by Megyn Ward
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I bellow at her, hands gripped around her shoulders, shaking her. I’m being loud. Rough. I shouldn’t do that. Treat her like this, but she’s scaring me. “Why would you do that?”
“Because I hate her,” she screams in my face.
It takes me a second to realize she’s talking about herself.
“I love her.” I counter, my hands softening around her shoulders. “I love the girl who put James in the hospital. I love the girl who shoves onion rings in her face because she knows it pisses off my cousin’s bitch of a fiancé. I love the girl who makes me watch shitty reality shows and the girl who paints me when I’m not looking.”
I drop my hands completely and take a step back. “I love the half-naked girl who knocked on my bedroom door and asked me to take her home three years ago, and I love the woman standing in front me now. I love you, Cari. I’ve always loved you...” I take a deep breath. Surrender. “And I know you love me back.”
She jerks away from me like I slapped her in the face, eyes wide. Mouth hanging open. She’s about to deny it. She’s about to tell me I’m wrong. That it was just about the sex. That none of it mattered. That I don’t matter.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “I know you’re scared—I’m scared too.” I step back again, pressing my shoulders against the wall. “I’m scared that you’re never going to figure it out. That you’re never going to accept the fact that this is real. We’re real.”
“There is no we, Patrick.” She flings her arm down the hall. “I’m leaving remember. This is over.”
“You’ll be back.” It hurts. Hearing her say it again, but this time I can accept it because I understand. This isn’t about how she feels about me. It’s about how she feels about herself. “I’m not going anywhere. You can run to hell and gone—I’m still going to be here, and I’m still going to love you. You do whatever you need to do to figure out what I already know. I’ll wait.”
“And what do you know?” I can tell by her tone she’s trying for sarcastic. Instead, she sounds scared. “What am I supposed to figure out, exactly?”
“That you’re enough.” I sigh, suddenly tired. Worn down. “That I love you.”
Her mouth snaps shut, and she wilts against the wall behind her, sliding down until her ass hits the floor. I step away long enough to turn off the shower. When I step back into the hall, I find her the same way I left her. Curled into herself, knees drawn to her chest.
I promised I’d leave her alone. Keep my hands to myself. Behave.
I know what I promised. What I said.
I don’t care about doing the right thing. Keeping my promises.
Doing what’s good. What’s expected.
All I care about is her.
I pick her up and carry her down the hall to her bed.
Our bed.
I lay her down and stretch out beside her.
I hold her.
And she lets me.
Twenty-three
Cari
When I wake up in the dark, Patrick is wrapped around me—his soft, even breath against the back of my neck. His arm hooked around my waist—holding me the way he did on the rainy morning he tried to show what he wasn’t ready to say.
What I’m still not ready to believe.
Closing my eyes, I think of that morning, the way he felt against me, the beat of his heart drumming in time with mine. I feel it now, and one word pulses through my brain, slow and steady like a heartbeat.
Stay.
Because that’s what I want to do.
I want to stay. More than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.
But I won’t. I can’t.
I stare out the floor-to-ceiling window across from me and watch the sun come up over the harbor, softening the night sky from black to gray. Because I can’t stand the sight of it, I turn in the circle of Patrick’s arm, bringing us face to face. Our mouths a whisper away from touching, I take him in. The firm angle of his jaw. The dark sweep of lashes that hide the most beautiful green eyes I’ve ever seen. His perfectly shaped mouth, lips slightly parted... like he knows I’m awake and watching him, his eyes open and look into mine. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. And neither do I.
Eyes open, I lean in, pressing my parted lips against his, my tongue coasting across the lower rim of his mouth. He doesn’t close his eyes either. He watches me like he’s trying to figure out what kind of game I’m playing now.
“You love me.” I say it out loud, barely more than a whisper.
“I love you.” He lifts his hand off my hip and pushes his fingers through my hair, his thumb tracing the curve of my eyebrow as his hand slides down to caress my cheek.
I know what I’m supposed to do. I’m supposed to believe him. I’m supposed to say it back.
I’m supposed to stay.
But I can’t. I can’t do any of it so I turn my head to press my lips into the center of his palm and do what I can. “Show me.”
Please.
The word trembles on my lips but I keep it locked away. I don’t want him to do this to please me. I want him to need me, just as much as I need him. I don’t want anger or pity. I want it to feel real.
I want to believe, even if it’s just for a while, that I’m enough.
He hesitates for a moment, and I know what he’s doing. He’s calculating the damage it will do us both to end things this way. He must come to the same conclusion I did—that we both need this, no matter the cost—because he moves, angling himself over me in an instant. I’m suddenly looking up at his perfect face, memorizing every curve and plane. Every slope and angle.
And then I’m falling.
He kisses me slowly, gently licking and nipping at my lower lip with his teeth and tongue. My mouth opens, and he slides in, kissing me until I’m breathless and aching. My skin burning in every place we aren’t touching. I whimper, my hand sliding past the hem of his T-shirt, seeking skin. Needing to touch him. Feel any part of him I can reach.
My fingers skate up the column of his spine, and it snaps tight under the pressure of my hand, his hips flexing against the mattress we’re on as he answers my whimper with a deep-throated groan. My hand traces its way down the length of his back, skirting over the curve of his ass, fingers gripping and pulling him closer, needing to feel him against the heat of me.
Patrick shifts closer and I open my legs, welcoming him into the cradle of my thighs. He stretches over me, hips rocking the length of his rigid cock against the throbbing center of me, again and again until I can’t breathe. Can’t see or feel anything but this.
Him.
Us.
I throw my head back, the base of it digging into the mattress, jaw clenched tight because it’s too much and not enough.
It’s too slow. Too fast.
Patrick’s mouth slides along the curve of my jaw, his hand gentle against my throat before moving lower, caressing the swell of my breast and I arch my back, pushing into his hand, trying to get closer. To keep him with me.
He snags the hem of my shirt and pulls back just enough to take it off, revealing my bra underneath. Arching my back off the bed, I unhook it, and Patrick pulls it down my arms to toss it aside. He cups my breast, his gaze centered on the contrast of his skin against mine, his calloused thumb brushing against my nipple so he can watch it stiffen and swell beneath his touch.
I can feel a blush creeping across my chest, and he dips his head, pressing a kiss against the birthmark beneath my collarbone before tracing the curve of my breast with the tip of his tongue. Moving slowly, Patrick drags his tongue between the valley of my breasts, over my ribcage, dipping into the well of my belly button. I wind my fingers through his hair, flexing them against his scalp, lifting my hips, grinding my pubic bone against his chin, urging him lower before he puts space between us, sitting up completely.
He looks down at me, hands gripped around my thighs, fingers tight on my skin, chest pumping like he just finished a run. “I�
��m trying to be nice,” he says, his jaw pulsing while he looks at me, his hooded gaze lingering on my throat, the bruises James left behind. He looks ashamed. Like he’s the one who put them there. “I want to be nice.”
“You don’t have to be. I don’t want you to,” I say, reaching for him, running my fingertips over his. “I want you.”
Please.
The word trembles on my lips again. Almost tumbles out.
Please.
But I don’t have to say it. Not this time.
Without warning, he reaches up, jerking his shirt over his head, tossing it away. “I need you naked,” he says, hooking his finger into the waistband of my jeans, flicking the closure open and unzipping them to ease them gently down my legs.
Too slow.
Not slow enough.
My panties are next, and as soon as they’re gone, he’s shifting us again, pulling me on top of him, so I’m straddling his chest, my knees snug against his ribcage. Hands under my ass, his fingers tracing the seam of my pussy from behind, stroking me until I’m panting and writhing, my hips grinding against his chest, the fingers caressing me between my legs. My clit inches from his mouth, his warm, uneven breath against the center of me.
Too close.
Not close enough.
“Cari.”
He says my name and I open my eyes, looking down at him, lids heavy, vision hazy, like I’m trying to find his face in a fog. “Mmmm,” I say, too far gone to pronounce actual words.
I find him, and as soon as we make eye contact, he moves his hands, pulling his fingers free to capture my wrists. “Hold on to the headboard,” he tells me, lifting my arms above his head, wrapping my fingers around the cool, wrought iron bars in front of me. “Yeah, just like that,” he murmurs, still looking up at me like he’s committing the picture of me to memory. He draws his fingers down my arms. The calloused tips of them brush against my hard, swollen nipples. Dull, blunt nails scrape over the ladder of my rib cage. The soft plane of my belly. The length of my spine.
Wrapping his fingers around the flared curve of my hips, his thumbs hooked into the juncture of my thighs, strong fingers gripping my ass. Lifting me higher, until I’m hovering over his mouth. Spreading me wider, until my knees bracket his wide, powerful shoulders. “You’re so beautiful,” he says, lifting his head to nuzzle me, press soft kisses to the inside of my thighs. “I need you.” His words brush his lips against me, feather light. Delicious and maddening.
Too much.
Not enough.
“I’ll never stop needing you...” he drags the flat of his tongue up the center of my quivering slit, groaning deep in his throat when my hips rock against his face, the pressure of his mouth. “That’s it,” he says, lips brushing against me again. “That’s what I need.” The tip of his tongue circles my swollen clit. “I need to taste you.”
My hips jerk forward as his powerful arms wrap around me and pull me closer, lower until his face is buried in my pussy. He groans against me, fingers flexing against my thighs, holding me tight while his mouth and tongue devour me.
I hold on for dear life, every part of me trembling against the unbearable pleasure his mouth is building between my thighs. I give him what he needs. I fuck his mouth. His tongue. His face. Riding and writhing until I’m shaking and stretching for release. Rolling my hips against the pressure of his lips around my clit. He knows I’m close to coming, and he growls, pulls me closer. Deeper. Licking and sucking my slick, tender flesh, stroking me with his tongue. Pulling me deeper. Driving me further and higher until I’m the center of a hurricane. Until my bones quake inside my skin, threatening to break and rip me apart from the inside out.
I look down so I can see it. The precise moment I come apart for him. Our eyes connect, his green gaze dull and glazed like he’s drunk on the taste of me, his greedy mouth locked around my pussy like he can’t get enough.
“Patrick,” I moan his name once, the sound of it harsh and low against the back of my throat and then I’m gone. Bolts of electricity shoot through me, fusing my hands around the headboard. I say his name, again and again, shuddering and rocking so hard I think my spine might shake itself loose against the unrelenting pressure of his mouth.
He wrings me dry. Until I’m sagging and boneless. Until my body is limp and spent and I can’t hold on anymore. My arms slip loose, and I fall. Patrick is there. Lifting me, turning me again until he’s stretched out over the length of me, the delicious weight of him pressing me into the bed.
Our bed.
He kisses me, and I taste myself on his lips. His tongue, delivering slow, languid sweeps to my mouth in the exact rhythm he used to make me come and despite the fact, my bones have melted away, heat flares in my core, and I moan.
Patrick lifts his head and smiles, his dimple flashing at me in the half-light of morning. “Oh, good,” he says, his hand coming between us to cup my breast. “I thought I broke you.”
I smile back and shake my head. “Not broken,” I say, eyes fluttering closed while his fingers do wicked, sinful things to me and I moan again, arching against him when his mouth replaces his fingers, sucking and nipping my nipple until I’m writhing and panting under him.
“That’s good,” he says, pressing a kiss against my sternum before levering himself up, so he’s kneeling between my legs. “Because I’m not finished showing you.” He reaches for the button of his jeans, jerking it from its loop before ripping the zipper down. He stretches over me again, his fingertips trailing up the inside of my thigh, delivering soft, feathery strokes against the seam of my pussy while his mouth skims the curve of my jaw. “I need to be inside you, Cari.” His words tremble against my skin, his entire body shaking with desperation. He presses his lips against the soft spot behind my ear. “I need to fuck you.”
I turn my head, capturing his mouth, welcoming the soft, slow rhythm of his tongue against mine. Moaning, I reach down and push his pants and boxers off his hips as far as I can before wrapping my legs around his hips. Hooking my toes into his waistband, I drag them the rest of the way down so he can kick them off.
Pulling his mouth away from mine, Patrick looks down at me. Keeping his gaze pinned to mine, he catches my leg, hooking his arm under the back of my knee, lifting and leaning until his hand is under my hips, tilting me against him. “I love you,” he says, sinking into me with a long, slow stroke. His hips flex against mine, again and again, so deep and tender it brings tears to my eyes.
I love you.
He doesn’t say it again. He doesn’t have to.
Because he shows me.
Twenty-four
Patrick
Cari’s gone.
I keep my eyes closed as long as I can, convincing myself that’s she’s standing at her easel in front of the window. That when I open them, I’ll see her. She’ll be wearing one of my shirts, hopelessly spattered with paint. Legs bare, save for the bright swipes of color left behind by her brush. Honey-colored hair piled on top of her head, bottom lip caught between her teeth in concentration.
When I open my eyes, she’ll be here. She’ll be painting me. She’ll finish, and then I’ll make her breakfast. I’ll skip my run. Talk her back into bed with me. I showed her how I feel and it was enough to make her stay.
I was enough.
When I open my eyes, she’s gone.
It takes me awhile to talk myself into getting up. I stumble down the hall in a fog. Push my way into the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. Turning, I lean against the sink to dry my face. The shower is empty. No charred painting. No melted shower curtain. If not for the fact that fiberglass shower surround is completely fucked and my arm is raw and blistered, I’d think I dreamt the whole thing.
But I can still taste her in my mouth. Feel the weight of her on my chest. The scent of her is pushed into my skin, so deep, I’ll never sweat it out.
But I’m going to try.
In my room, I pull on joggers and a T-shirt. Shove my feet into my runners and ste
p out the ruined door, hanging lopsided on broken hinges. The pizza box is still sitting on the landing. I want to kick it down the stairs. Instead, I step around it and leave.
I run until the sun comes up. Until Mrs. McGintey’s dog comes careening around a corner, pacing me for a while before pulling ahead. Dumb dog must be a hundred years old by now, but he still runs, every time she opens her front door.
After returning him to Mrs. McGintey (and visiting with her for an hour), I buzz by Benny’s. As soon as Nora sees me push my way through the usual crowd, her gnarled face breaks out in a smile that she covers up with a grimace. “You know better than to come in here all sweaty.” Even as she’s saying it, Nora’s lifting her cheek for a kiss.
“I couldn’t wait to see you,” I tell her, pressing my lips against her soft, papery skin. “Forgive me?”
She suppresses another smile. “You think I’m easy or somethin’?”
“Maybe a little.” I wink at her.
She cackles, slapping my cheek just hard enough to sting. “You’re worse than Con these days.”
I rub feeling back into my cheek while a woman stands from the long bench against the wall and approaches the hostess station. “Is our table ready yet?”
“Did I tell you it was ready, Ethel?” Nora snorts in her direction, tiny hands stacked on bony hips. “No? Okay—then sit down and shut the hell up.”
Ethel? Ethel Merman? Despite the yawning, black pit in my chest, I fight the urge to laugh.
Troublemaker dealt with, Nora narrows her eyes on my face. They’re dark and sharp like she’s reading my mind. “Where’s Veronica?” She looks behind me, searching for Cari. It makes me realize how long it’s been since I’ve been here without her.
“Sleeping.” I lie because I can’t say it out loud. That Cari is gone. That I wasn’t enough to make her stay. Not yet. “Got a burrito back there?”
Now her eyes sparkle because if there’s anything she loves more than browbeating customers, it’s feeding a Gilroy. Turning, she walks to the pass-thru where take-out orders are stacked, waiting to be claimed. Climbing onto a step stool, she rifles through paper bags until she finds a burrito. It has the name ROBERT scrawled across its wrapper in grease pencil. “Eggs, bacon, and cheese.” She slaps it into my hand with a smile. “Your favorite.”