by K. Bromberg
I lose myself to the moment. To the here and now. To all of it. Lost in not thinking. To the feeling. To being wanted. To the simple sensuality of being kissed senseless.
My core burns with desire like I’ve never felt before. Molten liquid spreading from my center outward. The ache so intense it borders on painful. My lips tingle; my nipples tighten; my skin gets goose bumps.
Zander’s hands inch their way beneath the hem of my shirt. Roughened fingertips scrape ever so gently along that sensitive flesh just about the waistband of my pants. Shocks of sensation spiral up my spine and only add pressure to the need tingeing my reactions.
He gently slides them up my bare back at the same time he shifts his stance so that our bodies are perfectly pressed together with my body perched on the edge of the counter. And I’m not sure if it’s the flash of a thought in my mind that he might want to take my shirt off or the sudden sensation of the hardened bulge of his denim-clad dick pressing between the apex of my thighs, but I must hesitate somehow.
Because he reacts.
Zander breaks from the kiss instantly, a startled gasp falling from my mouth as his hands come to my face so I can’t look away. And before he can even say a thing, I’m instantly nervous: hands shaking, apology at the ready, rejection accepted, inadequacy verified.
His eyes search mine and I feel like such an idiot. What woman gets kissed senseless by a man and then hesitates when she can feel the evidence of her turning him on? It’s not like he was grinding against me or rushing the moment. He’s not guilty of anything other than being a virile man.
“Getty?” My name on his lips again. Concern etched in the lines of his face. My eyes desperately try to focus on anything other than his.
The fear takes over: of disappointing him, of my body turning him off, of not being enough, of scaring him away because of my lack of skill—take your pick.
“I’m sorry.” It’s a reflex. On my tongue and out of my mouth without thought.
And I get the reaction from him I wonder if I was subconsciously hoping for. “Sweet hell, Getty,” he says in frustration as he pushes away from me, one hand shoving through his hair, the other raking down the back of his neck as he turns and takes a couple of steps away from me. “Will you stop apologizing? You did absolutely nothing wrong.”
He turns back around, eyes begging and asking and searching, and I don’t know how to respond, since apologizing, being the one to blame, is all I’ve ever known for so long.
“I’m sor . . .” My voice fades off, the word—once again—dying on my tongue as his jaw sets in frustration.
How was it that seconds ago my blood was on fire from his touch and now it’s heating my cheeks in embarrassment? I can’t even be kissed without messing it up.
“I told you. She’s a disaster.” I can barely say it. I have to look away from him, focus on my clasped hands with my thumbs fiddling together. Can’t bring myself to watch his reaction to my shame. But the condescending laugh I’m so conditioned to expect doesn’t come.
Not in the least.
He comes into my field of vision, his hips, his chest, his chin, his eyes, as his hands tenderly guide my face up so that I can meet his eyes. “He doesn’t think she’s a disaster. In fact, she’s quite the opposite. She’s beautifully scarred, gorgeously flawed, irresistibly captivating.”
Tears well in my eyes—his words are probably the nicest ones anyone has said to me in so long. He’s not telling me it never happened. He’s not telling me I made it all up in my head. Rather he’s telling me that despite it all, there is still something redeemable in me.
The first tear slips down my cheek and yet he keeps his eyes unwavering on mine.
“I don’t know what he did to you, Getty. Don’t have a fucking clue. But I know he didn’t treat you right. He took every part of you that you gave him and mistreated it somehow and so badly that you fear the things that should make you feel good. Laughter. Yourself. Your art. Your confidence. A kiss. And who knows what else?”
His words hit too close to home. Make me struggle for air under the weight of their presence in this moment. Their implications making me feel so very stupid for letting Ethan steal all those things from me.
“Please, Zander. Don’t ruin tonight. I’m sor—didn’t mean to . . . Tonight was one of the best times I’ve had in as long as I can remember. Can we just leave it at that? Please?” My voice wavers. The tears I’m holding back burn in my throat. His thumbs brush back and forth on my cheeks, reminding me of how much I’ve let him in.
“Oh, Getty,” he sighs with clear affection as he rests his forehead against mine. We are nose to nose, his hands still on my face, the warmth of his breath feathering over my lips. There’s something so comforting in the action, in the fact that, rather than run away, he stepped into me. I close my eyes and feel his concern, accept his compassion.
“One of these days you’re going to find a man who treats you right,” he murmurs softly. “Sweeps you off your feet. Treats you like you walk on water. Inspires you to paint sunny skies and calm oceans.”
“Not nudes?” I can’t help it. It just felt right to say. And as I reel that he noticed the correlation between my emotions and my pictures, he steps back from me, eyes alight with humor and a quiet laugh on his lips.
“No. Not nudes.” He runs his hands down to my shoulders and squeezes them gently. “You deserve nothing less than the best, Getty.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, wondering how he figures into all of this, considering he was the one kissing me moments ago.
He breathes deeply, whatever it is I can see on the tip of his tongue weighing down the atmosphere around us. Is he thankful for my hesitancy because now that he’s stepped back, he regrets getting involved with the head case that I obviously am?
I wouldn’t blame him if he did. And I hate that I’ve already lost a little piece of my healing heart to this man standing in front of me with conflicted eyes. He’s kind and patient and stubborn and my God, the man can kiss me so senseless I forgot my old and my new name. Is it stupid to say that? Yes. But when you’ve never known kindness like this, it’s easy to give a part of yourself to the person who shows it, because when all you have are broken pieces to begin with, who’s going to miss one more little piece?
Seriously? Why am I having ridiculous thoughts like this when three weeks ago I was ready to poke his eye out with a mini-blind wand? I look at him—blue eyes, dark hair, hard body—and wonder how he went from annoying to attractive. Am I that messed up—that emotionally wrought—that being nice to me is all it takes?
I hate that I don’t know the answer to the question.
“I need you to hear this when I say it and really listen, okay?” he says, pulling me from my self-deprecating thoughts.
Here it comes. I was right. He regrets this.
I nod my head.
“Right now every damn part of me wants to kiss you again. Kiss you till we can’t breathe, then lay you down on my bed and show you what it’s like to feel that kind of worship. But God, Getty, I can’t do it knowing that I might hurt you in the end when you’ve obviously been so hurt already. I can’t make the promises you deserve. I have my life back home. My racing. My family. I need to sort my shit out, make my amends, and then in a few months I’ll head back to it. That’s not fair to you. I want more than anything to be the selfish prick I’ve been over the past few months and think only of myself. Sleep with you, feed that crazy need you’ve created in me, and then walk away when the time comes without a care . . .” He blows out breath and shakes his head like he can’t believe he’s not going to, before meeting my eyes again. “But I can’t do that to you. I can’t knowingly walk you into my storm without showing you where the lighthouse is so you have a way out before you even begin.”
My eyes go wide and chest constricts as I attempt to process everything he’s saying. The civil war
happening inside him over being who he needs to be versus who he wants to be. Over what I know is best for me and what could break me again.
And of course all coherent thoughts vanish when he steps into me again, hands back on my cheeks, eyes locked onto mine. He leans forward and brushes his lips to mine in the most tender of kisses. The kind that makes you want to simultaneously sag inwardly and fist your hand in his shirt to demand more.
His unsteady draw of breath is audible—restraint held by a thread—before his blue eyes find mine. “I’m showing you where the lighthouse is, Getty. Giving you a way out. It’s up to you to decide if you want to step into my storm before it passes through or head for safety. I can’t decide for you.”
I begin to speak, my heart in my throat and my pulse racing, but he shakes his head to stop me. “Not now. You need to think about it. Sleep on it. Get a clear head and figure out your answer. I’ll wait.” When he reaches out to put one hand on the side of my face, I close my eyes and turn into the touch. My lips kiss the palm of his hand; his compassion has undone me in so many ways I can’t think straight. “Good night.”
“Zander,” I call after him as he turns to walk down the hall.
He stops momentarily, head hanging down, broad shoulders set proudly. “Good night, Socks.”
There’s so much I want to say. Stop. Wait. Yes. No. I don’t know. I’m sorry. But none of them come out, because I’m not sure which one I want to say the most.
I want to tell him that I don’t care. That we should just live in the moment. Not worry about tomorrow or a few weeks from now when the to-do list is complete. Ask him to help me get over the hurdle of Ethan’s lies by showing me how sex should be. Be the spontaneous person I aspire to someday be.
Desperation fuels my thoughts, makes me already miss how he made me feel tonight. But I can’t tell him, because he’s right. I already like him too much as it is. What’s going to happen if I fall for him and he leaves and doesn’t look back? Is it presumptuous? Yes. But at the same time, he’s given me something that no one else has in a long time: hope.
Oh my God, Getty. Get a grip. Go back to painting angry thunderstorms instead of thinking of beautiful sunsets, because you’re not going to ride away into one of them with him. You’re naive if you think you will. While he may be a good guy, there’s no place in his life for a wannabe painter/bartender in any capacity let alone as more than friends.
And he already said he definitely doesn’t want friends with benefits.
To us. His toast echoes in my head as I hear the door to his bedroom close quietly, and I grip the edge of the counter to keep from acting on that want for spontaneity.
Now I’m left in the darkened kitchen with his kiss on my lips and his words in my head, wondering what exactly I want us to be.
The problem is the difference between want and need is a thin line called self-control.
And I’ve already been controlled enough in my life.
Chapter 13
GETTY
Something jolts me awake with a start. The shadowed figure standing over my bed startles every part of me—breath, heart, imagination. And for that split second before he says my name, fear takes hold that Ethan has come for me.
“Getty.”
“Zander?” My voice is drugged with sleep, mind racing with what he’s doing in here as he lowers down to sit on the edge of the bed. I’d started to relax at the sound of his voice, but now every intangible part of me stands at attention.
And before I can comprehend much more—why he’s here, why my stomach is somersaulting into my chest, why chills are racing over my body—he leans forward without another word and kisses me.
Soft at first. A brush of lips. A tug on my bottom lip. A hand brushing my hair off my face as he leans back to look at me through the moonlit room. And I know before he speaks what he’s going to say.
“I want you, Getty.”
“Yes.” It’s the only answer I can give. The only consent needed, because his mouth is back on mine before I can inhale my next breath. And while this next kiss is still tender, there’s a tinge of hunger to it that’s new and surprising to me.
I relax into the mattress, too many things happening at once to process them all. His hand running down the side of my rib cage. His other hand on the side of my neck, thumb hooked under my ear. The increasing demand in his kiss. The groan of desperation from his throat. His hand on my waist sliding under the hem of my T-shirt. A chilled hand on warm skin slowly sliding up. My soft gasp as he finds my breast. The arch of my neck. His fingers caressing. Tongue possessing. My sensations overwhelmed.
The match being lit.
I’m inundated. Lost to his touch and the skill of his mouth and the incredible way he makes me feel.
The stubble of the day’s growth scrapes down the column of my neck, his lips lacing open-mouth kisses to soothe its sting. But I like the sting. Like knowing I’m alive and this is really happening. Then he cups my breasts with both hands, his mouth taking over their seduction in a kind of finesse I’ve never experienced. His warm lips and heated tongue suck and tease the tight bud of my nipple while his strong hands hold them in place.
The combination of sensations causes a blistering ache in the delta of my thighs. One that hurts so good.
“Fuck, Getty,” he murmurs against my breast as one hand runs down to my hip, fingers kneading the flesh there as I thread mine in his hair and moan in response to the bliss he’s creating.
Fingers feathering over the tops of my thighs. They tug my waistband. Skim across the top of my sex. Fingertips tickling right at the top of my seam, a subtle request for access. And I’m so lost to experiencing this with him—the hushed murmurs of desire and the touches laced with intent—that all I can think about is how much more I want of the way he’s making me feel.
His fingers dance over my most intimate of flesh as his mouth finds mine again. This time his kiss feels more demanding, hungrier, and it’s my only focus until his fingertips slowly part me and brush gently over my clit. My gasp of pleasure is swallowed by his kiss, the sudden tensing of my leg muscles his gauge of my definite responsiveness.
And my God . . . going from having no one touch me but my own hand to being treated with such reverence—soft and desirous and attentive—is like creating a spark in a room full of propane. Explosive. Fiery. Unrelenting.
His touch rocks me. It doesn’t take much. Between the generosity in how he caresses me and the greed in his kiss, seconds tumble into one another as every part of my body burns bright and fast toward climax.
My hands on his shoulders. Fingernails into steeled flesh. Breath robbed. Head digging back in the pillow. Back arched. Hips bucking. Zander catapults me into the oblivious free fall of my orgasm.
“Zander.” I cry out his name in a plea for him to keep going. A plea for him to stop for a second. And I can’t decide which I want more as his fingers softly milk the last of the vibrations for me.
“Getty.”
“Not yet.”
“Getty!” More insistent. Hands suddenly on my shoulders, shaking me. My mind shocked to the present.
To the dark room around me. Zander standing over me, my fingers slick between my thighs. I freeze, trying to grasp dream from reality.
“You were having a nightmare. Called out my name. Were thrashing around,” he says as he sits down beside me.
And if there were any way he could see my eyes and the mask of mortification that must be blanketing my face, he’d know the truth. That my dream was the furthest thing from a nightmare. But thank goodness for the moonless sky and darkened room. Or else he’d know that I’d just gotten off dreaming about him. That there was a damp patch in my panties from fantasy sex with him.
“I’m okay,” I stutter breathlessly as I slowly withdraw my hand out from beneath the drawstring of my pants so he doesn’t notice the movemen
t. I push myself up, my body coated in a light mist of sweat, my muscles still contracting from the remnants of my orgasm.
My self-indulged one, it seems.
Could this get any worse? Having the man you’re fantasizing is giving you an orgasm be the one to catch you in the act, so to speak?
“You sure?” He reaches a hand out and runs the back of it down my cheek. “You were moaning and moving—then you called out my name for help. It scared the shit out of me. Must have been a bad nightmare.”
It takes a second to find my voice. The right words to say get lost in the embarrassment and the postclimax fog of endorphins. “Yeah. I’m sorry.” I run a hand through my hair, pull the covers a little tighter around me. “I—I—uh, don’t even remember what it was about. But thank you. I appreciate you checking on me.”
“Was this because of me?” he asks, concern in his tone. The blood drains from my face momentarily as I wonder if he’s caught on to what was really happening. “Was it because of the things I said to you tonight that stirred up bad memories—”
“No.” I’m quick to cut him off, feeling like an ass that he’s sitting here worried his honesty caused me to have a nightmare when in fact it was quite the opposite. But it’s not like I can tell him that. “I watched a scary movie the other night. I’m sure it had to do with that.”
Smooth, Getty. Real smooth.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes. I will be. Thanks. I’m sorry I woke you up.”
Please go back to bed and put me out of my misery.
“I’ll let you get back to sleep, then,” he says as he stands from the bed, a handsome shadow in the night. “I’m glad you’re all right.”
“Good night, Zander.”
“Good night, Getty.”
We can’t see each other’s eyes, but we are sure as hell holding each other’s gaze through the darkness, because I can feel it. After a moment of suspended silence, he nods his head and walks to the doorway as emotions war within me over wanting him to go and asking him to stay.