by P. Dangelico
“My grandmother doesn’t know who I am, my mother is a stranger I can barely tolerate…all I have left is Audrey and I’m still getting to know her.”
“You forgot one other person.”
“Hmm, who did I forget?” I ask, the words garbled by the irrepressible smile spreading across my face.
“The naked man under you.”
“That’s sweet,” I say planting a kiss on his chest, on the side of his neck. “But one day you’ll meet someone and fall in love and she, rightfully so, would take issue with a benefriend being in your life.”
“What if I make you fall in love with me?” His voice sounds strange, rushed, lacking the self possession he’s famous for. Beneath me I can feel him holding his breath. A staring contest ensues. Which he wins when my smile breaks free.
“You think you can make me fall in love with you?” I echo, half chuckling at his audacity. If I didn’t know how hard fought his confidence was, it’d be a major turn off. However, knowing where he started makes my throat burn with pride for him.
Dancing with wily mischief, lids heavy, those eyes move back and forth from my eyes to my lips. “Hmm.”
“It’s like that, is it? You decide to make me fall in love with you and it’s a done deal? You’re calling your shot? Eight ball in the corner pocket.”
“Hmm,” he says with a cute little nod.
“A little full of ourselves aren’t we? And when I say ourselves and we, I mean you.”
“When I put my mind to something I usually get what I want.” His arms tighten around me, hands brushing up and down my spine.
Falling in love, loving someone, never felt like a risk to me. Exhausting, yes. Time consuming, mostly. But not risky. Because I was always prepared for pain and rejection, for the inevitable demise of every relationship I’ve ever been in. What felt risky was allowing myself to be loved, to let someone else take care of me. I’ve craved it my whole life. And like any reformed addict, I know my limits. If I let myself be loved, then what? What becomes of me once they leave? And judging by how terrified I feel right now, it’s the first time I’ve ever wanted it.
“Not this time.” Before I know what’s what I’m on my back, pressed between a soft mattress and hard muscles. He shifts his hips and makes room for himself between my thighs. “Are we starting? Is this part of your strategy? Art of War and all that?” I say, holding back a throaty laugh. I feel his body grow thick and hard at top speed and an electric jolt zips up my spine in anticipation of what’s to come. Shifting higher, he rubs against my sweet spot and I nearly come undone, my body revved and ready to go, in a constant state of pending orgasm around him.
“More like Art of Love,” he murmurs, his voice husky with desire.
“Cute. Very cute. Adorbs, really.” My voice is thin. I’m hanging on to rational thought by my fingertips. “No one’s managed to make me do anything I don’t want to yet, but I’m breathless with anticipation to see you try.”
A wicked smile lights up his face. A half opened condom wrapper is ready to go on the nightstand. He grabs it and rolls it on. Then he lowers his firm lips onto mine, peppering them with soft biting kisses, kisses so tender and distracting that I barely notice him sliding his palm from my hip to the back of my knee, hardly notice him hitching that leg high around his waist. But when he thrust his hips and buries himself inside of me, fusing us as one, then I notice. When he looks into my eyes as if I’m the only thing in the world worthy of his attention, I notice. Every smartass comment I’m about to taunt him with dies on take off because I am left speechless from the feelings passing between us.
“Ethan,” I murmur as I reach up and cup his face. He kisses my palm, then rubs his prickly cheek back and forth. Just a name. It shouldn’t mean so many things. And yet it does.
I can’t hold his determined gaze a second longer. I’m lost to the pleasure moving through me as he slowly rocks his hips. “Hold on tight, baby. I’m about to wreck this pretty little pussy,” he murmurs in my ear as he drives his body into mine. Harder, more demanding now. “You’re gonna hang a condemned sign on it when I’m done.”
Seriously?
I bite down on my lips to stave off the grin, the laughter, the pure joy. He’s the most fun I’ve ever had. Seeing my amusement, a slow smile lights up his face.
“Too much?” he murmurs.
All I can do is shake my head as my tightly coiled body gets ready to cut loose another epic O. My dirty talking nice guy… too cute. Too damn cute. There were no declarations of love that night. Though I can’t fault the man’s strategy.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The next week flies by in a blur of sexual experimentation, some that will have to be added to the Kama Sutra I’m pretty sure. It’s kind of troubling, how neither one of us seems to be satiated––ever. I can barely walk and yet the man looks at me funny and I’m ready to go. I chalk this up to abstinence being a dangerous thing.
“Ethan––”
Strong fingers press into the insides of my thighs, spreading them open and holding them down.
He came home early this afternoon on some ridiculous pretense that he wanted to work in his newly renovated home office. As soon as he walked through the door he grabbed me and began peeling clothes off. I was naked before we even made it to the stairs.
“These are the most beautiful legs,” he mutters, placing a string of kisses on the inside of my thigh. “And this is the most beautiful pussy––”
“Eth––”
My voice is strangled, breathy. Which is no surprise since the man in my bed has been torturing me with his hands and tongue for the past twenty minutes. It’s the other body part, the one he wants to keep to himself, that I’m interested in.
“Hmm.”
“Eth––”
Then, a low chuckle. “Hmm.”
My clit has been teased so mercilessly it’s seconds away from crying, throwing its toys on the ground, and going home.
“If you don’t stop torturing me, I will rip off your dick and pleasure myself with it.”
A burst of hot breath hits the bulls eye, the deep chuckle that follows it vibrating to the rest of my lady parts. I nearly shoot off the bed I’m so sensitive.
The man doing the torturing lifts his head and gives me a sultry look, his sensual mouth curving into a grin that promises retribution. “Since you asked so nicely.” His expression turns aggressive. “Get on your elbows and knees––ass up.”
My eyes widen in sweet, salacious joy. “Aye aye, sir,” I chirp in glee, scrabbling to do as I am told.
“Amber––” The inflection in his voice gets my attention. I turn to examine his face. “I’ll use a condom if you want me to but––I know you’re on the pill.” With uncertainty in his eyes, he holds my gaze.
I saw me take it two nights ago. I knew he’d noticed.
“You know I’m clean,” he says, weight to his voice.
Nothing about this affair feels casual anymore. Definitely not if we’re ready to cross this line. Cassandra’s word’s are always there, scratching at the back of my mind, telling me I’m losing control of the situation––and more importantly, of my feelings.
“I am, too. No condom.”
His eyes first brighten, then fill with raw desire. He’s the sexiest man on the planet full stop. It seems inconceivable that a man could be this good––the kind of good that’s bone deep––and be just as beautiful on the outside. I almost look around to see if anybody else sees it, or if it’s all in my head like the invisible friends lonely little kids make up.
“Face down,” he murmurs with a pronounced rasp. A hard slap on the ass makes me yelp and smile into the mattress. Nope, this is real, thank heaven. “And, Jones––” New discovery: he calls me Jones whenever things are about to get really good. “You might want to bite down on that pillow.”
The Monday Night Football theme starts playing and I almost go apoplectic. Somewhere in another room, I simultaneously hear my phone ring.
“Ignore it,” I bark. When the ringing continues, Ethan breathes out a tired sigh. He leans over my body, his chest draped over my back, and reaches for his phone on the nightstand. A moment later, I feel cool air hit my skin when he springs off the bed.
“Get dressed. Camilla went into labor.”
Once baby Shaw decided to vacate the premises, he did it post haste. Calvin barely made it to the hospital in time, the baby delivered into the capable hands of his papa only an hour after rushing through the doors of the emergency room. Knowing that mother and child are safe and healthy, Ethan and I stop at the nursery first to get our first glimpse of young Connor. Plastered to the glass, we gaze out over a large swath of babies. One of the young pediatric nurses smiles at the handsome man standing next to me.
Slut. Defiler of the innocent.
I give her the evil eye and her brow quirks in confusion. It’s official, I’ve turned into Gollum.
“Where is he?” I ask, while I subtly shuffle closer to him.
“There.” Ethan taps the glass. “Third baby from the left, in the middle––Connor Shaw.”
I’ve never fallen in love so hard and so fast. The second my eyeballs find him I’m gone. Amazing how you can feel so strongly about someone who’s basically a small lump of meat with no thought process.
“Oh, he’s umm, he’s…” I can feel my face melting into a frown. “He’s kind of small. Don’t you think? Doesn’t look like Cal got a lot of bang for his buck,” I mutter. “I’d ask for a refund.”
“Hmm.”
At the absent reply, I glance sideways and find him staring at the babies with a soft smile curving his lips. For whatever reason, this motivates me to continue. “That girl baby is twice his size.” More humming from the man standing next to me. I brave another furtive glance, and yet again, find that dreamy look on his face. Which is bordering dangerously on longing.
“Kind of an ugly spud, too.”
No joke, baby Connor looks like he went thirteen rounds with Manny Pacquiao and was on the losing end of that tussle. His eyes are swollen shut and the color of his skin angry.
“Do you like kids?” His voice is lower than usual, also a tad husky. He’s working hard to sound casual but his voice is betraying him.
I, however, am not faring much better. Calling me surprised is putting it lightly. My throat closes up. Swallowing has suddenly turned into an Olympic event, the most difficult thing I’ve ever accomplished. Something seems to be messing with my motor skills.
“I mean…they’re kind of messy. And a lot of responsibility. But I would be genuinely upset if The Hunger Games was a real thing. That wouldn’t be okay with me. I would probably…I don’t know, sign an on-line petition or something. Maybe write to my congressman.”
Silence. Which prompts my attention to slide over to him once more. He’s no longer watching the babies. This time I find him staring straight at me. His unblinking gaze is hyper intense.
“How about you?” I have no idea what prompted that question and regret my idiocy the moment the words fall out of my loose lips.
A glimmer of excitement sparks in his big eyes. “I want a whole bunch. Enough for Thanksgiving football games on the front lawn.”
Good grief, he’s a freaking Duggar.
Instantly, I get a clear image of a passel of beautiful brown eyed babies hanging onto Ethan’s legs while he tosses one up over his shoulders. And now I want to go ahead and retch because…well, because I like it. Why would I like it? That’s just not me. No way. I’m not fit to be anybody’s mother. I’m not even fit to own goldfish.
In my mind’s eyes, Ethan is smiling broadly at someone, someone walking next to him. A woman. I hate her. Even though I can’t see her face I know that she’s as perfect as he is. Hanging onto the legs of the kid dangling on his shoulders, he leans down to kiss her. And that’s when it happens. I bend over and vomit all over his shoes.
Half an hour later I emerge from the ladies room clutching my stomach to find Ethan standing in the hallway, waiting for me. I look a touch less like a character in the Walking Dead, and his Tod’s loafers don’t entirely smell like the lox and cream cheese bagel I had for lunch.
“I’m pretty sure I was poisoned. The kid making my bagel didn’t like me. I could sense it.” I catch Ethan pushing down a smile.
“You weren’t poisoned. The fish might’ve gone bad, though.” He brushes a piece of hair that I hadn’t noticed hanging in my face back behind my ear and I get nauseous all over again. The urge to nose dive into the crook of his arm is overwhelming.
Moments later we step into Cam’s room and are immediately met by a chorus of hellos. Camilla’s parents, Angelina and Tom DeSantis, one by one throw their arms around me and kiss each cheek. I’m squeezed and prodded in the process, told I’m too skinny, and ordered to eat more. This is nothing new. They’ve been doing it since I was eleven and their daughter brought me home for dinner. Mercedes, Calvin’s…I don’t know what to call her. She’s his estate manager, but also much more than an employee, Cam and Cal consider her family, hugs Ethan, who then gets his cheeks pinched by Mrs. DeSantis. The only people missing are Calvin, Amanda, and Sam.
“Whatever you do, do not bring up the delivery room. He’s––” Craning her neck, Camilla furtively checks the doorway. “He gets very emo.”
As if summoned, Cal walks in carrying two shopping bags filled with food from Citarella and wearing a face-breaking, white grin. I’ve never seen him smile. Like––ever. I wasn’t even certain he had teeth before this very day. He actually looks weird smiling. Kind of reminds me of Bruce, the big shark in Finding Nemo, and it’s creeping me out.
“Congratulations, buddy.”
“Hey, Cal.”
“Did you see my son?” Cal asks, pride gushing from every pore.
Oh how the mighty have fallen. I remember a time not too long ago when he wasn’t so stoked to claim him. And now he’s, my son. Men, need I say more?
“What’s most important is that he’s healthy,” I toss out. All the attention in the room swiftly turns on me with expressions ranging from curious to confused.
“He’s beautiful,” Ethan quickly adds with a straight face. Always the loyal friend. His eyes hold mine. For a second it feels like it’s just the two of us in the room, connected by some invisible apron strings…or is it heart strings? Whatever, some kind of goddamn invisible string. The corners of his firm, pink lips tip up and I answer with deliberate roll of my eyes. What a sap. A cute one.
“We came straight from the airport,” Amanda, Calvin’s sister, says as she rushes into the room.
“Cam!” Sam, Amanda’s eight year old son, shouts. He heads straight for Camilla and throws his long, skinny arms around her neck.
“Easy, Sam. Your aunt just had a baby,” Calvin tells him while Camilla hugs Sam even tighter.
“I’m so happy you’re here. I missed you,” she whispers in Sam’s ear and breathes him in. These two have had an ongoing love affair since the day they met, and if I didn’t already know that Camilla was going to be an amazing mother, watching her with Sam convinced me that she should have ten. Unlike yours truly, some people are born for this.
Amanda wraps an arm around her brother’s waist. “Where’s the baby?”
“Sleeping, finally,” Camilla answers with a smile, though the exhaustion is clear in her voice.
The quiet turns to chaos, the sound of joy and celebration filling the room. There’s so much love here. So many people holding this extended family together. I notice Camilla watching the chaos with a soft smile on her face. Her eyes meet mine and a bottomless depth of understanding passes between us. This is all she’s ever wanted.
“Happy?” I mouth.
“Just a little,” she mouths back, gesturing with her thumb and index finger.
I turn my attention to the tall, gruff man that’s made my best friend’s dreams come true. “How was the delivery, Cal?”
The room goes silent, the only
sounds are the ones coming from the hallway. Calvin’s face goes flat. A short while after that his nostrils flare and the side of his eye twitches. This is a master class in control. Until he loses the battle and his face starts to fold. Eyes glazing, he looks around once more and mumbles something that sounds like, “Be right back”, turns on his heels, and walks out the door.
Sorry, not sorry.
Chapter Twenty-Six
By the time I walk into the townhouse the following evening it’s already past seven. The banging of the sledgehammer tells me something’s up with Ethan. I would have to be blind, deaf and dumb to not have figured out that he takes to beating the life out of that wall when something’s bothering him.
Before making my way to the living room, I detour to the kitchen, put the groceries away, and grab a bottle of water. He didn’t hear me come in. I know he didn’t because he obliviously goes about his business while I stand in the doorway and watch him like the filthy pervert that I am. Beneath all those fancy clothes, he’s just a man. Albeit a beautiful one. But still, just a man made of bone and flesh and tender parts.
“Whatever that wall did to you, it’s ready to apologize.”
The sledgehammer raised above his head, he stops, then slowly lowers it to the ground. Even from across the room I can feel the bubble of emotion surrounding him. He turns and our eyes meet, the sparkle and good humor he often wears missing. I can’t decipher the look on his face. Though, if I were to guess, I’d say equal parts sadness and longing, as if he’s lost something that matters.
Panting and sweating from the exertion, he leans on the hammer for support as he watches me walk up and hand him the bottle without a word. For a brief moment he stares at the bottle with a funny look. Then, opening it, he takes a big gulp.
“Wanna talk about it?” I plant my butt on a wooden workbench left by the construction crew and patiently wait for him to answer. In the meantime my gaze flickers to the sweat dripping down his chest, the sweat he makes no move to wipe away.