The Opposite of Nothing

by Slade, Shari

  A seductive blush spread across her chest, up her neck and over her cheeks like a road map for his lips. He followed it, tasting dips and hollows, nipping her earlobe, before finding her mouth with his own. He pulled back and propped himself up with one arm. He watched her face as he worked a hand between them. Between her legs. And up the full curve of her inner thigh before stopping at the edge of her lips. He didn’t part them, just traced his finger along the outside, gathering her moisture.

  “Do you like that?”

  “More.” Barely a whisper. A breath of a word. He could give her more. One finger, then two, plunged into hot, wet velvet. Her body bowed beneath him, and his cock jerked in anticipation. He wanted to watch her come, watch her break with pleasure. This desire to see so much was a violent, unexpected need. He found her clit with his thumb again and pressed as he pumped his fingers deep inside her. She was so wet he could hear the slipping sounds, almost as sexy as the sounds Callie made as she thrashed against him. And then she stilled, muscles rigid, as she shuddered against him. Fuck, even her orgasms were restrained.

  He crushed himself against her chest, their hearts racing, breathing in tandem pants. “I want to be inside you. Are you ready?”

  “Condom. Nightstand.” She gasped. Thank God one of them was thinking.

  He fumbled in the drawer until he found a stash and pulled one free. Tearing it open with his teeth, he rolled onto his back. Sliding it over the head of his cock was almost painful. He’d never been this hard in his life. Not since the first time. Maybe not even then.

  Poised at her entrance, he watched her face again, searching for any sign that she might not want this as much as him. Her eyes were shut tight, braced. “Look at me. Look at us.” He looked down to where their bodies nearly joined and watched as he finally, finally, pushed inside.

  He stilled. Pleasure coiled, threatened to burst.

  “So. Damn. Good.” He ground the words out, face buried in the curve of her neck. The slick muscles of her cunt spasmed against his cock, and there was nothing he could do but move. There was no rhythm he could find, no artistry—he thrust inside her hard and fast. Her fingers slipped over his back and down to his ass. She gripped as if to draw him deeper, closer, and he was undone. One final thrust and then over the edge into rigid, blinding bliss.

  When he could move again, he disposed of the condom and grabbed a bottle of water. He took a sip and passed it to Callie, who was mopping sweat from her neck with his t-shirt.

  “That was—” He couldn’t finish, he hadn’t thought far enough ahead to decide on the exact right word to describe what that was. Amazing, awesome, wonderful. None of them sufficed. It might not have been the best sex she’d ever had. How could he know? But something magic had happened between them. And for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why it hadn’t happened sooner.

  “Really nice.” She finished looking away from him as she pressed the cool bottle to her cheek.

  Nice? Fucking nice? She couldn’t mean it. Could she? “It was more than nice. Wasn’t it?”

  He curled himself around her, pressed kisses into the slope of her shoulder, and she shivered against him.

  “It was so much more than I imagined. Intense.” The words were spoken like a prayer, quiet reverence, but with a throaty edge that undid what little he had left of himself. She’d imagined this. Imagined. He’d imagined it too. Alone in the dark. His own hands on his body. Had she? He rolled that over and over in his mind as he drifted to sleep.

  * * *

  Her face mashed against the wall, and a long fuzzy leg tangled over her own. Naked and exposed, the top sheet tangled at their feet, she’d have frozen, but Tayber’s body burned against her back. Trapped. Do. Not. Freak. Out. This is what you wanted. And she did want it. She resisted the all-consuming urge to roll over and kiss him awake, because what if he didn’t want it too? What if last night was an accident, like that accidental kiss? If he woke up full of regret and apologies she’d have to go live under her bed. A dark and cozy nest. She would need to find some Oreos first.

  She pushed his thigh back and held her breath, waiting for signs of life. Nothing. So she slithered down to the knot of sheets and slipped off the end of the bed with a thump.

  “What the hell?” He woke, sleep-creased and flailing.

  Covering the important bits with a sweatshirt from the overflowing hamper, praying he wasn’t about to have another moral crisis, she coughed. “Relax, it’s only me.”

  “Come back to bed. I’m cold.” Husky-voiced liar, he was a human furnace. He patted the empty space she’d left behind and dropped his head to the pillow with a soft grunt. She studied the golden curve of his shoulder, the dip of his waist, the broad expanse of his strong back, and sucked in a breath. With daylight shafting through the crooked blinds, he still wanted her.

  “Okay.” She shrugged into the sweatshirt and slipped back in between Tayber and the wall. Body rigid, chewing her lip, she focused on unclenching her muscles one by one. Toe. Calf. Thigh.

  He draped an arm over her and pulled her into his chest. Like her very best dreams, the circle of his arm felt like home. Warm and safe. And no place she belonged. The heat of his breath against her neck raised goosebumps along her arms. He traced lazy circles over her belly, her ribs, up the curve of her breast, until he finally made contact with a very stiff nipple. His touch inflamed her. Last night had been so frantic, she hadn’t even had a chance to process what was happening. But now, today, fully present in the moment, she was overwhelmed by sensation. She mouthed his name, unable to force enough air from her lungs to make sound.

  “You’re wearing too many clothes again.” He nipped the sensitive flesh below her ear, and she convulsed. Every hard inch of him pressed against her, and her only armor was a scrap of over-washed cotton.

  “I was naked.”

  “I like you naked.” He rocked his hips, nudging his erection against her bare ass. It seared her, as did the finger he slipped between her legs. Maybe this could work after all. They’d just have to stay in bed forever.

  Chapter Eight

  She leaned over the sink, filling the coffeepot, and he brushed against her as he slipped past on his way to the fridge.

  “No milk.” He grunted.

  “Real men drink their coffee black.” Her nervous smile turned into a smirk. Okay. She could do this no-big-deal-morning-after thing if they fell back into the familiar territory of teasing banter.

  “As long as there’s sugar.” He wrapped his arm around her waist from behind and pulled her against him. One large hand splayed over her belly, rucking up her camisole, his thumb teasing a sliver of exposed skin. The casual intimacy shocked her. Her hand shook. The coffee pot was full to overflowing, and the water rushed over the top and down the drain. A wasteful burden she couldn’t bring herself to stop or set down. All of her energy focused on staying upright, on not dribbling into a puddle of mush at his feet.

  He reached around her, caged her against the sink, and shut off the tap. “I think we’re about done here.”

  The plastic handle dug into her palm. She squeezed, knuckles white. She still didn’t trust him, or herself. This was all happening too fast. “I don’t know what to do with you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” He sounded insulted.

  She twisted around to face him, his pelvis against her stomach, reminding her how close they’d been only a few hours ago. She lost her nerve and stared at his chest instead. It was a nice chest. If she had to stare at not-his-face, at least she could enjoy the view. “Exactly. What did last night—this morning—mean? I’m such a mess. I hate that I’m that girl right now. You’ve made me that girl. I want to be cool, but I just can’t. You make me a mess.”

  His eyes flashed—with recognition?—and his fingers brushed her cheek, her jaw. He tipped her chin up, coaxing her to meet his gaze. She pushed her ass into the counter, trying to put some space between them. “Hey, that girl is my friend.”

 
“So we’re friends? Who fuck?”

  “I don’t fuck my friends.”

  “I feel like we’ve already had this conversation.” She pressed her palms against his chest, to push him away, not to feel his heat, not to feel his heart pounding. Jesus. It was thumping as hard as her own. What did he have to be scared of?

  “We didn’t fuck, Callie. What we did was—”

  “Please don’t.” She squeezed her eyes shut, flexed her fingers into his skin, bracing herself. Please don’t say recreational, or a diversion, or nothing. Just don’t.

  “It was more.”

  Now, pinned close, she looked at his face. Jaw rough with stubble her fingers itched to touch, eyes full of some swirling soft emotion. Sadness? Hurt? “You don’t have to take pity on me.”

  He rocked his hips and she could only gasp. The hard length of his cock, insistent, impatient. “Does that feel like pity?”

  She could only shake her head as he closed her in the circle of his arms, squeezed her into a tight embrace. She stopped pushing, relaxed, let her cheek rest inches from his beautiful, thundering heart.

  “I want you, Callie. I want more.”

  “More what?” She spoke the question into his skin.

  He skimmed up the curve of her back, over the nape of her neck, until he cupped the back of her head. He sifted his fingers through her unruly hair. “More everything.”

  Everything. The opposite of nothing. She pushed herself up onto her tiptoes and kissed the full center of his bottom lip. She gripped his strong shoulders for an anchor, in case this incredible lightness spread, in case she floated away. “Okay, then. I think I can do everything.”

  He grinned and she couldn’t resist touching a dimple. He ducked his head, giving her a clear view of the wound she’d almost forgotten about. It reminded her of his brother and their awful fight and all the things she shouldn’t know. When she traced a fingertip over the angry gash through his eyebrow, he flinched. “You might need a stitch. Or one of those special band-aids.”

  “Nah, I’ll just rub some dirt in it. It’ll be fine. All I need is coffee.” His tone was light, but he tensed and pulled back. His dimples disappeared.

  “You should stop by the health center. Have it looked at by a professional.”

  “It’s an overgrown scratch. I think I can count on my fingers the number of times I’ve needed a doctor. Sports physicals in the school nurse’s office. An STI screen. That’s about it. All clean, by the way.”

  “You never got hurt? Broke a bone?”

  “My bones are adamantium, but sure, I got hurt.” He peeled down the waistband of his boxer shorts, exposing a jagged white scar running along the edge of his hip and disappearing over the top of his ass. It was so thin she hadn’t noticed it in the dark. “That one probably needed stitches. And maybe a tetanus shot. But I survived.”

  “What happened?”

  “Me and Aaron were screwing around on the fire escape. I slipped. Some raggedy-ass wrought iron bit me. Man, Aaron was so pissed. He kept telling me not to cry while he dumped a whole bottle of peroxide down the back of my pants.” He ran his fingers through his hair and leaned against the bare wall opposite the sink.

  “That is so mean. How old were you?”

  “I don’t know, maybe eight? But it wasn’t mean. He was mad at himself, and he was trying to keep us out of trouble. If I’d woken Mom up with my crying, we both would’ve needed a doctor.”

  Again, she tried to imagine what his childhood must have been like and pictured two little boys, scared and alone, trying to take care of each other and eating Macaroni Surprise. Blinking back tears, she reached for his hand.

  “No, don’t. I’m fine now. Mom worked nights. Not waking her up was the number one rule.”

  “You should talk to him.” Shit. She’d told him that as Sasha, too.

  “Yeah, so I’ve been told. Probably not today.”

  * * *

  She’d given running a lot of thought, really. Tayber took up so much room, physically and emotionally, she needed some space. Every time he touched her she felt simultaneously wonderful and awful. Not because of anything he’d done or because she didn’t want him touching her. But because she felt so damn guilty. So she’d loaded an upbeat mix on her iPod, tightened the laces on her battered Chucks, grabbed a water bottle, and jogged down the stairs like Rocky.

  She didn’t make it farther than the front porch. As soon as she stepped into sunlight, heard the sounds of a busy street, she froze. Panic unfurled in her chest like an algae bloom, slimy and tenacious and clouding everything. Ridiculous. She shook her head but could only sit on the concrete step with her head between her knees. Pressing the cool bottle to the back of her neck, trying to slow her frantic pulse. She didn’t need to run. She’d already raised her heart rate into the cardio zone. Did freaking out count as aerobic exercise? She should make a video. Panic and Pilates? No. She didn’t do yoga either. Her temples throbbed. The elastic she’d used to secure her ponytail was wound too tight. She yanked at it, letting her hair fall loose over her head and brush the filthy ground.

  The door creaked behind her, and she knew it could only be Tayber.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey.” She echoed, ashamed of how small her voice sounded, how small she felt.

  “I thought I’d see you bobbing down the street by now.”

  “Probably not today.”

  He sat behind her, spreading his legs and scooching forward so she was wedged between his knees. He was always crowding her. But, God, it felt good to be inside his space. To be inside, period. She’d been outside for so long.

  * * *

  “Tell me. What’s wrong?” He shifted when she set her hands on his thighs and pushed herself upright. Like she needed leverage. Like this was a very hard task. Her hair was a wild mess. He smoothed it back. Raking his fingers through silky strands until they lay tamed, gathered in his palm. He tugged, not hard, a flirty pull that reminded him of elementary school and playgrounds and... “Tell me.”

  “I still feel like a target sometimes.”

  “You’re safe here, Callie. What happened back then? It can’t happen again.” Without thinking, he split the bundle in his hand into three sections and started crossing them one over the other while she spoke.

  “I know it’s stupid, but I can’t help it. And people are cruel, not just kids.”

  “Do you want me to go with you?” She didn’t really need protection, but maybe he could make her feel safer.

  “No, I...Are you braiding my hair?”

  She stilled, the rhythm of her breathing interrupted as she held her breath.

  “Sorry. I’ll stop.” He pulled his hands back. What the hell was he thinking? He wasn’t. That was the problem. He had a sudden flash of another dark-haired girl. One with a purple bow and a ratty sundress. He’d forgotten all about playing with Jasmine when he was a kid. Poor Jazz.

  “Please don’t stop. It feels lovely, but when did you pick up hair braiding?”

  “There was this girl.”

  “Of course.”

  “Not like that.” He tugged again. “We were ten.”

  “Mhmmm,” she hummed, relaxing into his touch. He undid his sloppy work and started over.

  “She lived in my apartment complex. We didn’t exactly play together, but we both spent a lot of time on the front stoop. Neither one of us talking about why we had to get out of our apartments. Anyway, she’d bug me to braid her hair. She could braid but couldn’t do it to herself. It was easier to go with it than listen to Jazz whine.”

  “You saint.” She pushed her elbow into his ribs. A teasing jab.

  He tugged again and this time he could see the smile curving the corner of her mouth. “I was a kid. She taught me on a—she taught me.”

  “On a what?”

  “A Barbie.”

  “I hear learning to braid on a Barbie is a rite of passage.” Her shoulders shook, and he could feel the giggles she held back threatening to b
urst through.

  “Here I am, trying to do something nice, and you mock me. You’re a terrible friend, Callie Evans.”

  She froze again. She had to know he was teasing. Maybe he shouldn’t tease her at all. God, how could he even stop? It was who they were together.

  “It was sweet of you, playing with her. I think a lot of boys would’ve been mean.”

  “I am many things, but I’m not mean.” I am, however, very fucking confused. He wouldn’t tell her that. Not when she was finally relaxed into the space between his legs, letting her arms rest on his thighs, leaning the back of her head against his chest. No rib jabs or taunts.

  Tayber broke the silence. “Hey, do you know the kid who does the hippie oldies show? The one on Wednesdays?”

  “David something. Yeah, I’ve seen him at station meetings and parties. He doesn’t think any music recorded after 1979 is worth playing. And he isn’t a hippie, he looks more like a Trekkie. Why?”

  “I caught half a song the other day and I haven’t been able to get it out of my head.” He rubbed his knuckles down the back of her neck, working out knots of tension.

  “He probably saves his playlists. Or you could tell me what you remember. I might know it.”

  “Something about a strange face. And spring?”

  “That’s Cello Song. I heard it, too.”

  “I don’t remember anything about a cello.”

  She stifled another giggle. “No, that’s the name of the song. It’s Nick Drake.”

  “It was almost depressing, but not. Earwormed the hell out of me.”

  “More bittersweet than sad. I think I have it upstairs, if you want to hear it again.” She twisted to face him, all eager smile and braid slipping loose. So pretty.

  “Play it for me.”

  * * *

  She cued up the song, and it felt strangely like the early days of their friendship. Last year, she’d found songs for him all the time, usually when she mentioned one that he’d never heard of before. She’d hand him an earbud and then watch his face. If he didn’t like a song, he’d scrunch his nose and tug on the cord stretched between them. But if he liked it, she could watch that revelation spread like dawn: his upper lip curling back into a wide smile, his hand reaching up to press the bud tight against his ear, to amplify the sound.