, pushing hair and bubbles out of my eyes. He's moved to one of the steps that lead up the side of the tub.
And he's smiling. “You’re the only woman I know that doesn’t whine about getting her hair wet.”
I shrug. “I own a blow dryer and a flat iron. I brought both.”
“Good to know.”
“For…”
“For fucking in the shower purposes. You don't want to know why I have rose scented bubble bath?”
"No. I'll enjoy the proceeds. This is going to take some getting used to."
"I know. For me too."
"This is a huge tub."
His eyes roll from one end of the tub to the other, landing on me, all wrapped up in foamy bubbles. "It is. I have stories about that, too. This one time...."
"Preston!"
“Be quiet, now. I’m telling this story about this girl I dated and how she—"
He doesn't finish his sentence because I cup my hands and send a wave of water toward him. He sputters, then keels backward and lands on his ass. His hair drips pink water.
“Evangeline! Shit, woman. You know how I am about my hair!” Preston reaches for the nearest towel. Then laughs, rubbing it over his head.
“I’m… I’m sorry!” I choke out, around gut level laughter.
He stands, then begins peeling off wet clothes and leaves them on the floor where he dropped them. Then he jumps into the tub, flooding the bathroom and disturbing my sense of balance. I go under again, but I'm pulled up against Preston's chest and perched on his lap.
I don't try hard to resist being held there. "You promised me time."
"And then you got me wet, so you get to share your bath."
"Again, if this is my punishment..."
"Not a punishment. Natural consequences."
I wiggle against him, teasing. He growls in my ear, and his hips arch, pressing into me. He's already pulsing, and my gyrations aren't doing much to help. "Speaking of natural consequences."
An appreciative groan rumbles through his chest. His hands climb my body and settle for cupping my breasts, his thumbs flicking my hard nipples, sending bolts of lightning through me so strong they curl my toes. His lips sweep across my shoulder in broad strokes, nipping here and there with a gentle bite as he works his way up the side of my neck.
I'm lightheaded, from the heat or him. Either way, I'm in heaven, and I never want to vacate.
My head lolls back against his shoulder, exposing more of my neck for him. I moan as his lips travel up my neck to my ear. My voice bouncing off of the tiles amuses me, so I make more noise.
"I missed you," he whispers. "I didn’t know how much until you were with me again."
"I missed you too," I mumble, lost in the steam, and the hypnotic way he caresses and massages me, gentle little circles everywhere, all over.
"Did you? Or are you saying that?"
My burst of laughter echoes up into the ceiling. "Not the whole time. But that week when you weren't talking to me? It bugged the shit out of me.”
"I had some thinking to do. I had to plan out what I wanted to say. And when. And figure out if you would be receptive or laugh at me."
“I laughed at you."
"I knew you would.”
"I wasn't laughing at you. I didn't know what to say. After our fight in the park, I thought we wouldn't speak again."
"I had to catch you off guard. And I had to come to you in a way that I hadn't before, so you'd know I was serious. And I had to stop
being a dick."
“Preston Reid admits he is not a nice guy, for once.”
I feel him smiling as he rests his head against mine. "I wanted you back. That couldn’t happen if I didn’t get my shit together."
I sit up and then swivel around, so I'm straddling him and move up, all the way up until he is trapped between our bodies. The bubbles have begun to melt away, leaving a slick slip to the water and giving me an unobstructed view of him with my belly pressed up against him. I begin to rub his chest, playing in the layer of hair there.
"So, your shit is together?"
His eyes are half closed, and his mouth is half open. Beads of moisture sprout across his forehead and seep into the soft curl of his hair. His arms move around me, and then each hand cups a cheek of my ass. His tongue snakes out of his mouth to lick his bottom lip, which he then tucks between his teeth.
“You tell me," he says, squeezing the generous portions in his hands.
He lifts me a few inches and gently directs me to sit. My head rocks back, and I groan as he fills me. I fight to keep my eyes open and locked on his as I lift and lower, then speed up as my body adjusts to him. In a few strokes, I sink deep onto him, rising until I am just short of pulling off, then grinding down on him again. I contract around him, milking him. He holds onto me for dear life, pushing and pulling, controlling my rhythm.
His eyelids have drooped until he can no longer keep them open. Sounds and phrases fall out of his mouth at whim. "Unh... fuck, Angie. Don't stop. "
I whimper into his shoulder as he grunts and moans.
"Shit...." His breath comes in hisses as he is wracked with a series of convulsions but doesn't loosen his iron grasp on my hips. His eyes pop open. His gaze locks onto mine. He is intense, almost fiercely staring at me.
His breathing speeds up until he's huffing quick puffs of air. His hips lift and rock against mine, wet skin loudly slapping skin, water splashing over the edge of the tub. The sound of which, when coupled with our cries at the top of our lungs, creates a moment of chaos in Preston's bathroom. An overbearing pressure builds in the pit of my belly, an impending pleasure that is impossible to keep at bay.
When it finally washes over me, my entire body stiffens, tipping backward. If Preston hadn't been paying attention and wrapped an arm around me to catch me, I'd have been a goner, because I could barely breathe, let alone think about trying not to drown.