by Roan Parrish
And now he was telling me that he only needed one thing from me right now. He just needed to know that I was willing to try. That was all, for now.
And I was. I so was.
“I don’t want you to need nothing in return,” I said, squeezing his wrists tighter. “And I am. Yes. Here. For this, I mean. You. Us. Thing.”
My voice was choked with held-back tears and shame that it’d taken me so long to realize it. And though that hadn’t come out how I meant it, he smiled faintly, and nodded, and I tried again.
“I like you so much. Like, more than crush-like you, ya know? Wow, I sound twelve. Just, I get this geeky, giddy feeling when I know I’m gonna see you, and I love the way you smell, and how you call me on shit, and the way you nuzzle into my hair when you’re sleeping even though then it gets in your mouth and you wake up all annoyed like ‘Ugh, hair in my mouth,’ and fuck! I like so much about you.”
Now he was grinning and twisting his fingers into my hair.
“I’m just… I depend on myself, you know. I…everything I have, I got on my own. I make my own decisions, solve my own problems, and—”
“I’m not trying to—”
“No, no, I know. It’s just…” I took a deep breath. “It scares me how much I’ve been thinking about you lately. Taking you into account. Because what if I make these choices and then you’re not around anymore and…”
“Why wouldn’t I be around?” he asked gently.
I shrugged. “I dunno. I’m not necessarily the easiest person sometimes, I know.” Christopher snorted and my eyes flew to his, because I was being totally serious.
“Babe, you don’t think I am well aware of that fact already? Don’t you think if that was something that bothered me I’d’ve split a long way back?”
Well. That was…something. I felt raw and scared and just a bit hopeful, and embarrassed because hope felt like a lightning rod for disaster.
“Easy isn’t really a quality that interests me much,” he said. He kissed me and grabbed my hands. “Listen, the stuff with my brother? I didn’t tell you that because I was trying to make the point that it’s really shitty to have someone you love shut you out. I mean, it is. But I told you because I would have given anything—anything, Ginger—if Jude would have told me what was going on with him.” His voice was choked. “I would have done anything if I could have shouldered some of his burden. I would have a thousand times preferred hearing his darkest, scariest thoughts to silence. Even if I couldn’t change it. Even if all I could do was bear witness to them. There’s nothing he could have said to me that would have made me love him less, respect him less. But he—he couldn’t. I know that. He was actually unable to say those things to me.”
His voice was a mess. He was a mess.
“But you…I think maybe you could. And sometimes I can see you choose not to. Which is your right. Still, I want to go on record as saying I wish you would. I wish you would choose to tell me. Eventually.”
A tear ran down his cheek, and he didn’t move to wipe it away.
“I was so angry at Jude,” he whispered. He wasn’t looking at me anymore but somewhere deep inside, his gaze over my shoulder, his eyes luminous. “And he was a thousand times angrier at himself than I ever could be. You should hear him play some time, Ginger.” He looked back at me, his eyes glowing with pride. “He’s extraordinary.”
“I’d love to hear him.”
Christopher nodded and then just looked at me for a long moment. “In cooking, you can swap out one ingredient for another. Sometimes it doesn’t change much, like oil for eggs in a cake. Sometimes it changes everything, like salt for sugar. The way I feel about you? It’s not like a recipe. I don’t want to swap out your moodiness for a smile, or your temper for a laugh. It’s like…alchemy or something. The way people come together, and it’s just…” He shrugged, and gave me a foxy smile. “Magic.”
He was gorgeous, all broad shoulders, glinting hair, and that fucking grin.
Then he swooped down and kissed me, pulling me to him, joy turned to desire.
His mouth was hot against mine and I could feel his erection through his jeans. He sucked in a breath as I pressed against him. I felt flushed and shaky with desire.
I reached between us to feel him and his eyelids fluttered. “You make me hard all the time,” he muttered against my mouth.
I gritted my teeth against the wave of desire that washed through me. Being wanted, knowing this gorgeous man wanted me as much as I wanted him, made me lightheaded. “Tell me why?” I gasped out, embarrassed, but I needed to know it was real. “Please?”
Christopher rubbed the pad of his thumb over my lower lip and my eyes slid closed. He spoke low into my ear. “It turns me on to watch you tattoo. To see you concentrating, marking someone, changing them. The way you walk fucking gets to me. You stalk around, with your hands on your hips and your chin up, and your gorgeous ass out.” I snorted and he grabbed the ass in question. “It’s like you’re constantly about to fuck someone or fuck them up.”
He nipped at my neck and I writhed.
“What else?” I gasped as he pressed his hips up, letting me feel the erection straining his jeans.
“Your voice,” he said. “So hot. And I’m serious about the swearing. I don’t know why it turns me on, but it does. It’s like…I don’t know, like you’ve got so much passion simmering away that normal words aren’t strong enough. Or maybe I just like it because your mouth’s so gorgeous that dirty words make me think about other dirty things…”
His hands trailed slowly down my ribs, then he pinched my nipples, sending jolts through me, the piercings turning the pleasure to pain and back again. I swore and bit his ear and he groaned, pulling my hips down and squeezing my ass.
Then he kissed me, our tongues tangling furiously and I moaned into his mouth, never wanting the kiss to end. We kissed until we were breathless, his hips lifting off the couch, mine grinding down, seeking friction.
I was hot and flushed with contact, my lips buzzed from kissing. Christopher’s eyelids were heavy as I leaned in and kissed the freckles across his cheekbones, then the ones I knew were on his chin, hidden once more beneath his usual stubble. He made a small sound and his hand slid up my back as he shuddered.
“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” I murmured against his neck. “You’re all hot and—mmm, thick.” I squeezed his thighs. “Lie down.” I kissed the other side of his neck as he struggled to lie down without dumping me onto the floor.
“Damn couch is too small,” he muttered.
“You’re too tall,” I said and pulled him onto the floor. But it wasn’t true. I loved how big he was, how when he wrapped his arms around me I felt completely enveloped in his warmth. “I wanna look at you for a minute,” I murmured.
I stripped his shirt the rest of the way off, balancing on his lap, and traced patterns in the scattered freckles on his chest and stomach. I wrote my name in his freckles, like I was marking him for my own, an invisible tattoo that only I knew was there.
Keeping my touch light, I watched the flush of arousal spread from his cheeks, down his neck to his chest; watched his nipples harden as I traced circles around them then squeezed.
He groaned, the flush spreading down his stomach. I dipped a finger into his navel, and stroked the line of hair that disappeared into his underwear. He was delicious, laid out before me, ruddy and strong, muscles straining under my touch, skin heating to it.
I fed on his reactions, as if every inch of skin my eyes caressed belonged to me. I ran possessive hands over his ribs, and ran my short nails down his muscular arms, encircling his wrists, with those bones that I couldn’t stop staring at whenever his sleeves rode up.
He was gazing up at me with lust-lowered eyelids, his mouth swollen from my kisses. I could feel the sting of stubble burn around my lips, and I loved the idea that he could see evidence of our passion on my face.
I looked right into his eyes, rucked my skirt up around my hips and
reached between us, adjusting him through his pants so that his erection pointed up to his belly. He groaned and sucked in his stomach so I could reach his skin but I shook my head. Positioning myself on top of him, I ground against him so the ridge of his erection stroked against my wet cleft through my underwear. The dirtiness of it lit me on fire—grinding against each other on the floor, hips straining together as we stared into each other’s eyes.
I knew I could come this way, tightening my internal muscles and clenching my ass, and I wanted to see Christopher lose it, helpless beneath me. I wanted the sensation of us using each other’s bodies just like this.
“I—fuck—that’s—” he groaned as I found the perfect angle.
He was practically vibrating with the effort to lie still, and I licked a line up his neck. I wanted to live with my mouth on his throat, our hips straining together, his hands tangled in my hair.
He locked his arms around me and kissed me so hard I was gasping into his mouth. Then I broke the kiss and slid back down. He sat halfway up, stomach muscles contracting, so he could watch as we ground together.
“Oh, fuck,” I said and he grabbed my ass with both hands, pressing us tighter together. My whole body hummed with heat, my skin buzzing with arousal. As I strained against him I felt his erection swell even more, and I braced myself on his shoulders so I could drive us more fully together.
“Oh, shit,” he said, eyelids fluttering shut and hips pulsing up as he squeezed my ass, fingers sliding into my crease. “Shit.”
I reached between his legs and squeezed his balls as I moved faster, and Christopher cried out. He bent his knees and bucked up against me like he’d lost control, pressing me into him as he came in his pants. His head was thrown back, tendons in his neck straining, and he squeezed his eyes shut tight. He panted and then moaned. He was so fucking beautiful I almost couldn’t stand it.
I was burning up with lust for him, and when he opened his eyes they were laser focused on me. I could feel where his gaze hit: my neck, my collarbones, my stomach, my straining hips. His hands were locked on my ass, and I thrust against him, slow and hard. I was so close, my muscles clenching and releasing faster and faster.
“Jesus Christ,” he murmured worshipfully, and reached one shaking hand to my shoulder.
I was breathing hard, right on the edge, and I spread my legs wider and tightened every muscle, thrusting hard as he caressed my ass. And there it was—a spark deep inside that radiated through me in pulses of pleasure like a pebble dropped into a lake. I groaned as I came, my whole body gone rigid and hot like an exploding star. Then I collapsed on top of Christopher and hooked my chin over his shoulder.
“Jesus, that was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” he murmured, pushing my hair back from my sweaty neck.
My face was hot, my hips still tensed, my ass and thighs trembling, and my core still pulsing with pleasure. I let myself kiss his neck, breathe in the smell of his skin and his hair. We lay there for a while before Christopher started shifting uncomfortably, and I moved off him so he could clean up in the bathroom.
As I got up, I saw the familiar white paper bag from Melt on the coffee table and realized I’d never even looked to see what kind of sandwich Christopher had brought me. I snagged the corner of the bag before collapsing onto the couch, and Christopher smiled as he came back into the room in just his underwear.
“I forgot it,” I said, holding up the bag gleefully.
He sat on the couch and pulled my legs over his thighs. “It’s an experiment. By now it might be a rock, but you can weigh in on the idea, anyway. It’s a s’more sandwich. It’s marshmallow fluff and chocolate—I put espresso powder in the chocolate spread, since it was for you—and then I made this bread with graham flour so it’d be kind of like a graham cracker. I’m still working on it though.”
“That’s the smartest thing I’ve ever heard,” I said, leaning in to kiss him. The sandwich had gone kind of hard, yes, but one whiff and I might as well have been next to a campfire. Christopher watched me intently as I bit in.
The graham cracker bread tasted like being a little kid, and the chocolate spread was dark and rich, the marshmallow toasty and sweet, though it’d turned gummy from the cold.
“It’s amazing,” I said, crumbs sticking to my lips. “So fucking good. You’re a sandwich artist. Not in the sense of a Subway employee, I don’t mean.” I shoved another bite of sandwich into my mouth to shut myself up and offered the other half to Christopher.
We ate in silence. Then, in silent agreement, we went back to kissing and it tasted like we were making out in front of a roaring fire.
⌃ ⌃ ⌃
J—
Yeah, they were kind of awesome, right? I don’t think they needed the glaze, though—it made them a little too sweet? I want to figure out how to get the kind of hardened cinnamon coating on the outside like the real Pop-Tarts have, but without using royal icing. Next time.
I think you’re right about the Ginger thing. I’ve told her that I like her because of her personality, not in spite of it, but I guess it’s not that easy to unlearn stuff you think you know about yourself. I think what I tell her is competing with a lot of people who’ve told her the opposite over the years. A lot of people have told her she was messing up, or she wasn’t good enough, or pretty enough, or…anything enough. And in response to that, she squared her shoulders and stuck out her chin and glared, and then refused to change. And I admire the hell out of that.
But now that tough-guy glare is kind of her default, like if she admits to needing help, or being hurt, or wanting something (or someone—you see where this is going)…then she feels like she’s let her guard down and she’ll get whacked in the face. It’s frustrating because I’m on her side. She’s so amazing at what she does—she works harder than anyone I’ve ever known, she’s fiercely protective of her friends. Even of strangers.
She was in Melt the other day and a man in line said something to a younger guy who was wearing makeup—I didn’t hear what he said, but the younger guy turned bright red. Ginger said, “Do you feel better about yourself now? Can you go on with your day, secure in whatever bullshit you feel about yourself? You’re gonna be all right?” It was in this really sincere voice, like she was actually concerned about him. The guy cursed her out and left, and the young guy was all blushy and grateful. She shot me this look as if she thought I was gonna get angry she cost me a customer, and when I high-fived her, she gave me the greatest smile :D
It’s been better recently though. Like maybe she’s sorting out some of the shit that made it feel so hard to think about having a relationship? I feel like suddenly I can see what she’d actually be like if she let her guard down and just…was. And it’s amazing, man.
Uh, okay, I just realized I’ve spent this whole email talking about Ginger and you maybe think I’m obsessed, so…
Seriously, though, come by Melt some time? I’ll even make you that chai shit you like so much. Do you still like that? Guess it’s been a while since we’ve hung out somewhere other than Mom and Dad’s, huh?
Mom said Kaspar called the house? Does he…know you guys aren’t together anymore? You told him, right? You didn’t just ghost him? Not that he shouldn’t want to know how you are even if you’re not together anymore. It just seems like he’s really hanging in there, ya know?
C
Chapter 17
I was awake far too early, having left the warmth of my bed and followed Christopher to Melt based on promises of the freshest bagels I’d ever had. Clearly, I’d been half-asleep and sex-addled, because I’d woken wrapped in Christopher’s arms, warm and comfortable, and then somehow I’d let myself be zipped into my coat and pulled down the street still in my pajamas, with only the word “bagel” registering through the haze. Now I sat on the counter, perplexed by the distinct lack of a bagel in my mouth.
I made an inarticulate sound of confusion and groped toward Christopher in the dark. He shook his head and grabbed for his p
hone. As it rang, he kissed me softly and murmured, “Sorry.”
When he answered the call his tone was harsher. “Tommy, where the hell are you? Uh huh. Nope. Yeah, you’re late. Okay, good.” He shook his head and pocketed the phone. “He’s out back. I’m gonna let him in.”
I briefly considered trying to make the espresso machine give me coffee in the meantime but abandoned the notion almost immediately, since it had more knobs and buttons than my stereo.
“Dude! This order’s not right,” Christopher said, the cold air from the open back door chilling the café.
“We had a little mix-up of cinnamon and sesame,” a voice that must have been Tommy’s said. “But people will like these, I promise.”
“Nope they won’t. People don’t eat cinnamon bagels. That’s why I don’t order them. Besides, what people will like isn’t your business, it’s mine. Your business is bringing me what I order. So make it happen.”
“Aw come on, man, I’ll be late on all my deliveries if I go back to the bakery.”
“Not my problem, man. Your mistake, you fix it.” There was a silence, then Christopher’s voice, which had been firm but friendly, took on an edge. “Tommy, I have a standing order with you guys because you gave me a good price and you’re local. If it becomes inconvenient for me to keep that order, though, there are plenty of other bakeries that would be glad of the business. Up to you. But I’m not paying for the order until it’s right.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay Chris, no problem,” Tommy said. I heard the sound of the truck door slamming, then Christopher came back inside, holding two bagels.
“Well, he screwed up half the order so he’ll be back in an hour, but I got these at least.” He sliced them and put them in the toaster. “You want coffee?”