His only issue was the gap between the words he thought and the words he spoke. And I had a feeling there was more going on in his head than one- to three-word responses.
I turned onto his street and parked in the driveway. We had a session today, but I wasn’t going up to his room. The sun was shining and there was a warm breeze. It was far too beautiful to stay cooped up indoors.
Besides, I had a theory that him being at home was holding him back. But there was only one way to find out for sure.
Cade
Tasha entered the main kitchen in my dad’s house, her smile bright, a big, dark pair of sunglasses hiding her eyes. “I wondered where you were when I didn’t find you in your room.”
There was no food in my room, so I’d come down here. I’d just showered and was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. She’d caught me eating a sleeve of Girl Scout cookies I found in the freezer. Sorry, Dad. Finders, keepers.
“I don’t think you’ll need a jacket.” Her eyes went to my sock-covered feet. “But you will need shoes.”
I frowned. What the hell was she talking about?
She plucked a cookie out of my hand and ate it in one bite. With her cheeks filled to chipmunk capacity, she mumbled, “Let’s go.”
I fought a smile and lost. So damn cute.
She strutted out the front door, her honey-blond hair bouncing as she went. I polished off the last cookie and stuffed my feet into my sneakers where I’d kicked them off at the front door.
Outside, Tasha was behind the wheel of her shiny Z4. Waiting for me. I liked that as much as I liked her gleaming car. I wondered if she’d let me take it for a spin today. I hadn’t been behind the wheel of such a choice ride in way too long.
Her head bobbed and her fingers tapped to a beat I couldn’t hear. I guessed it was more of that pop bubblegum crap she liked so much. Last night at her place I’d chuckled as she’d couch-danced to a One Direction song. She’d asked me what was so funny, and I’d shaken my head, avoiding giving my opinion and possibly insulting her. See? Not speaking wasn’t so bad.
Except when I wanted to ask her questions about her life. School. What turned her on—not sexually. Well, not only sexually. I was curious what she liked and why she liked it. There was a huge communication gap between us. Between me and everyone I knew, technically, but the one between Tasha and me bothered me most.
The sun was out, the spring day beckoning. Even guys like me were beckoned on occasion. Not by chirping birds, but the shine glinting off that Beamer did it for me.
I locked up the house and climbed into the passenger seat, adjusting it since my knees were currently under my chin.
Tasha giggled, threw her car into reverse, and backed out of the driveway with a rough jerk. A low hum came from her throat. “You smell good.”
So did she. The whole car, actually. New car smell mingled with her strawberries-and-flowers scent. The seats were buttery leather, the dash a sleek woodgrain. I fiddled with the radio while she navigated to the highway.
It was frustrating not knowing where we were going, but it was more frustrating watching her underutilize the fine automobile she drove. I mean, seriously. A hundred questions popped into my head about everything from the alloy wheels to the suspension. Whether or not this baby had turbo. My skin itched from how badly I wanted to know.
Another pro of being able to speak. I chalked up an invisible hash mark.
“Yours?” I asked as she switched lanes. I knew the Z4 was new, but I didn’t know if it was hers or her father’s and he let her drive it.
“The car?” she asked.
I pressed a button and an interior light came on. I turned it off.
“My father bought it for me a month ago. I was scared to drive it at first, but I’m getting the hang of it.”
No she wasn’t. I winced when she stomped the gas with too much force.
I popped open the glove compartment. In it I found a brochure describing the seat color as “champagne.” It also had a steering-wheel warmer. I found the switch for that and then flipped it on and off. There was a button for voice command on the dash, more of a hindrance than a feature if you asked me.
“Help yourself,” she said as I poked more buttons. “I don’t know what this car can do yet, but I did preset my radio stations.”
Of course she had.
I tucked the brochure away and checked the speedometer. She was driving sixty miles per hour. It was a crime to drive this car a single digit below eighty-five.
I licked my lips, preparing to speak. “W-where are we going?”
Dammit.
“I’m so glad you asked.” She changed lanes with a yank of the wheel and my heart stuttered in my chest. Definitely less smoothly than I would’ve done it, but at least we were alive. I couldn’t remember my accident exactly, but some part of my physiology did. The wiggle of wheels on the road was enough to make me brace for impact. I was tempted to ask her to pull over and let me drive. If I were sitting in the driver’s seat, at least I’d be in control.
“Speech therapy exercises,” she chirped.
Therapy. I hated that word. The idea of her seeing me as mentally deficient was emasculating.
“I’m excited. Aren’t you?”
I rolled my eyes. Yippee.
She pulled into the parking lot of the Ridgeway Art Museum a few minutes later and unbuckled her seatbelt. “How’s your hand?”
I flexed my fingers. Shrugged.
Her cool, slender fingers landed on mine. I flicked my gaze to her face, lost in her sweet expression. Incapacitated by her pursed, petal-soft lips. At least I assumed they were petal soft. I’d yet to find out. I’d meant to kiss her in her apartment, but chickened out in the end. I couldn’t tell if she’d wanted me to and I hadn’t wanted to offend her.
Shit. I had a full-blown crush on my therapist.
“Today we work on fixing you,” she announced cheerfully, releasing my hand. “Just like you requested.”
The sympathy in her eyes paired with my own creeping anxiety made my stomach roll. This was an epically bad idea in a lifetime of bad ideas. That’s saying something since I’d had a lot of bad ideas over recent years. I thought of her, sexy and studious, trying to teach me how to talk, and humiliation coated me. I wasn’t scared to try, but I was terrified of failing. What if I never improved? Never healed?
Suddenly, I didn’t want to be here. I’d rather eat pizza with her while listening to her terrible music. When she didn’t consider me a pet project. Or a science experiment.
I leapt from the car before she noticed the shake rattling my arms and slammed the door. She was on me in two seconds flat.
“Don’t take out your bad attitude on my car.”
I gritted my teeth. Flared my nostrils. Tried to intimidate her with my mind.
She laughed, humorless, but it was a laugh. “You were the one who asked for my help.”
“Ch-changed my muh-mind.” My face grew hot. From anger or embarrassment or maybe both.
She folded her arms and gave me her best admonishing glare. “You’re acting like a child.”
“You’re t-treating me luh-like one!” I shoved my hands into my hair, closed my eyes, and sucked in a breath. I wanted to die. I couldn’t say the most basic shit and it was beyond frustrating.
I stalked off in no particular direction. I didn’t have a plan, but I wasn’t going to stand here and be scolded. I debated going into the museum, but I felt like punching something, so walls covered in priceless paintings weren’t the best backdrop for my rage.
“Cade,” Tasha repeated for the fourth or fourteenth time as she stomped behind me across the lawn. I paused in front of a cement fountain with a huge merman, trident in hand, his stone beard frozen in mid-billow.
Behind me, her shoes scuffed to a stop on the cobblestones.
“You’re not going to heal overnight.” Her tone was soft.
If ever, I thought petulantly.
After a long pause, she announced, �
�Well. This place is as good as any,” then she left me standing there. Me and the merman. I silently asked if he’d mind helping me out of this one. He didn’t respond. We were kindred spirits.
Tasha returned holding a large blanket and a backpack. “Sun or shade? Pick one.”
I shrugged. She huffed and then marched over to a sunny patch of grass and dropped her things. She shook out the blanket and sat, unpacking books and papers.
We were really doing this.
Beyond stealing her car and stranding her here, I was out of options. So, I sat. Knees up, arms linked around them, I watched her with deep suspicion.
“So. Mouth exercises.” She held open a book and showed me a few illustrations. “Think of it as working out.”
Not this again.
She smiled, way too happy about my plight. “We’ll start with warming up your palate. Try this.” Her full lips rounded, her fair eyebrows lifting over comically wide blue eyes. “Ooo.”
No. Hell no. I sure as fuck wasn’t doing that.
“Then after the ooo,” she said, dragging her finger to another illustration, “you’ll do puh sounds.” She demonstrated by popping her lips as she enunciated, “Puh, puh, puh.”
I was definitely not doing that. I continued scowling, but my chipper therapist remained unfazed.
“Come on. Do it with me.” She did the ooo thing again.
My eyes slipped to her pursed lips and stayed there. I remembered the moment in the bathroom at Oak & Sage, the way I’d pressed her against the door, my lips very, very close to hers. I wished we could time-travel back to that moment instead of being stuck in this one.
“What about the puh sound?” She popped her lips a few times and I grinned. “You are impossible.”
You are beautiful, I wanted to say, but I also didn’t want to sound like that stuttering character from A Fish Called Wanda. Ken. Really old movie. Michael Palin was one of Dad’s favorite actors. Anyway. I related to Ken. Neither of us could string a smooth sentence together.
She turned a page in the book. “How about the kissing exercise instead?”
She had my full attention. My spine straightened and I released my knees.
“Pucker,” she said, her finger following the instructions on the page, “and then slide your lips left and then right. Like this.” Watching her mouth form a kiss was cute, and the Charlie Chaplin twitch she added, adorable.
I wasn’t doing that either, but I could watch her do it all day.
“From there you move on to whistling”—she regarded the book again—“and drinking from a straw.”
Drinking from a straw? I made a face when she pulled a few paper-wrapped straws and a bottle of water from her bag. She arranged them like torture implements on the blanket between us. I began to fidget, clenching my fists, biting my lip. I knew how to drink from a straw. Why the hell did I have to demonstrate it?
“Why?” I asked.
She stopped what she was doing and blinked at me. Every once in a while, if I felt confident I could speak a word or two out without tripping, I liked to surprise her. Ts were not easy. Helpful, since my therapist’s name was Tasha. A hard T.
Thanks, Fate. Appreciate the backup.
“Why…the straw?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Oh. Well, it’s a great activity for the tongue and cheeks. Drinking from a straw requires flexing the cheeks and”—she pinched her cheeks between her thumb and forefinger and made a fish face—“pursing of the lips. And sucking requires you to tighten your tongue.”
Parts of me were tightening the longer she talked. This session sounded less like therapy and a hell of a lot like sex.
“Think of it as an oral workout,” she added, feeding that visual.
If she kept this up, I’d sport a boner she could hang her backpack from. She realized what I was thinking slowly. Watching the blush creep up her neck and then dust her cheekbones was so enjoyable, I wished I could rewind the last few seconds and watch it again in slow motion.
“Cade! If you—if that’s what you’re turning this into, I’m… Listen. You came to me. I’m doing what you asked.”
I liked that she was flustered.
“I know,” I managed, and took a deep breath of relief. Nice when the words rolled off my uncooperative tongue without a fight. Rare, but nice.
“Also, smiling helps. Smile really big, then relax.” She demonstrated. Then she puffed up her cheeks and let them go. This was the most ridiculous display I’d ever seen. So why did she look so freaking cute doing it?
“Don’t be nervous. Just try it.”
“I’m n-… I’m n-n-…” I gave up.
She lifted to sit on her knees, her palms resting on her denim-covered legs. “Let’s start with the straw. There’s no talking involved with that one.”
I hated the gentle quality of her voice and more, the pity in her eyes. I snatched the water bottle, twisted off the lid, and took a slug.
“Not all of it!” She tried to stop me, but I swung out of reach.
Then I drained every last drop of water in the bottle down my throat.
“Thanks a lot. Now what are we supposed to do with the straws?”
I had a few suggestions, not that I could fucking say any of them. I crushed the bottle and tossed it onto the blanket like a gauntlet. There. That takes care of the straws.
Her eyes narrowed with determination.
I had a feeling she wasn’t giving up just yet.
Chapter Eight
Tasha
Cade was visibly nervous, his fingers twitching a frustrated rhythm on his leg. I thought of Moira’s assessment that his problem was in his head, which I agreed with, in part. The change of scenery had not improved his attitude. When he was angry or when anxiety crept in, his stutter worsened.
I wasn’t done trying yet, but he didn’t need to know that.
Pretending I changed my mind, I packed the straws and books back into my bag. He watched me, suspicious. He should be. I’d arrived at a theory of sorts. He spoke clearly when he was close to me. In the bathroom at Oak & Sage, and again at my house, he’d spoken just fine. Sure, it’d only been a word or two each time, but I was on to something.
Now I had to prove to myself it wasn’t a fluke.
I scooted closer to him, my heartbeat thrumming in my throat instead of my chest, where it was supposed to be. What I was about to attempt was risky. Exciting.
Necessary, the perfectionist inside me argued.
He continued to watch me warily as I gathered my courage and scootched the slightest bit closer. The only space between us was the breath I’d just taken.
“I need your help,” I murmured.
I expected his eyes to shutter, but he appeared more curious than guarded.
“We won’t use the straws. I won’t ask you to make silly faces.” I lowered my voice into what I hoped was a sensual purr. “I want to try something else.”
His eyes dashed to my lips and his pupils widened.
“It’s purely scientific,” I insisted, though there was nothing pure about my intentions.
His lips flinched, and there was no denying the hum of attraction. It practically vibrated the ground beneath us. My gaze traveled from the arch of his top lip to his full bottom lip to his stubborn, angled jaw. This was not going to be a hardship.
“Close your eyes,” I instructed. “And purse your lips.”
His expression went from confused to bland. He shook his head.
“Don’t you trust me?” Had I read him wrong? Maybe he didn’t want to kiss me.
He shook his head again, but this time his lips quirked. He sure liked to tell me no.
“Fine. Keep your eyes open. I’ll count to three.”
“Wuh-one.”
Pleased that he was game after all, I licked my lips. “Two.”
His fingers sifted into my hair, sending chills down my spine.
“Thr—” He cut off the word with a kiss.
What I’d i
ntended to be a light peck to prove or disprove my hypothesis quickly shifted into a solid lip-lock. He held my neck gently, but his kiss was firm and insistent. I curled my hands into fists on my jeans to keep from touching his hair to find out if it was as soft as it looked. A small whimper left my lips when he ended the kiss. Slowly, I opened my eyes, dazed by the confident pride in his.
“Three,” he said.
Cade
Tasha was stunned, and I’ll be honest, so was I.
Her “kissing” exercise worked like magic. Her plush lips melted every cell in my brain. And from what, an almost chaste closed-mouth kiss? I wondered what would happen if we added tongue. I loosened my grip on the back of her neck, giving her the opportunity to back away if she changed her mind. But then I didn’t give her a chance.
I’m going in anyway.
I slanted my mouth over hers. A surprised squeak emitted from her throat, and my chest unfurled like a banner. I deepened the kiss, sliding my tongue along hers to test her reaction. It was a good one—she began kissing me back. She tasted amazing. Sweet and perfect. Hot and wet.
One of her hands rested on my thigh, the other flattened on my chest—just sat there like a brand. Our tongues had touched tentatively at first, but then they turned greedy, the long, slow, smooth slides deeper and more intense.
She fisted my T-shirt and yanked me closer. Her eagerness thrilled me—sent a lightning bolt straight to my balls. I closed my eyes, felt the warm sun on my face, the soft tickle of her hair brushing my cheek as she slanted her lips over mine. I started this kiss, but Tasha was going to finish it.
My ears were filled with her shortened breaths, our sipping lips, and the rustle of clothing as my shirt rubbed against hers. As my jeans chafed against hers. There were way too many articles of clothes between us, and I regretted that we hadn’t climbed the stairs to my over-the-garage bedroom instead of coming here to do some very public groping.
If we were at my place, we wouldn’t have to stop.
She pulled away first, and honestly it had to be her to pull away first, because I sure as hell wasn’t doing it. Her lips left mine with a suctioning smooch, and the best part was when her wide, blue eyes hit mine. They were filled to the brim with lust. It seemed my therapist saw me as more than an ill-behaved patient after all.
Craving Caden (Lost Boys Book 2) Page 6