What to Read After FSOG: The Gemstone Collection (WTRAFSOG Book 3)

by Lauren Hawkeye

  “You invited me over to play Yahtzee?” I knew that my past experience with the male species was incredibly skewed, but I would never have guessed this.

  “That, and to dazzle you with my amazing culinary prowess.” He squeezed my waist before he let go, his fingers lingering just a second too long.

  “You’re cooking for me?” My mouth fell open as Alex opened the oven. After donning cherry red and white striped oven mitts, he pulled out a battered ceramic casserole dish, which he carefully placed on the stove top.

  “I hope you like pasta.” When he turned towards me again, still wearing those ridiculously over sized oven mitts, I felt my heart do a wobbly flip flop in my chest.

  “I do.” Before I could prevent it, I felt my nose clog and my eyes sheen with a hint of impending tears. Mortified, I slapped my hand over my mouth, pressing hard, trying to discourage the flow.

  I couldn’t break into tears just because a boy was being nice to me. I was better than that.

  But…

  “You’re so nice.” I could hear the incredulity in my voice, as well as the wobble from emotion. “I…” I trailed off, not sure what to say.

  Alex’s face darkened, and he looked down at the oven mitts.

  “Nice.” His voice held a hint of disbelief. I bit into my lower lip, wondering if I’d said the wrong thing. “You think I’m… nice.”

  “Yes.” I had to force the word through a thick throat. I eyed him warily as he cast his eyes up and down my body in a way that was anything but nice.

  “Serena, I have to tell you something.” He stalked—there was no other way to describe the movement—the few steps towards me, insinuating himself between my thighs as I sat on the counter. I gasped when I found my knees pressing into his waist.

  He placed one hand flat on each of my knees, his thumb massaging the sensitive skin, then leaned in until our lips were almost touching.

  “I—what?” I couldn’t think when he was touching me. “I’m… I’m not used to nice.”

  “Guys don’t like being called nice.” Bypassing my lips, he bent his head and pressed a hot, damp kiss to the hollow of my throat. I threaded my fingers through his thick dark hair, my entire body clenching with need.

  I began to pant when he slid those lips down and over the upper swell of each breast. When he kissed his way back up my shoulder, my neck, then nipped at my ear, I groaned.

  “Being nice is right up there with being called cute. Or maybe being told we have a great personality,” he said. Suckling the lobe of my ear into his mouth for just a second, he released me and stepped back, leaving me with my head reeling.

  My fingers clutched at the edges of the counter as I stared at him, trying to slow my breath back down to a normal rate. He looked back at me, his face blank, but for the barest hint of a smile that ghosted around the corners of his lips.

  “That was not nice,” I informed him as soon as I found my voice.

  That hint of a smile broke out fully. “I was proving a point.” With a small smirk, he opened a cupboard and pulled out two plain white plates and a measuring cup. After placing a generous scoop of pasta casserole onto one plate, he handed it to me.

  “I have a little table set up through there.” He gestured to one end of the galley kitchen. “Go ahead and get started. I’ll be right there.” Rather than spooning his serving right onto his plate, he put his serving into the measuring cup, filling it carefully to the two cup mark before dumping it onto his plate. It was strange. He didn’t seem like the type to be on a diet.

  Alex looked up and found me still standing there. “I’ll just be a sec.” He smiled, but the expression clearly told me that whatever he was doing, he didn’t want me to see.

  “Sorry.” Flushing, I fled in the direction he had shown me. It didn’t matter what he was doing—it wasn’t any of my business. I had things I didn’t intend to tell him, either.

  “How is it?” Alex joined me at the table a minute later, one hand holding his plate, the other absentmindedly rubbing his side. “I’ve made this a million times, but I have no desire to poison a beautiful woman.”

  Blushing at the compliment, I ducked my head and speared a tube shaped noodle with my fork. “I haven’t tried it yet.”

  I scooped the noodle off the fork with my lips, hissing when it hit my tongue. It was steaming hot, and I licked my lips as I rolled it around in my mouth, trying to cool it a bit before I swallowed.

  As I chewed, I saw Alex watching the movements of my mouth with undisguised lust. My mouth suddenly dry, it was hard to swallow, even though the casserole was surprisingly tasty.

  “It’s… it’s good.” I whispered. He wasn’t making any attempt to hide his desire from me, and I didn’t know what to do with that. I didn’t know what to do with him, this man who could have had any girl and yet seemed to have chosen me. This man who so clearly wanted me, and yet hadn’t tried to have me yet.

  At least, he hadn’t yet tried to go all the way.

  “Eat up.” He rubbed his side again as he sat and began to eat his own meal. “You’re going to need your strength if you hope to beat me at Yahtzee. Not that it will happen… but you can try.”

  “This is painful for me to admit,” Alex leaned back on the couch, his hands behind his head. His smile was rueful. “That last roll is a three of a kind.”

  I blinked down at the dice that I’d just poured from the blue plastic cup onto the battered coffee table. I’d rolled them a full five minutes ago, but had been distracted by something Alex had said.

  The single game had taken almost two hours, because we’d talked so much. We laughed. Somewhere along the line I forgot that I was supposed to be nervous and wary, and just had fun.

  “It is?” Twisting at the waist, I squinted down at the five dice. Sure enough, three of them had landed with their number six sides facing up.

  I looked at my score sheet, and couldn’t help grinning as I crossed off the last column.

  “I won!” I couldn’t stop the ridiculous sense of happiness. It was just a board game… but it had been so much fun. Spirits high, I turned and poked a finger into Alex’s chest. “I do believe you said that would never happen, sir.”

  “That I did.” His movement lightning quick, he grabbed the hand that was touching his chest and tugged until my torso was bent in his direction.

  “So what do I win?” The laughter faded from my lips as something dark and wicked crossed his face.

  “Lady’s choice.” His voice was husky, and I felt it like a flash of lightning, searing me from the inside out.

  Could I do it? Could I be that bold?

  I wanted to. I wanted him.

  I ran my tongue over my lips to moisten them as I shored up my courage. Then, before I could lose the nerve, I pressed my lips to his, the first time that I had kissed him.

  He let me lead, let me explore his mouth with my own. My breath was shuddering with nerves and repressed need as I took what I wanted, savoring the kiss, then pulled back to look at him with wide eyes.

  I had never before been as vulnerable as I was in that moment. I had offered something without meaning to.

  Would he take it?

  “Fuck, Serena.” Pressing his palms to my back, Alex pulled me to him, crushing his lips to mine again. I groaned under the assault, not protesting when he arranged me so that I straddled his lap.

  Through the layers of our jeans I could feel the length of his hardened cock, proving to me just how much he wanted me. I had thought that when this moment came, I would be terrified, that I would freeze.

  Instead, I pressed down without fully intending to, blind need clawing at my insides, desperate to get out now that it had been awakened.

  “Yes.” His voice was a low rasp as he caught the hem of my sweater in his finger and pulled the wool up to bunch above my breasts. He tried to pull it over my head, but I caught at it with my free hand.

  “Just… just keep this on. Okay?” Goose bumps prickled my skin as cool air
hit the exposed flesh of my belly, but they were quickly soothed by the raw heat of his kiss.

  He nodded and let me arrange my sweater to where I was comfortable. I shifted, making sure that my upper arms were covered.

  Satisfied, tentative, I worked my hands in between our bodies and undid the buttons of his shirt. I was slow at it, since my fingers were trembling, and we were both panting by the time I worked the shirt off of his shoulders.

  “Damn.” His hands cupped my waist, traced the horizontal stripes of my ribcage. Then, his eyes fixed on me to gauge my reaction, he pulled one cup of my bra down until my breast fell free of the cotton.

  “Ohmigod.” His fingers, so gentle as they touched my naked nipple, made me clench my thighs on either side of his hips. “I—oh…”

  “All right?” He stilled his fingers for a moment, and I arched into his touch.

  “Yes. Yes, good.” I panted. He chuckled, then resumed the light brushes of touch over the distended flesh. My hips rocked against his, pressing into his erection, and he hissed in a breath.

  Our lips mashed together again as he gently pulled my second breast from its fabric cradle and gave it the same attention. My mind was a swirl of bright colors that were pure sensation, and I was reduced to a panting, quivering mess.

  “Serena.” Alex breathed my name against my neck as my fingers roamed over his broad shoulders. I could see the entirety of his tattoos, the dark swirls extending from mid bicep, up and over his shoulders, and down to his shoulder blades. I couldn’t appreciate them fully, though, because the feel of his hands on my breasts had blurred my vision.

  Slowly, slowly, one of his hands fell from my breast. He slid it down, over the soft curve of my stomach, and between my legs.

  I gasped. I’d had hands here before—too many hands—but none of them had ever elicited so much heat. Still, I froze, unsure of what to do.

  “Is this okay?” He whispered. As I looked at him, I saw that those deep blue eyes were serious and watchful. He was paying attention to what I liked, what I didn’t.

  He wasn’t going to go further than I wanted to.

  I nodded, then pressed my cheek against the curve of his shoulder. It was damp, and I inhaled the scent of his skin.

  Slowly, so slowly, he rubbed his fingers between my legs, over the seam of my blue jeans. I bit back a moan. It felt so good.

  Too good.

  I didn’t want him to stop.

  I widened my stance to give him better access. The movements of his fingers were slow and sure, and I felt tension coiling up in my belly.

  I traced a finger over the tattoos on his biceps as he stroked me, my head tilted back. I frowned through the heat when I felt a pucker marring the otherwise tight satin of his skin.

  There… and there. Those were… scars? Yes, small, round scars that pulled tightly against the surrounding skin. They’d been hidden so skillfully by the tattoos that they were impossible to see from anywhere but this close.

  He had scars. So did I.

  I wondered what secret he had, that he was hiding from me.

  Unbidden, the suffocating sensation rose up and began to siphon away my air. I stiffened, tried to fight through it, to stay in the moment of pleasure, but the second I tensed Alex removed his hands from what they were doing, clasping me loosely around my upper arms.

  He pulled back to look at me.

  “What’s wrong?” I shivered for a second, looking away.

  “Serena.”

  I couldn’t help but look at him when he used that tone. His face was serious, but I knew he wanted an answer. “What happened?”

  “Nothing.” The lie rolled off my tongue as it had so many times before. Awkwardly, I scooped my breasts back into my bra, then tugged my sweater down. I was mortified, and with the mortification came the dark shame that had dogged me for years.

  “All right.” His voice had cooled, and I couldn’t help but cringe at the change in his demeanor.

  “Alex…” I trailed off. The look on his face was blank, and sent a pang through me.

  “I can’t make you trust me.” He was… could he be hurt? I was puzzled by the notion, by the idea that I had enough power to do that.

  “I do trust you.” I whispered, looking down at my fingers.

  “You trust me with your body.” His voice was matter of fact. “But not with anything else. And that’s fine. We haven’t known each other very long.”

  But it wasn’t fine, and I could hear it in his voice. We may not have known each other very long, but there was a connection that linked the two of us tightly, one that I had just railed against with my reluctance to share.

  “I’m sorry.” The last thing I expected was for Alex to chuckle. Bewildered, I looked at him, and found him leaning back, both frustration and bafflement evident on his features.

  “You’re complicated.” He was matter of fact, not hurtful, but I flinched regardless. Slightly irritated at this comment from the guy who had just had his hands between my legs, I stood, shaking the loose strands of my ponytail into my face.

  “You have no idea.” I stood still for a long moment, unsure. “I should go.” I had been stupid to pretend I could do something as normal as this. My throat felt thick, but I bit my tongue to prevent tears. No. No way.

  I was stronger than that.

  “Serena.” He sounded frustrated. I peeked through my golden curtain to find Alex running his fingers through his hair, the thick strands sticking straight up from his attentions. “Sit.”

  I shook my head and stayed right where I was.

  He heaved a sigh, then stood. “Don’t go anywhere.” He disappeared through the entry to the kitchen, then returned with a small drawstring bag.

  Opening it, he began to pull out items, placing them one by one on the coffee table, naming them as he did.

  “Blood glucose monitor. Test strips. Finger poker. Syringes. Fast acting insulin. Slow acting insulin. Glucagon.” Having emptied the bag, he sat on the couch again, this time perching on the edge, his hands clasped together.

  I squinted at the pile of items. I wasn’t familiar with most of them, but one word had caught my attention.

  “Insulin? You’re diabetic?” I eyed the man who was at least six foot three, most of it muscle. He was one of the healthiest looking people I’d ever met, and I told him so.

  “I have Type 1 diabetes. Insulin dependent. For diabetics, it’s something that’s going to happen from the moment of conception. When you’re diagnosed is just a matter of long your pancreas holds out.” From the way he spoke, what he was telling me was very important. “And I’m healthy right now, but I haven’t been for very long.”

  “So… what do you do with all of… that?” I furrowed my brow and gestured towards the equipment he’d strewn across the coffee table.

  He picked up the thing he’d called a blood glucose monitor. It was sheathed in a bright red rubber skin, and looked a bit like a small iPod.

  “Basically, the word diabetes means sugar in the urine.” He rolled the monitor in between his palms. “Insulin is made by the pancreas, and it helps the body use foods that are broken down into sugars—basically anything with a carb count. Pasta, bread, cake, fruit. You with me?”

  “Yes.” Despite my discomfort of moments before, I was interested.

  “A type 1 diabetic doesn’t make insulin. When we eat something with a carb count, we have to inject ourselves with enough insulin to take care of it.” Grasping the monitor between his thumb and forefinger, he waved it in the air. “This thing tells me how good I’m doing. It tells me if my sugars are too low and I need to eat some carbs, or if they’re too high and I need some extra insulin.”

  “How do you know when to use it?” The idea that this big, ridiculously masculine man in front of me had to do something like this was so strange. I thought of how he’d been measuring his portion of casserole instead of just dumping it onto the plate, and wondered if he had to do that with every meal.

  “I pric
k a finger and use the monitor at least four times a day, sometimes more.” He placed the monitor on the table, picked up a syringe and a vial of clear liquid. “That, along with the amount of carbs I’m going to eat, tells me how much insulin I need. It’s injected into the arms, the stomach, the sides, or the ass.”

  I thought of how he had been rubbing his side when he’d come to the table. He’d just injected himself.

  “So… it’s controllable, right?” I felt like I was asking the dumbest questions on the planet, but I didn’t know anything about diabetes.

  “It is, if you’re vigilant.” He put the syringe and vial back on the table.

  “Is everyone as… vigilant… as you are?”

  “No.” The word was flat, and I blinked, wondering if I’d asked the wrong thing. He forced a smile when he saw my expression, rubbing his hands on his knees.

  “I’m healthy now, Serena. But… I wasn’t always.” He paused, and I knew what he was asking without words. He’d shared something with me… it was my turn.

  Diabetes sucked, clearly, but I couldn’t think anything badly of him for it. It wasn’t a fair trade of information. The darkness I held inside of me… he might never want to talk to me again.

  I opened my mouth, then closed it again. Something about him made me want to share, so badly.

  The secret was stuck in my throat. The only person I’d ever told was the one who should have believed me no matter what. And she hadn’t.

  I opened my mouth to try to spit it out, but said something else entirely.

  “The injections. Is that what the scars on your arms are from?”

  Alex reeled back as if I’d struck him, his hand rubbing over the place in question as if the skin hurt. “No.” His voice was flat, and colder than I’d heard it.

  He said nothing else.

  My gaze faltered under his challenging stare. I took a step backward, then another, then turned and made my way to the door, emotions churning inside of me in a big, nauseating stew.

  I didn’t look back.

  Chapter Five

  I ran faster than I ever had, pushing myself until my lungs burned and the muscles in my legs quivered and threatened to give out. Heaving in great lungfuls of air as I turned into the MacKinnon parking lot, I lifted the hem of my T-shirt to mop the sweat from my forehead.