by Penny Reid
By the time she was finished, I was squinting at her, trying to keep the pleased grin from my face. “You ‘saw through my ploy’? You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you?”
“I am smart.” Kat took a bite of cake, licking the excess icing from her fork. My attention dropped to her mouth. I would just have to accept that every time she took a bite of cake she was going to lick her fork afterward. But I swear, it was the best kind of torture.
“What are you thinking about?” She sounded honestly curious. “Are you concerned about Caleb?”
“That shitbird?” I snorted. “No. Eugene said his guardianship order was rushed, temporary, and something about it not being valid if you’re married.”
“That’s a relief.”
She licked her lips. Hypnotic.
“Yeah.”
“Dan?”
I bet she tastes like cake.
“Yeah?”
Only one way to find out.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Cake.”
“My cake?” She smiled, her voice soft and expectant. She had a beautiful voice, and a beautiful smile.
“You could say that.” I lifted my eyes back to hers, wishing I wasn’t jet-lagged. Wishing this was months from now, and things were settled, and she was naked.
“Any requests for next time?”
“Next time?” I was still distracted by thoughts of her naked.
“Yeah, next time. What’s your favorite kind of cake?”
I cleared my throat, scratched my jaw, figuring I probably shouldn’t say, Kat flavored. So I opted for, “I like big bundts and I cannot lie.”
A surprised laugh erupted like a choking sound, and then she covered her mouth when a new wave of laughter overtook her. Her laugh was beautiful.
Meanwhile, I lopped off a large piece of my second slice, again careful to grab some of the top and middle layers of frosting. And then I groaned all over again. Kat, Wally, and cake—could life get any better?
Still smiling and chuckling a little, she set her fork down and rested her elbows on the table, staring at her plate thoughtfully. “Can I tell you, I like that you ordered two sandwiches at Capriotti’s. I’ve been thinking about it a lot and I think I need to be more like that. I need to order two sandwiches when I can’t decide which one I want. I can always take leftovers home, so it’s not like it’ll go to waste. There’s no reason I shouldn’t order two sandwiches.”
Her little tirade had me grinning.
Then she asked, “Can I try yours next time?”
“Of course.” I shrugged, my voice lowering in the way I knew would make her blush. “You can have anything you want.”
At the suggestiveness in my tone, her eyes cut to mine. She did blush. She also leaned back in her chair to study me.
“Dan.”
“Yeah?”
“Talk to me about gratitude.”
“Gratitude?” I blinked.
“Why do you hate it when I thank you for helping me?”
Grimacing, I moved my attention to some random point over her shoulder. “So, here’s the thing . . .”
I didn’t know how to start, and that was the God’s honest truth. Things were good up ’til now, even with the talk of Tiny Satan. But this shit? I hated talking about my dad. I hated thinking about him.
But she’d asked. And she deserved an answer.
“I don’t know if you have any experience with something like this, but I don’t like the idea of making the same mistakes as my parents.”
“I might have some experience with that, yes.” She smiled warmly, giving me the impression she didn’t mind the absurdity of my statement, and nodded for me to continue.
I placed my fork next to my plate, wiped my hands on my napkin, crossed my arms, and stared at a crumb of vanilla cake on the table. Tired to my bones all of a sudden, I was too exhausted to explain the whole sordid history of my family.
“Look, gratefulness isn’t a reason for two people to be together. It always ends, and it always ends badly. One person feels worthless, the other person feels bitter and trapped. I need to know the reason you’re giving us a shot doesn’t have anything to do with gratitude.”
She studied me, the movement of her hands snagging my attention. She was twisting the ring on her left finger, the ring I’d given her at the hospital. Seeing her wearing it, realizing that she’d been wearing it all week, improved my mood like not much else could’ve in that moment.
“You don’t want me to be grateful because you don’t want us to start—for things between us to start—with gratitude as a foundation?”
I gave her a small smile, wanting to convey that I wasn’t upset with her. It was the memory of what my father had done that pissed me off.
“Yeah. That’s part of it. But I also don’t want you to be grateful for something I did thinking only of myself.”
“You’re telling me, you married me because you wanted to? You want to be married? To me?”
I tilted my head back and forth, considering how best to answer. “More like, anything that paves the way for you to give me a shot—as long as you weren’t doing it out of gratitude—and anything that kept you from marrying someone else, I’d sign up for.”
“I still don’t understand why this is such a big deal to you. But, Dan, I am grateful. I can’t help that.”
A familiar coldness, frustration snuffed out all my good humor.
Kat reached across the table, her palm up in invitation. “But gratitude has nothing to do with the way I kissed you at the Clerk’s office. When I think about you, when I’ve thought about you over the last two plus years, gratitude was never the first—or the second, or the third—thought in my mind.”
Oh.
Well.
If she’s going to put it like that.
“What was the first thought?”
She huffed a self-conscious laugh, moving to withdraw her hand but I caught it before she could.
“You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.” I dropped my voice again, hoping to see her pink cheeks while I held her hand and gaze captive.
Her stare grew a little hazy. “Lust.”
I grinned, because it was the right answer, and I leaned forward. “And what’s the second?”
She didn’t hesitate. “I didn’t deserve you.”
What the—?
If one of us didn’t deserve the other, I was definitely the undeserving asshole in this scenario. “Why would you think that?”
“Because—”
“Because of the guys you’ve been with? Because, I have to tell you, being with other people doesn’t make you any more or less deserving of happiness. It’s like owning a couch. Why should anyone care if you own a couch?”
“I know that. Or rather, I know that now. But my thoughts about deserving good things? It’s so many things.” She rubbed her forehead with her free hand. “Until Janie and Sandra, Ashley, Elizabeth, and Fiona, my closest friend—if you can even call him that—was my family’s lawyer. It’s difficult—no, it’s impossible—as a child to see yourself as worthy or worth knowing if no one else does.”
I felt my frown intensify at her confession, but before I could offer my opinion on the subject, she spoke over me. “I’ve been going to therapy, and I’m so much better. It’s not magic, and it’s not a cure-all, and it’s been work to get to this point, but I like myself, who I am now, the choices I’m making now—which is a big step. Even though it might sound trite to like oneself, it’s a big deal for me. And so, I have these scripts—that’s what my therapist calls them—in my head, of certain things, and they make having normal, healthy relationships—they make intimacy, being intimate—very difficult. Not just for me, but for—for—”
I waited, watching her as she struggled. Make no mistake about it, she was struggling. Whatever she couldn’t bring herself to say bumped up my heart rate.
“Okay. Back up. What do you mean by script? What does that mean?”
>
“A script is like, when the first time you do something, or the first few times you do something—like have—like be physically intimate—you do it a certain way, or in a certain state.”
“A state? What? Like Florida?”
She closed her eyes, clearly trying not to laugh. She also covered her face, mumbling, “This is so embarrassing.”
No.
No way.
I didn’t want to embarrass her. Nor did I want her to feel like anything she said to me was embarrassing. Didn’t she understand by now? Nothing she said or did was going to send me running.
“You got kink? I can work with kink. As long as it isn’t illegal. Or painful.” I thought for a moment, and then added, “Or polyamory.”
A laugh burst from her lips, but she still couldn’t bring herself to open her eyes. “I want to tell you, because you should know before you decide whether you want to—to—”
“Okay, stop right there.” I let her hand go and her eyes flew open at the sound of my chair scraping against the wooden floor. I walked around the table, took the seat next to hers, and recaptured her fingers. “Look. We got time. Just because we’re married doesn’t mean you owe me anything. We take things slow, no biggie.” I shrugged. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to tell me, or you’re not ready to tell me. But—this thing, with us?—it’s already happening.”
Whatever it was, if she wasn’t ready to say it, then I didn’t want to hear it.
Needing the feel of her, I lifted my hand to her beautiful face, her skin unbelievably soft, and something in me relaxed when she immediately covered it with hers, leaning into my touch.
“It’s already started. There is no more before I decide,” I added, softening my tone, tugging her forward and whispering just before taking her mouth, “I’ve decided.”
Chapter Fifteen
Shareholder: Any person, company or other institution that owns at least one share of a company's stock.
—Investopedia
**Kat**
The sun wasn’t up, but I was, sorta.
In a sleepy yet not quite asleep haze, I reached for Dan, finding a warm patch of bed instead.
We’d fallen asleep together in my bed. I’d lured him into the guest bedroom, asking him to show me where the light switch was for the closet—I already knew where it was, but it was the only way I could think to get him into my room—and then I suggested he try out my comforter as it was the world’s most comfortable blanket. Dan hadn’t required much convincing.
At first I tried to get comfortable, giving him space. But then he’d reached for me, pulled me to him, and it was heavenly. I’d fallen asleep curled around his body, my cheek on his chest while he lay next to me, his arm around my shoulders and back, his big hand on my hip. Sleeping with Dan as my pillow had been a blissfully relaxing and thrilling experience, and I’d dreamed sweet, soft dreams of contentment.
Presently, as I lifted myself on an elbow and blinked at the surrounding darkness, I couldn’t remember a time I’d ever slept so peacefully. “Dan?”
“Hey,” he whispered, and I spotted movement from the far side of the room, his form a vague silhouette against the city lights beyond the window. “I’m here.”
“Can’t sleep?” I yawned, glancing at the clock on the nightstand. It wasn’t yet 5:00 AM.
“Did I wake you?” Dan crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, releasing a laugh that sounded frustrated. “My sleep is all fucked up. It feels like moon o’clock and I’m on the south pole of Mars.”
I could just decipher his outline. He still wore the pants and T-shirt he’d been in earlier. “Maybe you’re wearing too many clothes, those pants can’t be comfortable.” I snuggled under the covers even as I flipped the blanket open on his side, hoping he’d climb in again. “What do you usually wear to sleep?”
He hesitated, then said, “Usually nothing. Or just my boxers.”
Quite abruptly, I was awake.
I was more than awake.
I was officially alert.
“Oh.” My heart beat double time, images of a birthday-suit-wearing Dan danced in my vision. I mean, he wasn’t dancing, but the images of him were.
Dan seemed to consider me before finally asking, “Do you mind if I—”
“No, I don’t mind!” I blurted, and then cringed as soon as the words erupted. Grateful for the scant illumination provided by the city and moonlight through the window, I cursed myself silently for the overly eager response.
It wasn’t that I was afraid he’d change his mind about us, or want to back out if I let my puerile flag fly. More like, I didn’t want to subject him—or anyone—to the puerile flag. I wanted to be someone thoughtful, who didn’t blurt, who didn’t react without careful consideration. I wanted to be sophisticated and mature.
And, mostly, I felt I was firmly on the road to becoming that thoughtful, considerate, even-tempered person. Except, apparently, when asked my opinion about spending time with Dan, or Dan being naked. Then I morphed into an immature dork.
To his credit, he didn’t seem to mind my outburst. His luscious lips curved into an irresistible smile and he stood, holding my gaze, his eyes glinting in the grayish light. Reaching for his shirt’s hem, he pulled it off, and my hands fisted in the covers.
Now I was cursing the inadequacy of the scant moonlight, and my heart was beating triple time.
Shadows of ink swirled over the bulk of his shoulders and strong arms. Unable to see the details clearly, I could tell the designs at his neck were the tip of the tattoo iceberg. Smoky lines hinted at intricate patterns, all of which ended at his chest, his toned stomach and sides had been left untouched.
I’d been so distracted by his torso, I didn’t realize he’d already removed his pants—but kept on his boxer briefs—until he was climbing into bed next to me.
My heart gave a little jump as one muscular leg slid against mine, the fine hairs an exhilarating texture, the weight of him substantial, his chest a formidable wall. He pulled me against his body, placing a light kiss on my lips, and then leaned slightly away.
“Hey,” his voice rumbled. I felt the vibration of his words, and everything about him felt so solid and intense and electrifying.
I told myself to calm down. I told myself not to be a puerile dork. I told myself to be sophisticated.
“Hi,” I responded, my tone steady, firm, not dorky. “Are you tired?”
He shook his head, his eyes moving to my lips. “Are you?”
His knee bent then, his upper leg brushing lightly against the apex of my thighs, causing my breath to hitch as a spark ignited at my center. I told myself to breathe in, and then breathe out, each inhale and exhale precise, least I do or say or blurt something embarrassing and ruin the moment.
Don’t be a ruiner.
But the resultant spark of heat became a multifaceted thing, curling and twisting, a knot low in my belly. Tendrils of hot, raw sensation expanded with each of my measured breaths, his leg’s firm press, making thought difficult and speaking impossible.
Therefore, I shook my head, answering his last question wordlessly and braced myself for the impact of his smile. What I didn’t prepare for was the smolder and intent in his eyes. The obscuring darkness made everything feel closer, weightier, louder, like a whispered secret.
Dan’s hand slid down my arm to my hip, gripping me; his head bent, his tongue and teeth loving my neck. I closed my eyes, taking another careful breath, and felt . . . okay.
Worry, mostly absent until now, tightened my throat, and ballooned slowly in my chest, because I wanted to feel more than just okay. I wanted to feel great. Anxiety was a different kind of burn, like frostbite, and it unfolded itself. A silent monster, standing and stomping out the spark in my abdomen and the feelings of okayness, replacing everything with nothing.
No chill, no warmth, just a sudden void of agitation.
No. No, no, no!
Tears pricked my eyes and I blinke
d them away, my hands moving over his stomach, his sides, my legs shifting against his as I chased the earlier spark. But though I felt a tad frantic, I continued regulating my breaths. I didn’t want him to know.
He hadn’t done anything wrong. He was Dan, funny and sexy, sweet and stubborn. His body was amazing, the way he moved the fulfillment of all my dirty dreams and desires.
He was perfect.
I was the problem.
He touched me, his palm caressing my backside over my sleep shorts, his fingers trailing around to the front of my stomach, his touch light against the hem of my pajamas. I held my breath, waiting for… something. For my body to, I don’t know, kick in. Work correctly.
Dan’s mouth lowered to my shirt, suckling my breast over the fabric as his finger dipped into me. I concentrated on that, on him, on the light massaging movements, on how much I wanted him, needing so very, very desperately to feel one tenth the amount of hot and bothered I’d felt just moments ago.
But I didn’t.
I clenched my teeth, battling against the tide of disappointment.
Dan paused at my breast, his movements stilling. Lifting his head, his narrowed eyes found mine. “Hey, are you okay?”
“Yeah. Great.” I tried to sound convincing, giving a little moan.
His hand at my pelvis ceased stroking me. “Are you . . . Kat—”
I lifted my chin and kissed him, pressing my body against his, trying my best to recreate the heat between us as I flattened my palm against the bulge at the front of his boxers. But I couldn’t.
He felt amazing.
And I felt numb.
Why isn’t this working? What is wrong with you? Why don’t you work?
Renewed tears of frustration stung my eyes and I swallowed, telling myself to calm down. Maybe if I relaxed and retraced my steps. Maybe if I—