Fly (Wild Love Book 2)

by Red L. Jameson

“I forgot to thank you for letting us stay with you.” I wish he wouldn’t talk like that—low, gravelly. My nipples are beading. I’m wet. God, please make him stop talking like that.

  “I think I kind of forced you guys to stay, what with falling into a coma and all.”

  He smiles, the flash of perfect white square teeth making my breasts feel full and crave to be touched. Even his teeth are turning me on.

  “You feel okay?” he asks.

  Which I’m so glad he does, because it wakes me from my sexual desire. I’m pregnant. Single and pregnant. That’s my reality. I’m not the girl I used to be, who could have a quick fuck and pretend it didn’t hurt when I was left. Yet again. I have to think about myself and my baby now.

  “Yeah. Yeah.” I’m nodding a tad crazily and try to tame my movements. “I’m fine. I’ve just had trouble sleeping. My internal gauge is off, I guess. But I’ll be fine.”

  He nods slowly. “I should probably let you go back to sleep.”

  But I’m not tired. Not now.

  “I should probably go back to sleep.” H’s thumb stretches around my hip, grazing the bone there. I don’t have hip bones that peek out. Not exactly. But I’ve got a bump there that lets him know I do have bones under my skin.

  I don’t know why I’m thinking of my body composition right now. Well, it’s what I do. I always measure how much I think I like a guy versus how much I’d hate for him to find out what’s under my clothes. Oh, I know I’m no Jabba the Hutt. But that doesn’t stop me from feeling like it.

  “I just can’t sleep.” H’s voice is softening. I’m pretty sure he’s standing closer to me. His thumb is pressing in more, so are his fingers.

  Then something warm feathers against my other thigh. His hand glides up and holds that hip. He’s really close now, and I realize that for once in my life, I wasn’t the one doing all the talking. I’ve been quiet, though god knows why. Even while I’m doing the calculation of how much I like a guy versus my fear of him finding out for himself just what my body looks like, I’m usually talkative. Once, a man pushed his hand over my mouth to kiss me.

  “Can’t sleep?” That’s all I can say. I can hardly think with H so close. He’s breathing on the top of my head. Usually, that annoys me, being breathed on. But he’s so warm, smells so good, and I’m realizing I’m in way over my head, because I like him breathing on me.

  “Nope.” He presses his fingertips into me. His hands are so long his fingers are basically on my ass.

  And I should mind. I really should.

  But I’m so attracted to him. I want him to kiss me and—and do so much more. My brain’s in a fog with the possibility of more. He’s well over six-feet tall, and I wonder what his body looks like naked. What those muscles that I can see signs of under his t-shirt and pajama pants look like. I’d love to touch him and lick him everywhere. He’s so cut that I think about six-pack abs and what comes under them.

  My knees weaken when I spend too long pondering about him having an erection.

  “I probably should get back to sleep.” His voice is now just a whisper mixed with a growl.

  “You said that already.”

  A flash of white appears where his mouth is. “Yeah. I did. Definitely should go to sleep.” But he’s standing even closer now.

  I have to tilt my head back to look up at him. His thumbs are holding onto my hipbones, his fingers pressing into my ass. I can just make out shadows of him. He’s swallowing. The bobbing of his Adam’s apple below his dark beard might make me moan.

  And if he so much as pulls me against him, I know I’m a goner. I couldn’t fight that kind of temptation. I’d kiss him and touch him and…I’m scared I might hurt him with this animal lust of mine.

  “You’re not a goat.”

  I tilt my head. “What?”

  He laughs softly. “You’re not at all a goat. And it wouldn’t matter if I’ve been around millions of women or not. You’re still beautiful.”

  Great, now my heart is pounding in my head. It’s so loud I wonder if he can hear it. I want to tell him to stop saying I’m beautiful. Although, that sounds rather spoiled to say, doesn’t it? It’s just that I don’t believe him. But my heart wants to. And, oh, how I can’t let my heart do any of the deciding here.

  Just as I’m finally thinking of my backbone and fortitude, a loud snore rips through the lodge.

  I’d almost forgotten about Jay. I’m not sure how, because crazy lady that I am, I’m also attracted to him. But something about hearing his friend snore halts H. His fingers dig in more, but he’s stopped breathing. I can feel something tense through him. Even though I can’t make out much of his face, I can sense rigidness there.

  “And you should get to bed too,” H says, his voice completely altered. He sounds rougher, almost angry.

  But before I can figure out what’s going on, he scoops me in his very strong arms and marches toward my bedroom.

  8

  Okay, getting swept off my feet is as fun as it sounds. And I can’t help but giggle, so I try to muffle the noise against something hard. Good lord, that something hard is H’s shoulder I’m pressing my mouth against.

  He’s softly chuckling too while he’s walking through the lodge. He doesn’t crash into anything, and I wonder if he can see in the dark. I know it’s a myth that some warriors can see at night, but right now I can’t help but wonder if it’s a little bit true.

  Somehow we’re in my bedroom and that’s when he does trip. I’m flying through the air for half a second to land on my comfy mattress, laughing even louder, and look over the edge of the bed to prone H. I’m not sure how he threw me with that soft of a landing, while I doubt he did. He’s still just lying there, groaning.

  “Are you okay?” I’m trying to stop from laughing.

  “I don’t know. I can’t tell what’s more bruised. My shins that knocked into your steel-reinforced suitcase. Or my pride. Jesus, I suck. What kind of metal do you have in your suitcase?”

  “It’s just a regular suitcase. I think that’s plastic around it.”

  He groans more. “Don’t say that. I was tripped by plastic?”

  “I mean, it’s a plastic that’s mixed with…titanium. And platinum.”

  He starts laughing while he pushes on his forearms and looks up at me. “That’s got to be one expensive suitcase.”

  I nod, liking our conversation too much. “And I forgot to mention I have an elephant in it too.”

  He’s smiling again. The white from his teeth stuns me momentarily. God, I like his teeth. They’re so straight. But I think one of his bottom teeth might be slightly crossed, which makes me think he just might be human and not some superman, even if he does trip on a suitcase.

  “Ah, you’re far too kind, milady.”

  “Oh, but am I?”

  “A lady? Or kind?”

  “Actually, I’m wondering about the milady.”

  “You don’t think you’re milady material?”

  I squint my eyes. “Well, what constitutes a milady?”

  “You want the definition?” He sits up, crossing his long legs and looking serious, although neither of us are.

  “Yeah. Am I merely a milady because you and Jay saved me when my noble steed crashed into a snowdrift?”

  “Your Wrangler is a noble steed now?”

  “It’s got to be in this scenario.”

  He nods. “Yeah. It’s gotta be.”

  Honestly, I’m not sure what exactly we’re talking about, but I’m having so much fun. God, I love talking to H. He’s clever and fast. And adorable. I really like how smart he is. I like that about a man. What I love even more is I think he likes me for my wit too. I don’t have to hide it. I don’t have to pretend. And I’m probably having more fun talking than I ever have flirting.

  “Well, I think you’re a milady because…” He trails off and shrugs. “It fits. Maybe because we did find you after your noble steed crashed into a monstrous snowdrift.” In the dark, I still can’
t quite make him out. But he seems to suddenly grow more serious. “That, and you’re kind of…”

  “Kind of…? What? Don’t leave me hanging like that.”

  His teeth appear again with another shrug. “You’re kind of…” He pauses again, and just as I think he’ll never answer what I might have done wrong, what he might criticize me for, he says, “Kind of the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, like Elizabeth Taylor.”

  My god, to be compared to an icon like her has me speechless.

  Which, for whatever reason, makes H talk all the more.

  “I mean, my mom—okay. So, yeah, my mom kind of idolizes Elizabeth Taylor, and there were pictures of her in my mom and dad’s bedroom, and I had to watch all of her movies. I think I have National Velvet memorized. But you’re, you know, more natural looking. Just as pretty, though. God, my mom would flip if she saw you. She’d think you’re so pretty. I’m making my mom sound like a nut, aren’t I?”

  “No,” I say breathlessly, my chest squeezing from thinking about a mom liking me. “Not at all.”

  “Yes, I did. She’s not a stalker, but she did write to Elizabeth Taylor a few times. She’s a big fan. It’s just, see, my mom had a hard time growing up. My grandmother was from Korea, but my mom was born and raised in America. Yet, she was bullied. Called names, you know? Jap. Chink. And told to go back home, even though—yeah, I already told you she was born and raised here. Anyway, when she was in high school and things were bad, she fixated on Elizabeth Taylor for inspiration, because, you know, Miss Taylor had some tough times of her own. And when my mom wrote her, Elizabeth actually responded personally and was kind to my mother. So that’s why—”

  “I think it’s awesome your mom loves Elizabeth Taylor,” I interrupt. I don’t mean to be rude but to assuage his obvious nervousness. “You know, I studied the photographer, Bob Willoughby. He’s one of Taylor’s friends and who she trusted the most to take her pictures. God, what a muse she must have been—that face, that smile, those eyes. Violet eyes. Can’t beat that.”

  “I’m partial to green that turns gray.”

  Something inside me snaps. He’s talking about my eyes and I know it. I call my eyes hazel because they’re constantly changing, depending on my mood, the light I’m in, or what have you. I know this about me. And he does too.

  I’m going to lunge off the bed and attack him.

  “You guys okay?” The gruff voice of Jay interrupts my plans.

  I glance up, and H jumps to stand beside his friend.

  “Yeah,” H says, his voice a tad higher than normal. “Yeah. Dee needed some water, so she got it, and I helped her into bed, and we’re just talking. Just talking. About Elizabeth Taylor, of all things, er, people.”

  You know what’s funny? When you see someone who acts like you do. H’s rapid talking, his over-explaining, and his tenseness reminds me of…me. And although, I get so angry at myself whenever I act like that, I can’t help but want to hug him, reassure him, and tell him that everything will be okay.

  “Elizabeth Taylor. Huh.” Jay’s voice is softening. His head swivels my direction then back to H, like he’s assessing what’s really going on.

  H is suddenly backpedaling. Literally. He’s looking at me, sure, but he’s walking backward out of my room.

  “Yep.” H’s voice keeps cracking. “My mom was a fan. And Dee, here, on the bed when I was on the floor, told me about—who was that photographer you studied?”

  “Bob Willoughby.”

  “Right.” H laughs. “Well, good talk, Dee. Good night.” With that, he turns and just might have sprinted back into his bedroom as I hear the click of the door closing less than a second later.

  I glance at Jay, replaying the whispered conversation H and Jay had had about me. H had given me up. But he sure hadn’t acted like that when Jay was asleep.

  “You okay, Dee?” Jay clears his throat. “Need more water or anything?”

  “Nope. Thank you, though. I’m fine.”

  Jay nods. “Well, if you need anything, like to talk more about Elizabeth Taylor, I’m on the couch.”

  I giggle. “I think I’m all talked out about Elizabeth Taylor for tonight. But thanks.”

  “Maybe you need to talk about Marilyn Monroe? Audrey Hepburn?”

  I chuckle louder, liking Jay’s dry sense of humor. “Nah, I’m good. Maybe in the morning, though.”

  Jay nods again. “Sure. Well, goodnight.”

  “Goodnight, Jay.”

  He begins to close my door, but stops, saying, “And by the way, you’re actually prettier than Elizabeth Taylor. Hands down.” Then he leaves.

  And I can’t help but clutch at my heart.

  Damn it, damn it, damn it.

  These two men, two incredible men are going to drive me insane. I like both of them. Well, who wouldn’t after they say such sweet things?

  Spoiled, spoiled girl, I tell myself. I can’t have both.

  Scratch that.

  I don’t want either of them. I have planning to do, lots to think about.

  Only, I keep thinking of them—of H and Jay.

  9

  I wake to the sun lavishing me with its winter rays that seem to crystalize inside the room, making everything, like yesterday, a tad fantastic. Or maybe that’s because I remember where I am and that two men are in the lodge with me. Well, I’m pretty sure they’re still here. I think I hear male growling whispers being exchanged somewhere in the cabin.

  Men.

  Two gorgeous men in the same building as me.

  As I take a shower in the en suite bathroom, I wonder if H’s mother would really like me. I’ve gotten to the mother-stage in a relationship twice before. Once with a high school boyfriend I never took seriously, and with another guy when I was living in New York. It was after college, and I thought I knew everything. Hey, they do say if you can make it there, you can make it anywhere. Which might be true, but that doesn’t mean you make it with much maturity.

  So I met this guy that I somehow landed in bed for a few weeks in a row. Then months in a row. He seemed to like me. I liked him, but I was more fascinated that he liked me and not just for sex. We watched movies; we talked in Central Park; we laughed and snuggled close in the subway to Brooklyn. Carl was his name, and I adored him. When I met his mother, I thought he’d ask me to marry him. I’d tell him he didn’t have to worry about that, but he’d insist, and then…yeah, I fantasized a lot about that guy and what I wanted.

  I got a gig in the Philippines, shooting some prisoners who were sentenced to death for drug dealing. Nearly out of my head, because the assignment sounded so grownup, and I drank red wine without wincing by then, I felt like I had finally arrived. I had a serious boyfriend who liked me, his mom kind of liked me, if she could remember my name, my job was getting sizzling hot, and I could drink all kinds of wine, often without over indulging too. Yes, I was an adult.

  When I arrived home from the Philippines, amazed my editor had only glowing things to say about my work, promising me more, I found Carl sitting on my couch in my teeny apartment, hands folded, his voice cold. He told me I shouldn’t be angry with him. It was natural to look at other women.

  That other woman, not plural—just one, happened to be the girl I thought was my best friend and roommate who was standing in our apartment’s hallway, crying. And Carl hadn’t just looked. He’d fucked her. A lot.

  I called my brother, bawling, but he didn’t answer. In a fit of desperation I can only assume is almost as punishing as cutting myself, I called my mother.

  “You’re always so melodramatic, Deidra Alexandra,” she said. “You weren’t married to the man. You had no ties to him. You shouldn’t complain. Quit crying.

  “Now, if you were Jane you might have something to cry about. Your brother’s running around on her as if she weren’t his wife at all. It’s appalling. Not even cutting off his finances has slowed him down. He hasn’t been feeling well, but that hasn’t stopped him from ruining your father’s g
ood name and our family’s reputation.”

  “I’m pretty sure I ruined our family reputation in high school,” I said, angry I’d called her, and even more angry at myself for giving her ammunition to annihilate me. Yet again.

  “Yes, you did come terribly close to doing just that, what with running around with all those boys. I swear, you and your brother must have your loins on fire. Sex doesn’t do the things you think it will. It doesn’t get you anything. You can’t find comfort in it. You can’t find some kind of redemption. People won’t like you more if you have it. You and your brother need to stop and think from time to time. I suppose things would be different had your father lived.”

  My mother talked on and on. I remember hanging up feeling much worse. I remember thinking I wanted the pain to end. I thought about suicide. I’m not proud that I thought about it, and, honestly, it wasn’t the first time. I didn’t want to do it as a cry for help. I just wanted to stop hurting so goddamned much. After talking to my mother, I’d get on this downward spiral of thoughts where I realized I meant nothing to her. And if I don’t mean anything to my own mother, then I must not mean anything, period. Then I’d wonder if I did kill myself, would anyone mind?

  I knew my brother would. That kept me alive and going to therapy.

  As I got to know my sister-in-law, which took a few years because she happens to be the shyest person I’ve ever known, I realized Jane would mind if I died. It kind of happened on accident, my getting to know Jane. I called their house, looking for Tim, but he wasn’t there, and I guess I sounded miserable. It was shortly after Carl told me he’d fucked Amanda, my supposed best friend, and I found myself blabbing everything to Jane. To my sister-in-law who I knew my brother was fucking around on.

  I felt terrible.

  But to her credit, Jane actually listened. She sympathized without telling me anything about my brother. She never tried to include herself as a fellow cheatee, but somehow empathized too. She was graceful and diplomatic and more than anything she was comforting. God, I’ll never forget realizing that she was actually sweet and kind.