He points at the TV and laughs again, acting as if he doesn’t know I’m staring at his chest like it’s a Monet painting.
“Sorry, am I bothering you?” he asks, looking over at me.
“Not at all,” I respond.
“I’m sure my shirt will dry quickly.”
I hate him.
I hate what he’s doing to me.
I want to touch him, but I won’t. I can’t give into this. But my heart is racing and the stupid little voice in my head is telling me to touch him, anyway.
Better idea.
“Can you grab that for me?” I ask, pointing to the right of where he’s sitting, toward my side table.
He glances over, looking for what I’m asking for. “Grab what?”
“Never mind,” I tell him, leaning over his body, allowing my breasts to skim his chest as I grab the paper clip I left on the table.
When I sit back and tend to the piece of metal by untwisting it into a straight line, I notice Brody is biting his bottom lip and breathing heavily.
Take that.
“Mind if I use your bathroom?” Need to adjust your pants, maybe?
“Of course not, go for it.”
Brody disappears into the bathroom for a long two minutes. I take the opportunity to yank my v-neck shirt down lower than I’d typically wear it. I push my bra up and perk up the ladies to do more damage.
Brody prances out of the bathroom, flexing his torso, making a show of the fact that his jeans are much lower on his waist than they were when he walked into the bathroom. He has one of those v-cut shapes creating an arrow, which highlights his goods.
His gaze falls to my chest before refocusing on the TV while sitting back down. “How’s your paper clip?” he asks.
“Hard to bend,” I respond.
“That’s it. I can’t do this,” he says, standing up and grabbing his shirt. “Nope.”
“Can’t do what? Finish? I mean watching the show?” His eyes bulge, almost to the point of anger.
“Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
He is waving his arms around frantically. “This. Stop all of this.”
I look around, offering an appearance of confusion. “I don’t know what ‘all of this’ is, but I’ll try to stop?”
“I have no game,” he says.
“I know,” I agree. “Age will do that to you.”
I think I will win this little game he’s creating, and I’m proud of myself for being strong.
Brody does the unthinkable, well, the almost unthinkable and drops his pants, leaving nothing but his boxer briefs on display, outlining a largely defined boner. “You’re killing me.”
The ache comes quickly, my body screaming for the attention I’ve deprived myself of for years. “Shave the beard. That’s all you have to do,” I tell him with a small smile.
Brody leans forward and pulls his pants back up and fastens the button, then slips his shirt on over his head. “I’m leaving.”
“You can’t leave. You have to take me back to my mom’s to get my car,” I tell him, standing up to grab my keys.
“No, I’m not ready to do that yet.”
“Brody, you can’t just leave me stranded.”
“I won’t,” he says, opening my door.
“Seriously, come on, don’t do this.”
“I’ll be back.”
“When?”
He checks his watch. “An hour.”
I cock my head to the side, showing him the annoyance in my eyes but he closes the door and I hear the rumble of footsteps jogging down the steps. I lock the door after him and fall into my bed, rehashing every single mistake I don’t think I made tonight.
10
A smile stretches across my lips as I curl into my comforter, knowing my effort of payback was a success. There were fifteen text messages, five phone calls, and I lost track of the number of knocks against the door. All ignored. That’s what he gets for dropping his pants. Let that be a lesson he never forgets.
My smile slowly fades when I remember where my car is and the fact of having no way to get there without calling for help. Or a taxi. It’s way too early in the morning for a taxi.
I blindly make my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth and splash away the sleep with some cold water. Shockingly, I slept for more hours than usual and I feel rested. I’ll be unstoppable with coffee.
I shuffle along the wooden floor, passing the front door where I spot a folded note. Maybe it was his last attempt to get me to open the door.
I squat down and snag the paper, opening it as I stand back up.
* * *
I brought coffee, but I might fall asleep in the hallway because I’ve been sitting here all night.
Well played, Journey. Well played.
* * *
He slept in the hallway. Why? I tear open the door, hoping to startle him if he is asleep, but by the sound of a snore growling from his throat, I’m not sure an avalanche would wake him up. He’s in the same clothes as last night, a henley and jeans, and he’s using his down coat as a pillow beneath his head. His beard ... it’s gone. I didn’t think he would go through with it.
It only takes a minute before guilt runs through me. Did he feel the same kind of guilt when he drank my coffee the other morning? He looks peaceful and innocent, and if I don’t wake him up, he will be late picking up Hannah for school.
I reach my toe out and nudge the tip of his boot. “Hey,” I call out.
The gravelly sound of his snore morphs into a session of heavy breaths, but he doesn’t wake up. I consider bringing him another glass of water, but this time, spilling it over his head. Too easy, though.
I kneel beside him and place my cool hand on his cheek. “Brody, wake up.”
No movement, just elongated breaths.
“She’s so beautiful,” he mumbles. “That’s why I shaved my beard for her. She’s perfect.” I stare at him as the garbled words form with a slur. Do I believe he’s sleep talking or call his bluff? Would drool be pooling in the corner of his mouth if he was faking sleep?
“Brody?”
“She’s so beautiful,” he mutters again.
I cup my hands around his cheeks and squeeze. “Brody Pearson, you need to wake up right now.” Despite wondering if he’s sleeping or not, he jerks forward and finds my lips with an impeccable aim for having his eyes closed, but I pull away and slap his arm.
“Come on,” he whines, his eyes opening slowly. “I shaved and everything.”
When Brody’s eyes are fully alert, he stands up and grabs the two coffees before forcing me back into the apartment, forced as in I will be knocked over for not moving out of his way.
“Why did you sleep in the hallway?”
“Why wouldn’t you let me back in?” he asks.
“I fell asleep.” I shrug along with my small smirk.
He shakes his head and huffs with frustration. “Do you like my face?”
I wave my hand from side to side. “Meh. I think I like your beard more.”
Brody places the cups of coffee down on the counter before charging toward me like a bull being teased by a red flag. I’m laughing because he looks ridiculous. I’m laughing because this is the second time in twenty-four hours that he has thrown me over his shoulder. I haven’t experienced this since I was a child. I’m laughing because I don’t know what other emotion I’m capable of at the moment.
He tosses me down on my bed. “You’re killing me,” he says. Another foreign feeling of a smile stretches across my cheeks. “And that makes you smile. What kind of person are you?”
“One who likes to win,” I say with a satisfied groan.
Brody pulls his shirt off, standing in the glow of the sunlight’s rays bouncing off the icy white mountain tops. Why does he have to look so good?
His pants are the next to fall, but I’m still in an oversized t-shirt and shorts, something I barely slipped on before purposely falling asleep last night.
H
e places his hands on his hips, doing little to conceal the bulge pressing against his boxer briefs. “Do you always stand in front of open windows, naked?”
“Nope. Just yours.”
“I see.”
“You’re not giving me a clear signal here,” he groans.
“Didn’t you sleep in the hallway?” I counter.
Brody runs his fingers through his hair, clearly frustrated. “Fine. Tell me to stop and I’ll leave.”
Shit. That’s forcing me to comply. Sneaky bastard. I close my eyes and think about my decision, but he doesn’t give me the time I need to consider my options. My shirt is being pressed up to my neck by his head as he trails his lips in an uneven pattern up the center of my torso.
He yanks my shorts from my waist and tosses them far enough away that I hardly hear the material hit the floor. “It’s like you were waiting for me,” he says; “no panties, no bra.”
“I was asleep,” I remind him.
“Dreaming of me making you smile?”
Brody slips my shirt above my head, leaving me naked beneath him. The soft rasp of his voice makes my muscles tighten as he wraps us both in my blanket and lowers his body onto mine. I open my eyes in the comforter’s shade, finding him staring, smiling, and softly brushing a strand of hair away from my face. “Kiss me,” he sings; the 90s version by Sixpence None The Richer. “Out of the bearded barley.” I know the lyrics well, as he obviously does. However, I don’t think he understands the meaning of the words. I’m not sure why I know the definition of bearded barley, but it has nothing to do with a beard or barley. In fact, it’s something a man wouldn’t be saying at all. I debate informing him of this tidbit, but his lips are against mine and I’m melting into the plush mattress, feeling every inch of his body touching every inch of mine. His face is smooth and smells like a spicy lotion. “I can’t stop thinking about you. I don’t act like this. I’ve never found a reason to act like this.”
“Like what?” I whisper, feeling breathless beneath his weight.
“Uncontrollable; possibly needing something I can’t have.”
I am immediately weakened by his words. “I might not be what you’re expecting,” I tell him.
His lips return to mine, kissing me slowly, letting his mouth linger between breaths. His tongue teases mine and I wrap my arms around him, squeezing away the tension. My nails press into his skin, retaliating against a loss of control.
His hand travels down my side, skating along the curve of my figure. My breaths increase in speed and my heart pounds against his chest as his fingers dip between my legs. His touch forces my body to arch off the bed, away from him as if I don’t want more. He follows the restlessness of my lower body, claiming parts he knew needed the most attention—the parts that turn my ragged breaths into pleading cries.
Brody slides down the length of my body, determined to prove the worth of his tongue compared to his fingers. This man is skilled in finding spots, finding all the spots at the same exact second. His hands are clenching my hips, holding me hostage against his mouth, allowing me to do nothing more than scream for more until I fall. I fall from the sky back into my cloud of a mattress and struggling to catch my breath.
It’s been so long, and I feel numb everywhere.
Brody makes his way back up the center of my body, kissing every important spot along the way until he reaches my collarbone where his teeth graze gently against my skin. I shudder from the overstimulation. “Just as I imagined,” he whispers in my ear.
I reach down to return the gesture, sliding my hand beneath his boxer briefs and wrap my hand around the girth of what feels much larger than what I expected. I twist my hand around his hardness a few times before sliding out from beneath him to switch positions.
I can’t have him thinking I’m putty in his hands after making me scream like that.
I free him from his boxer briefs and continue jerking my hand up and down before lowering my mouth around him. A moan slips from his lips, encouraging me to go further. I keep my hand moving while twisting my lips and tracing my tongue in circular motions. Brody’s hand tangles in my hair and he grips firmly as if needing the support to keep him grounded. I dip lower and lower, taking my time, giving every inch of him every ounce of my attention. “I’m going to—” he says, trying to pull me off of him. I appreciate the respectful offer, but I hold still, taking the quick relief down the back of my throat. “Oh, Jesus.” He’s nearly hyperventilating, as he continues yanking at my hair and tugging at the sheets with his other hand. “Holy shit.”
I climb up his body and fall lazily on top of him, hoping I gave him exactly what he gave me. “Sorry for making you sleep in the hallway,” I tell him.
“It was so damn worth it, Journey. Shit. I’d sleep there every night to relive this again.”
His hands loosen from my hair and the sheets and he combs his fingers through my tangled strands before leaning forward to kiss my forehead. The kiss feels more intimate than all the other kisses, like he’s trying to say something other than voicing desire.
“Thank you for my wake-up call,” I tell him.
“Journey,” he says, still trying to catch his breath. “I need you to know ... I really like you. This isn’t just some need. I feel something for you, and it makes me crazy with the games we’re playing, but I love this kind of crazy. It’s thrilling and addictive. I just—don’t want you to push me away yet, okay?”
His explanation of feelings triggers a new kind of pain in my chest, not one made from sadness, but a feeling from missing out on being wanted in such a way. I didn’t think anyone would ever want to be with me for more than what my body can offer. “I won’t push you away, yet,” I confirm.
“I need to spend more time with you. I need to know more about you. I want to hear the missing pieces and fill in the voids. We’ll go at your pace. Whatever you want or need. Just let me in.”
This is a side of Brody I haven’t seen. He’s laying his cards down on the table, face-up without a care in the world for whatever move I make next.
I fold.
This feels too good.
“I haven’t been in a relationship. I don’t know how to do this or how it works. I’m selfish and careless and locked inside my head on some days. I struggle. I fight my own thoughts. I’m lonely and secretly needy but will never ask for a hand. It’s my only defense.”
“You don’t need to ask. I had a feeling you might secretly need someone to hold you up sometimes. I won’t tell anyone.”
I nod my head, swallowing against the tightness in my throat. “Brody?”
“Fireball,” he responds.
“Do you know what bearded barley means?”
“I figured that’s what women call a messy beard.”
I release a quiet laugh. “It’s obviously not a commonly used term, but it means something like that, but of a woman’s nether region.”
“Wait, what the hell? Are you serious?”
“I’ve Googled it.”
“I thought this song was like the sweetest romance song of the nineties and it’s some chick singing about someone going down—”
“Yup.”
“Shit,” he says. “My youth was a lie.”
“Speaking of youth … aren’t you supposed to take Hannah to school?”
Brody’s eyes widen and he tosses the covers to the side, desperately seeking the time of whatever device he can set his sights on. He reaches for my phone so it’s closest, likely finding the fifteen missed text messages he sent me last night, but I guess this isn’t a passing thought as he drops my phone to the bed and nearly falls to the floor. “Oh crap. I have to be at my mother’s house in ten minutes and she lives twenty-five minutes away.”
He struggles to get his clothes on, hopping on one foot then the other, fighting with the sleeve of his shirt while confusing it for the head-hole. “I’ll call you,” he says. “Maybe next time I’ll remember condoms too.”
I hold the sheet up to my mouth
and laugh. “Drive safely,” I tell him as he grabs his coat.
Drive safely. I don’t tell people to drive safely. It just came out.
Brody pauses and his brows furrow. “I will. I promise.” He leans over me and kisses me softly. “Have a good day, beautiful.”
“You, too.”
When the door closes and I’m alone in my bed, I wait for the regret to set in. Did I screw up? Should I have waited? Should I have never let him in?
My pulse races at the answer to my question. He excites me. He makes me feel something—alive.
I don’t feel like I should have that right.
I don’t deserve to feel this way.
I deserve a life like Adam’s.
Adam.
All thoughts revert back to the fact that I still don’t have my car. My car has been parked at Mom’s all night, which means she is speculating the absolute worst or best—however she wants to look at the situation. I went out with Brody last night and never came back to collect my car. I’ll need a good story for this one.
11
I wonder if Brody forgot about my car or purposely left me stranded. While I debate on how to retrieve my vehicle, I sip on one of the lukewarm coffees Brody left on the counter. The flavor is hazelnut, like the kind he stole from me. I suppose I can chalk that up as a thoughtful gesture.
My phone, with its inability to stay quiet for more than a full hour, is buzzing, and I make my way over to see who needs to talk so early in the morning, finding Melody’s perky smile and name flashing across my display.
“Hey,” I answer.
“Good morning,” she chirps. “I have a crazy question for you.”
I take another sip of my coffee. “Oh yeah, what’s that?”
“Where are you?”
I glance from side to side, wondering if this is a trick question. “At home, why?”
Bourbon on the Rocks (The Barrel House Series Book 2) Page 10