by Rae, Nikita
I blush and tuck my chin into my jacket, knowing he’ll still be able to figure out that I’m grinning by the way my eyes are crinkled at the corners. “That’s the second time you’ve said that.”
“What?”
“That you think my nose is cute.”
Noah tips his head back and laughs, attracting the attention of a couple walking by on the street. They smile at us when they pass and Noah holds his hand out. “Wait up a second, can I ask you guys a question? Don’t you just think this girl has the cutest nose? I’ve told her twice now but I think we need an outside opinion.”
The man and woman, both rugged up in thick coats, laugh. “It’s cute all right,” the woman agrees.
“See?” Noah thanks the couple by giving them a low bow, which is hilarious, and they go on their way, their boots crunching in the snow. Noah takes a step toward me and suddenly there’s no more space between us.
“I thought you weren’t going to kiss me,” I mumble, suddenly panicked and awkward again, my breath catching in my throat.
Noah purses his lips, staring down at me for a second. He really is tall. I freeze when he reaches up and gently brushes my hair back again, this time with both hands. His fingertips graze my jaw on either side when he lets them fall.
“I’m not.” He touches his index finger to the tip of my nose and smiles, backing away. “Might do soon, though.”
“If I let you.”
A dangerous smile spreads across his face. “If you let me.”
I pace up the steps and open the door to the apartment building, and the whole time Noah backs away down the street, watching me with that same mischievous look on his face. I’m single, and so is Noah, which means I am allowed to enjoy him flirting with me, teasing me with the promise of future kisses to come. So then why does it feel so wrong?
******
The darkness is almost perfect, which is the reason why every single one of my senses seems to be compensating. My sense of smell, my hearing, taste — everything is heightened. And there's my skin, of course. Every square inch of me is lit up like a Christmas tree. My breathing twines with the breathing of another, someone else sharing my bed with me. The syncopated harmonics of our inhalations and exhalations combine with the delicious rustling of skin on skin—our bodies wrapping around one another.
I don't think about who I'm with, where I am. The only thing that matters is this: his hands on me, his mouth on mine, the growing need that exists between us.
"Avery." The voice is familiar, I know it, have known it all my life. But I've never heard it in this context before. Never heard it breathing my name like it's a plea for help, like I am the only person capable of saving him.
"Luke, oh my God…" I can't think straight. There is something about this situation, something strange, but I'm too wrapped up in him, wrapped up in my sheets, in the way my heart is hammering in my chest to do anything about it. I don't want to do anything about it. "I need you. I need you so badly." Strong, capable hands rove over my body, cupping my breasts and leaving a trail of fire down my belly, hesitating between my legs. I want him to touch me there. I want him to touch me there so badly. I curve my body into him, unembarrassed by my need.
"Avery, what do you want? What do you want me to do to you?"
I want everything. I want him to consume me, to own me, to light me on fire. "Touch me," I whisper. "Make me come. Make me come all over your fingers." There is something inside me, something possessing me. I would never normally say those words, never know how to ask for what I want. But right now, I'm happy to direct his hands, his mouth, his entire body to exactly where I need it. Strong arms wrap around me, lifting me up from the bed. My naked skin slides like silk across his across Luke's, and then he is underneath me. I can feel him rock solid between my legs, his hard-on pressing insistently against my opening, and I lower my body weight fractionally, enjoying the way his body tenses at the contact. He wants me, I can feel it. He pushes me back gently so that I'm sitting upright, straddling him, and then his hands find their way to my hips. His right hand grazes my skin, sending shivers of pleasure exploding through my nerve endings. And then his fingers…his fingers head south, searching out the very centre of me. It doesn't take long for him to find what he is looking for.
"Slowly," I murmur. I grind into his hand, feeling liberated and whole and incredibly brave. Luke's hips press up beneath me, applying the most amazing pressure to my core, and all the while he strokes his fingers in small circles against the swollen bundle of nerve endings that seem to be controlling my brain.
"Is that good, baby girl?"
"So good. So good," I pant.
"You want me to fuck you?"
I really do want to Luke fuck me. But I need him to make me a promise first. "On one condition," I moan.
"Oh yeah? What is it, baby? Anything. Anything you need."
I take hold of Luke's hand guiding his fingers as they move on me. I hear his sharp intake of breath, his moan of pleasure. "I need you to swear you're going to fuck me as hard as you can. I want you to promise you won't stop until we both come together, until you make me scream your name. Think you can do that?"
Luke's laughter is strained, laboured. A little surprised. "I can do that, baby girl. I can do that no problem."
"Then do it. Make me scream." I dig my fingernails into his chest and he groans, hissing in a combination of pain and pleasure. The next thing I know he's pushing my body back and then sliding me forwards, his hands on my hips again, pulling me down onto him. Having him inside me is like nothing else I've ever felt before — he stretches me, thrusting deep inside me, and suddenly it's not dark any more. Fireworks light up my head, sucker punching me straight in the consciousness, and Luke makes good on his word. He fucks me hard. He fucks me until I'm screaming his name.
******
"Luke!" I sit bolt upright in bed, adrenaline laying siege to my heart. What the fuck? No seriously, what the fuck? What the hell was I just dreaming? The answer to that question is ricocheting around my head like a goddamn pinball. Breathing way too hard, I find myself pressing my thighs together, fighting the sensation that I was on the brink of something very amazing only two seconds ago. "No. Fucking. Way." There is no way I can handle dreams like that. Not with Luke Reid. I just can't allow it happen. I let my head fall forward, catching my breath. My sheets are a mess, completely wrapped around me and drenched with sweat. Perfect.
I fling them off, climbing out of bed and scrubbing my hands over my face, trying to rid myself of the sensation that I was having the best sex of my life a moment ago. And with a guy I really shouldn't be thinking about to boot. My subconscious really does find unique and cruel ways of torturing me.
“So you didn’t even get kissed last night?”
“Nope.” Well, Noah didn’t anyway. And dream lays don’t count. I crunch down on a carrot, knowing how much it annoys Morgan when I eat on the phone. “Noah said something about wanting to have the opportunity to do it more than once.”
“You know what that means, don’t you?” Morgan sounds a little strained. She’s nursing the hangover from hell, courtesy of a night in with her parents. Apparently, the only way to handle such an event is to get roaring drunk on expensive tequila.
“No, what does it mean?”
“It means he’s a player. He must be okay with kissing some girls just once, if you catch my drift.”
“It could mean that,” I concede.
“And that’s okay with you?”
I think about how complicated everything is for me right now; do I really need the potential for something serious with a guy on top of all that? The answer is a resounding Hell No. I’m definitely not ready to think about emotions and feelings and all that other complicated stuff. That might require me to analyse the foray my subconscious took into porno land last night. “Yeah, I think I’m okay with that. I mean, he’s an exchange student for crying out loud. He’ll be going back to Ireland at some point.
Plus I won’t have to explain anything about before, if we’re just having some fun.”
Morgan makes a choking sound down the phone. “Excuse me? Did I just hear you say, ‘having some fun’? I think all the hard liquor I drank last night has my ears on the fritz.”
Morgan Kepler, queen of hyperbole. I pop the rest of the carrot into my mouth and chomp extra hard. “I’m not that straight-laced, Morgan. At least I don’t think I am.”
“Trust me. You are.”
“Hey! I resent that.”
“I resent being accused of many things, but that, unfortunately my dear, doesn’t make them untrue.”
“All right, well maybe I don’t want to be straight-laced anymore, then. Maybe I just want someone to take my mind off things. That’s what Noah did for me last night—he made me forget for five minutes. That felt really good.” Until we hit O’Flanagan’s, of course. I’ve left that whole section of the night out of my story. I don’t feel like explaining Luke and his incredible voice, or the fact that he sang Blackbird. Morgan will only pick every single second apart and that will confuse things even further. And right now, some clarity would be great, given how muddy the water has gotten.
“I’m happy for you, chica. You need some light entertainment in your life. And I’m sure that lovely Irish boy knows at least a hundred different ways to keep you lightly entertained.”
I let out a loud sigh. Maybe she’s right. “When are you coming back to campus?”
“Late tonight. You wanna grab a coffee at lunch tomorrow?”
“Sure.” I hang up, feeling lighter than I have in days. I’m sure part of that has something to do with Noah and how our lack of history is like a clean slate. Something fresh and new and untainted. Maybe it’s time to put Lucas Reid out of my head once and for all. If I’m honest with myself, he’s been on my mind a lot since that night outside Tate’s frat house, during waking hours as well as in my dreams. It makes me angry that I’m letting myself think about him when I know it’s just another road to pain and misery for me. For starters, Luke knows all the hideous details of my past. He found my dad, for fuck’s sake. We’ve been meeting up since I was a kid so he can make sure I am okay. So he can try and find some sort of closure to the whole affair. Undoubtedly, he still sees me as the snot-nosed kid who kicked and screamed and smashed the window to the living room when she found out her father was dead. Those are the reasons I know with a certainty that Luke will never feel anything for me beyond pity and perhaps a protective sense of duty.
There are other reasons, too. Normal ones. He’s older and has lived in the city on his own for years, and I’m just starting out at college. I know he’s incredibly good looking, even if I pretend that doesn’t affect me—it totally does—and that means he can probably have any girl he wants. On top of everything, I desperately don’t want to feel anything for him because every time I look at him, I see his face on the day he came to our front door. I witness the horror of what he saw, the guilt of what he had to tell us. I see Breakwater and everything I want to leave behind. I need the man out of my life for good.
******
Tinsel wraps around the banisters in the stairwell in Luke’s apartment, red and blue, which seems a little weird. It’s a little early for Christmas decorations, and usually most places are decked out in red and green, anyway. Maybe everyone who lives in his building is a cop. I hike all the way up to the top floor and stoop down to leave the NYPD sweatshirt I’ve bundled inside a Macy’s bag. Luke’s is the only apartment up here so the chances of someone else finding it before he returns from work are practically non-existent. I’m about to turn and walk back down the stairs when the apartment door opens and Casey Fisher steps out wrapped in a black and grey hound’s-tooth trench coat. I freeze, completely stunned by the fact that Luke is back so early from his supposed twelve hour shift, and that his ex girlfriend is coming out of his apartment.
“Iris Breslin?” Casey sputters. She straightens and looks me up and down, the way people do when they’re mortified and intrigued at the same time. She’s cut her long black hair since high school but she still has a look of Snow White about her: bruised, pouty red lips, incredibly pale—that sort of thing. She’s the type of person to stay out of the sun so her skin won’t age. Much thinner that she used to be, she has a rake-thin New York chic working for her.
“Who are you—” Luke appears in the doorway behind Casey, shirtless, his dark hair all over the place. The tattoos that were playing peekaboo below his shirtsleeves the other day are much more extensive than I’d originally guessed. I would check them out if I weren’t locked to the spot by the horrified look in his eyes. There’s panic there, too. “…talking to?” he finishes.
Casey turns back to look at him, arching a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “I see you’re still fascinated by the macabre.”
“Casey, don’t.” There’s warning in his voice, but he is still staring at me. His eyes never waver. I open my mouth to say something and for the longest time I can’t think of anything. A handful of things rush through my head, none of them good. I could point out that I have a reason to be here. It would be simple enough to grab the Macy’s bag and point inside, but then Casey will know Luke loaned his sweatshirt to me, and I don’t want her thinking…
God, what don’t I want her thinking? I stare wide-eyed at Luke for another second before my legs seem to make up their own minds and I turn and bolt down the stairs. I’m halfway down when the very worst thing happens. After all the times Luke has gotten my new name wrong, he picks now to get it right.
“Avery, wait! Avery!”
I choke out a sob and run.
THE LIBRARY is the warmest place on campus, which means it’s packed. After a full morning of classes, I met Morgan here to study but so far not much studying has been done. At least not on her part. She’s been making out with Tate for the better part of forty minutes and the librarian looks ready to cause someone bodily harm. I’m in a terrible mood anyway, so it’s probably a good thing that I’m being ignored. That is, until…
““I’m going to pretend I’m not mortally wounded that you haven’t text me since our non-date.” Noah slides into the seat beside me, hat pulled down over his ears, grinning mercilessly. I drop my pen into the crease of my book and try to produce a smile from somewhere—hard to do since my nerves are still shot from my run in with Casey Fisher. And Luke—half naked, mussed, sexy as hell Luke. Urgh. It’s not Noah’s fault, though. None of this is.
“Sorry. Aren’t you supposed to text me? Isn’t that the way it’s done anymore?”
Noah shakes his head, still flashing me a full row of pearly whites. “The metro male is no long the pursuer, but the pursued. I’m gonna need you to apologize.”
“Apologize?”
“For giving me two sleepless nights in a row. It’s fairly unkind, torturing a man so.”
“Noah Richards!” Tate declares, slapping the study table. He and Morgan have finally come up for air, and my best friend looks positively devilish. I don’t need her observing any interaction I have with Noah; she’ll only interfere, which never ends well. Tate reaches over and bumps fists with Noah.
“You got those books, man?” he asks.
Noah nods, heaving his messenger bag up onto the table. “Just came by to drop them off for you. And also I wanted to stalk Avery Patterson over here, seeing as she’s making me do all the work.” He produces two textbooks the size of small telephone directories from his bag and slides them across the table. Morgan places a manicured hand on top of them and eyes the two of us.
“She’s making you do all the work, huh? That’s rude, Avery.”
Oh boy. Here we go.
“That’s what I thought,” Noah laughs. “Unless…” he turns to look at me, “I’ve got completely the wrong idea, haven’t I? I’ve been walking around for two days thinking you fell for my pathetic attempts to seduce you, and now I’m here embarrassing myself because you’re not interested.”
“O
h she’s interested, honey,” Morgan purrs. I want to slap her stupid, but she’s freaking crazy in a fight and I’d only lose. It’s better keeping her on side, so I just shoot her a foul look. The look she sends back is completely oblivious—you can thank me later.
“So you did fall for my pathetic attempts at seduction, then?”
I squirm, trying to avoid the toe of Morgan’s Steve Madden boot under the table as she does her best to bruise my shins. I’ll hear about this for weeks if I don’t play along. “Of course I did. Hook, line and sinker.”
Noah’s bravado doesn’t slip, he’s a consummate professional when it comes to flirtation, but I do notice a flicker of relief in his eyes. Tate, who’s been rifling in his wallet, tosses Noah a wad of cash across the table. “Thanks, dude. Would have had to pay a fortune to buy these new.”
“No worries, I don’t need ‘em anymore.”
“What are you doing today?”
Noah bumps me with his shoulder, grinning. “Got reading to do later. But right now? Right now I’m taking Avery Patterson for lunch.”
******
We grab lunch at the very first diner we come across off campus; we’re too cold to be picky, and the smell of fresh coffee draws us in off the street. Margo’s is packed to the rafters, filled with college students who’ve had the same idea as us, and a small, bird-like woman is pin-balling from table to table refreshing people’s coffee mugs. The windows run with condensation, and every time the door jangles open and a new customer enters the collective customers groan and holler for them to close the door.
Noah and I find a vacant booth and I order a coffee and some pumpkin soup straight off the bat. Noah orders a burger and an espresso, and when the waitress leaves he leans across the table and smiles at me. I was wrong before: he does have freckles, they are just so faint they’re barely visible, scattered lightly across the bridge of his nose. He stares at me without a scrap of shame.