by KC Decker
“We are thousands of miles apart, and both have successful businesses at home,” he shrugs. “I adore her, but we could never be together, not really.”
“I think that’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” I say, slowing down a little more and turning to him.
“Sad, pathetic? Or sad, depressing?” he asks. The look on his face tells me he agrees with both assessments. As hard as Phillip’s exterior looks, he has a gentleness to him that I find admirable.
“Actually, tragic is a better word. You guys are in perfect harmony together, yet you are going to let distance and logistics get in the way of being together.”
“I don’t disagree with you. It is pretty tragic, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. And just think, if you always wait to run into her at tattoo conventions, what are you going to do if someone else scoops her up? What if the next time you attend a convention together—she’s engaged to some other guy?”
He stops dead in his tracks, as though that scenario had never occurred to him. “You know, Alabama—I’m gonna suck on that for a bit, and I’ll keep you posted.” Typical of a guy not wanting to discuss his love life, he ignores the issue and starts walking again. Then he turns the tables on me.
“Speaking of being in harmony, what’s up with you and Gavin?” he asks, and I scoff so loud, I almost choke on it.
“Are you insane? Did you happen to witness any of what was going on back there?”
“He may fuck one, or both of them, but it doesn’t take much to bang someone. He’s not interested in them beyond getting his dick wet. He is interested in you, however.”
“Does your brain actually follow that logic? In what world does fucking two other women indicate interest in me?” It’s easier to bat down his words than it is for me to give any credence to what he says. I’m already holding back my tears until I’m alone, so it’s counterproductive to entertain the idea that Gavin and I are a possibility.
“Did you hear how those bitches talked to me? He thought it was funny—”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Oh, no? Why didn’t he stand up for me then?”
“Same reason I didn’t. It’s not our way. We didn’t jump in with guns blazing because we knew full well that you could defend yourself.”
“That’s the biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard.”
“No, it’s not. Gavin needs someone with a backbone, or he’ll walk all over them. The fact is, Alabama, he didn’t want to swoop in and fight your battles for you, he wanted to know that you could fight your own.”
“Ok then, while he’s off fucking two strangers tonight, I’ll give some thought to his genuine interest in me—how’s that?” I’m lashing out, and it’s far and away at the wrong person.
We both slow our pace again because we are nearing the front doors of my hotel. I’m already done with this conversation though, and the more I think about Gavin having sex with the Fuel Girls, the more I want to cry.
“Sounds like we will both be thinking about our heart’s desires tonight,” he says with a laugh.
“Thank you for walking me safely to my hotel. You are a sweet man, you know that?” As I speak, I lean in to give him a hug because I need to cut this short. I can already feel the scratch of tears at the backs of my eyes.
“Have a good night, Alabama. We’ll see you in the morning.”
I don’t know if he is referring to the fact that I won’t be seeing Gavin tonight, so they will see me in the morning, or if he is speaking generally. Doesn’t matter. Either way, I’m not looking forward to the next time I see Gavin. He’ll be all rumpled and sexy—with two new notches for his headboard.
Now that I’m back inside the hotel lobby, I head to the bar to see if Sam is working. I need some company. Not sexual company, just conversational, to keep my mind off what’s about to go down with Gavin and the Fuel Girls.
There are two bartenders working, neither of which are Sam, and a crowd that has long since dwindled. Now, only the diehards and the lonely remain. It’s just as well, I suppose, alcohol has never solved any of my problems before.
I had meant to grab one of Gavin’s swag t-shirts to sleep in, but that isn’t a problem anymore. I assume he will come back to shower all the sex off of himself before heading to the convention center tomorrow, so I’ll make sure I’m up early enough that my attire isn’t a problem.
Once I’m back in the room, I get as far as taking off my shoes, peeling off the leather halter, and replacing it with Gavin’s tank top before I crumple into bed—skirt, stockings, garter, and all. This time I don’t hold back my tears, and when I’m assailed by Gavin’s scent on the sheets, I cry even harder.
I know I deserve this. I judged him based on his tattoos and tongue piercing, then jumped to conclusions about his level of sophistication. I gave no thought whatsoever to the fact that he is so much more than what’s drawn on the surface.
Now that I have some understanding about the guy, I see exactly why my friends chose him for me. Turns out my picker is broken. I have never dated a guy who volunteers in a kid’s cancer ward because I always pick selfish assholes.
Miles’ words whisper to me in the darkness, I have never been so disappointed in you. Only now it’s worse because now they are my own words, and I did it to myself. To add to that disappointment is the fact that Gavin will be balls deep in two other women tonight. That visual is enough to bring on another bout of self-loathing. All I can think abo—
HOLY SHIT! I hear a key card brush against the doorknob and then hear the thing turn. That mother-fucker brought them back here to rub my nose in it. My mind is spinning with thoughts of how I can possibly deal with this. It’s obvious I’ve been crying, so all I can do is pretend to be asleep and hope I don’t have to face them.
I’m only partway covered up, but all I have time to do before the door opens is drag a lock of hair across my face to hide my makeup smeared eyes. My back is to the entryway, but so is my mostly uncovered lower half. I’m fairly confident the skirt is covering my butt, but I hate that they will see me like this. They’ll see me still dressed and ‘asleep,’ which means they will probably know I’ve been crying.
He closes the door quietly, and the fact that silence follows him into the room makes me think he’s alone. It also hasn’t been very long since I left, so unless he had a turbo threesome in the bathroom at the bar, he didn’t shag the Fuel Girls.
I can hear him unzip his pants, slowly—one tooth at a time, then tug his shirt over his head. He is being very careful to be quiet, so with any luck, he believes that I’m asleep. When I feel him inch into the bed, I hold my breath—I have to because otherwise, the frantic pace of my breathing will announce my wakefulness. Shit. This would be so much easier if I was turned away from him.
He’s close to me. Close enough that I can feel the sizzle of his gaze all down the front of my body. I’m praying to God it’s dark enough that he can’t see my cry-face and smeared makeup.
When he gently swipes the hair away from my face and tucks it behind my ear, I’m so startled that I almost flinch with the unexpectedness of it. His touch is such a whisper that it shouldn’t even register, but it does. Actually, the part that resonates the most is the tenderness of the whole thing.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes—more air than voice, and hardly audible at all. His gentle affection is enough to pool at the backs of my eyes with an inevitable flood of tears. All I can do now is sleepily turn away from him because there is no other way to hide the dampness about to breach my lashes.
The shift in position, although probably not super stealthy, puts my back to him. It also puts me closer than before. I’m so confused. I swear he takes joy in tormenting me, but these glimpses of a softer, less calloused man are enough to bring me to my knees.
He apologized to me, so that means he saw my streaked eye makeup. I hate that I’m so vulnerable right now. I don’t know how to navigate this. And I certainly don’t know where to put my feelings
for him. Is his apology from a place of guilt? A place of caring? Is it an acknowledgment of the game he is playing? No matter what, he knows he hurt my feelings, and he knows I was crying.
I don’t know what to do now, it’s too damn late to take off these insufferable thigh-highs, so it looks like I’m sleeping in stockings and a garter tonight. Maybe if I wait until he’s asleep, I ca—
Oh, my God! He just draped his arm over me. We aren’t touching otherwise, but we are sort of spooning right now. His hand isn’t touching me—just his forearm, so it’s not really a sexual type of touch, more like a possessive one. I know I was snuggled up against him this morning, but I squirmed there while asleep. He is awake, and kind of holding me. He is choosing to touch me.
I wonder if his guard is down because he thinks I’m sleeping, or if his walls are starting to weaken. All I know is that he left the bar without his hook-ups in tow, his arm is around me, and I am wide fuckin’ awake.
I lie here for ages waiting for him to fall asleep so I can take off my stockings. When his breathing finally levels out, and I know he is sleeping, I ease out of bed, peel off the discomfort, go clean my raccoon eyes, and then ever-so-gently raise the covers enough to slide back into bed.
Gavin is on his back now, with one forearm over his eyes and the other arm tossed carelessly back over his pillow. The position showcases his biceps and his naked torso. He’s disarmed and recklessly sexy.
How I could have looked at this man and thought he was anything less than perfect, will forever be a mystery to me. Perhaps, even my greatest regret.
As I settle in next to him, he brings his arm down in such a way that I have to lift my head to accommodate it. The motion is so natural, it’s possible he did it on purpose. I didn’t resist lifting my head for him because at first, I worried he would wake up if he met with resistance. Now I’m lying on his bicep, dangerously close to the side of his body and I can’t decide if I should get comfortable—or bail out.
Seemingly in answer to that question, he snugs up his arm and draws me flush against his body. I freeze for half a second before I give in and drape an arm over his abdomen. Fuck, my heart is thrashing so hard it’s like the whole bed has a rhythm of its own.
I don’t know how I’m going to sleep like this. He is easily the most dangerous thing I have ever rested my cheek against. It’s dangerous for me to hope. If I let myself acknowledge his current tenderness, or the drawings of me in his sketchbook, or the words Phillip had fed me like my last dying meal, I will end up getting my heart broken. No, not broken—shattered.
Whether or not Gavin is aware of what he’s doing right now is of no consequence because once we are back in the light of day, everything will resort to business as usual. Gavin will shun me and go back to basking in the adoration of women everywhere. I’ll be right back on the outskirts—tripping over the tongues of fans and Fuel Girls alike.
I wonder what my friends would say right now? Arden would probably tell me to turn my back to him and play hard to get, Miles would tell me to ease between his legs and take his cock in my mouth, and Ivy? Ivy would tell me to stay just like I am and trust that I’m on the right path. I’m not sure I can trust this path, but I am going to take her pseudo-advice and remain exactly where I am. I’ll let nighttime unfold however it’s going to, and then I’ll deal with the repercussions later.
Right now, I’m going to let his warm body overwhelm my senses and drag me under. In sleep, we can lay down our swords and be together in restful oblivion.
Chapter 17
When the alarm on Gavin’s phone goes off, I’m lying on my stomach using my forearms as a pillow, and he is turned in toward me with his arm draped across my lower back. His face is no more than a breeze away from mine. In fact, when I open my eyes, he is looking straight into them and making no move to silence the alarm or remove his arm from where it rests across my body.
He is startlingly close and surprisingly unapologetic about it. His eyes give nothing away, but they are piercing—in a top of the food chain kind of way. His irises are blue, but stormy in that they look kind of gray as well. Steely. And confident.
What seems to be hovering in the air is less of a showdown than the desire to—what? Kiss me, maybe? This is the first time we have been this close and touching while both of us are unquestionably awake. It rattles me because as much as I want him to kiss me, the last thing I want is for him to do it now.
The stream of intimacy passes when he breaks eye contact and rolls backward to reach for his phone. The spell is apparently broken because then he flips off the covers and stands. He stretches his arms up the same way he did yesterday morning, but this time he is wearing white boxer briefs and sporting a massive erection.
He is facing me—and possibly even showing off because he knows I am watching him. He’s grinning and looking at me when he adjusts his dick, not that there is anywhere for it to go, but some kind of an adjustment is clearly necessary. When he does, the elastic waistband pulls down to reveal two silver balls at the very base of his abdomen—or, more accurately, sitting right above the root of his very prominent cock.
“Whatcha lookin at, Alabama?”
I still haven’t so much as lifted my face off my arm pillows, and with the exception of some wild bed-head hair, there is little to disguise what must surely be an awestruck look on my face.
“I’m looking at a man that needs to go take care of business—apparently.”
“Take care of business? Why-Alabama, what ever do you mean?”
I roll over and then lean back on my elbows, “It’s that—or just sling it over your shoulder and haul it downstairs for breakfast.” I catch his eyes dart down to my chest before making eye contact again.
“How about you go take a shower and leave the cock-slinging to me, Alabama. Plus, I don’t carry it over my shoulder,” he scoffs as he places his hands on his hips in a haughty, self-righteous stance, “That’s what my backpack is for.” His face splits into a completely disarming grin, and I have to look away so he doesn’t see the effect his sense of humor has on me.
I get up and smooth my skirt, making sure it is covering my butt before I walk to the bathroom. I call out over my shoulder, “You’ve got ten minutes, I hope you brought a squeegee for cleanup.”
After I shut the bathroom door behind me, I lean my hands against the counter and take a few deep breaths while studying the sink drain. Holy fuck! I’ve spent the last five minutes looking at and talking about Gavin’s dick. Between that and his wit, I may never be interested in another man ever again.
I’m not sure which basket to put his playfulness in. He seems to be warming to me while still keeping me at an emotional distance, which is still completely dangerous for me and my attraction to him. Is he just being friendly at this point? Is it more? His cues are so damn muddy and inconsistent.
I look up to face myself in the mirror, and all I can think is, NOOOOO! Because the last time I saw myself in this tank top, the mirror was all steamed up from Gavin’s shower. Now—now, I can see my reflection with perfect clarity, and it’s appalling.
No wonder Gavin kept looking at my chest, you can see my areolas and showy nipples straight through this ridiculous fabric. I’ve been so concerned with the spotty coverage of my lower half; I haven’t spared a thought to the fact that I have been showcasing my tits to Gavin for two days.
Frustrated with my own obliviousness, I crank on the shower and peel off my clothes. Gavin prancing around with his mighty, engorged penis feels more strategic now.
While rinsing out my hair, I realize it’s time to take this game to the next level, and I’m not talking about giving him little glimpses of my garter either.
***
By the time Gavin has finished in the bathroom, I’m already dressed. Today I am wearing my below-the-knee pencil skirt…and his tank top. The tank borders on obscene with the added snugness of being tucked in. And the thousand butterflies in my stomach are rioting against my braless display. I�
��m also wearing his suspenders, though I’ve not yet pulled them up and over my shoulders.
I attempt a breezy attitude while I finish blow drying my hair in the full-length mirror by the closet. My makeup is done, and my high heels are already on. I’m ready to take a well-placed shot across the bow.
Even though he has seen my tits through his tank top before, this is different. This is purposeful. And more explicit. And I’ve attached his own suspenders to the waistband of my skirt.
He is currently shirtless and freshly shaven with damp hair and the masculine authority of some sort of supreme being. He may be ignoring me in an effort to remain aloof, so as of now, he has not noticed his suspenders hanging from my hips.
As I am running the flat-iron through my hair, Gavin approaches from behind. He stands there with his arms crossed over his chest, and his eyes meeting mine in the reflection of the mirror.
“Those my suspenders, Alabama?”
“Yeah, they’re cute right?”
“I would not describe them as cute,” he says as he squints his eyes at me.
“Sure they are. Look,” I say as I turn around to face him, giving him an eyeful of dusty rose through sheer cotton. I shift my body enough to maneuver the straps up to my shoulders, and then stand up tall. “See?”
The suspenders partially obscure my brazen display, but not completely—and not enough to count on consistently throughout the day. What he doesn’t know, is that I have zero intention of going to the convention with my tits out like this, but the thought is unnerving him, and I love it.
“Nope, still not cute. In fact…” he says as he slips two fingers under each suspender just below my collarbones, pulls them forward, and then releases them. They snap back harshly against my nipples, causing my eyelids to flutter closed with the sensation of the erotic slap. “…They’re more distracting than anything else.”