Tangled Like Us

by Krista Ritchie

  “Everyone has an opinion,” she tells me. “Not all welcome and nice and they can think what they want but it won’t change what I’m doing. So they can go to hell and find someone else to criticize there.”

  “Agreed,” I say.

  Her lips quirk up. “I like when you do that.”

  “Do what?” I open the door fully now. The hallway clear.

  “Say only one or two words to get your point across. Like that’s all it takes. And for you, it does.” She holds my gaze for a strong beat. “I just really like that.”

  I can’t name another person who said they like my brevity or quietness.

  We make our way back. Both of us keep glancing more at each other than ahead. We stop by the opened archway that leads into the main parlor.

  “I don’t mean to interrupt, but are you a twin?” That question comes from a middle-aged man with a graying mustache. He motions toward the first lounge where I see Banks sitting and still chatting with Akara. “I could have sworn I was seeing double.”

  “Yes, sir, I’m a twin.” I don’t elaborate. Don’t say anything else. Don’t really feel like it. But I do try to smile so I don’t make him feel bad for asking.

  He laughs. “Thought so. You know my niece and nephew are twins. Six. Adorable.”

  I’m sure they’re sweet, but what they’ll never understand is having to have these unprompted conversations with complete strangers.

  He’s one second away from taking out his phone and showing me photographs.

  “Oh this is interesting,” Jane says, but her gaze isn’t on the old man. It’s pinned to the couch that we had left.

  Sulli isn’t alone anymore. Some preppy guy in his twenties is seated right next to her.

  I assess: dishwater-blond hair that’s combed back, a crisp gray suit jacket over a striped button-down like he stepped out of some J.Crew catalogue.

  My first instinct is to look back at the first lounge. Where Sulli’s bodyguard sits. Akara and Banks are eagle-eyeing the fuck out of this guy.

  But there’s not much they can do. The club’s security would throw a fit if they crossed into the parlor for no reason.

  “Excuse us, sir,” I tell the old man and follow Jane to a bookshelf, a few meters from the couch but far enough to give us some privacy.

  Jane whispers, “I’m ninety-nine percent sure that’s Wesley Rochester’s older brother. I’ve never met him. I think his name is Will.”

  She’s already told me about her first kiss. Kindergarten. Wesley Rochester. How she thought she was fated to be with him just because of his last name and her namesake—Jane Eyre. Wesley grew up to be a prick, according to Jane, but I’ve never met him. And his older brother Will is an unknown variable.

  It’s hard to detach my gaze from her, but I do.

  I watch as Will passes Sulli a glazed donut wrapped in a napkin. Like Sulli mentioned earlier, there aren’t any donuts in the club, which either means Will brought it for her or convinced the chef to make her one from scratch.

  Sulli holds out her other hand and Will takes out a pen. He scrawls on her wrist. Has to be his number. She keeps smiling, her face turning red, and her gaze sweeps his body in a slow once-over.

  I look to Akara. He is frozen. Marbleized. Banks is talking to him, almost rapidly, concern in my brother’s eyes.

  “I don’t want to interrupt them,” Jane whispers to me, referring to Sulli and Will. “Sulli says all guys see her as a best buddy, not a potential girlfriend or even hookup. So now I get to remind her of this moment.” She smiles even wider.

  I wrap my arm around her waist. “So this a good thing?”

  “I think so,” she says. She touches her lips that are still a little red from our kiss in the wine pantry. I wanted to do more, but that will have to happen later tonight. Her eyes drift to me and then down to my lips.

  Thinking the same thing.

  Tonight.

  I feel a hot gaze to my four. Someone is staring at me. Quick check, and I meet my brother’s eyes.

  Akara is talking into his mic, concentrated elsewhere. Banks is the only one watching me with a newfound intensity. Can he tell I’m looking at Jane differently now that we’ve slept together? He’d be the only one able to figure it out.

  My stomach knots.

  Keeping a secret from him is out of my nature.

  It’s like running backwards up a fucking hill. And there’s only so long I can keep running before I trip over my own goddamn feet.

  27

  JANE COBALT

  “I have more somewhere in here…” I sink to my knees and open the bottom bathroom cabinet. Thatcher watches me. Shirtless. Chiseled body covered in a light layer of sweat.

  I’m in nothing but a pair of panties and a fuzzy baby blue robe. Tied a little too tight. Heat brews everywhere, but I wasn’t about to make the three foot trek from my doorway to the bathroom in nothing . Because I have roommates.

  Who are thankfully gloriously asleep, but I’m quiet anyway as I shift products and hair irons out of the way. “It’s in the back,” I whisper more to myself. Ten seconds later my fingers wrap around a familiar slender bottle.

  I grab the lube and carefully and oh so gently shut the cabinet closed.

  When I turn back around, Thatcher is still watching me. Eyes planted like he can’t look away. It’s been that way all night. Wonderful, mind-altering sex that neither of us wants to end just yet. We aren’t even close to three in the morning.

  My gaze travels the length of his body. He’s in drawstring pants. He had enough time to hop into those before we made it to the bathroom. No underwear. That is a very clear and well-defined…fact.

  “You are very big,” I say what’s on my mind. Oh God. My eyes spring back up to catch his.

  He’s quiet and hard to read.

  I continue on. “In a very pleasurable way. The best of ways. I love your dick.” I’ll leave it there. It’s a fine endnote. He’s already told me he loves my pussy, so there is no harm in mentioning the fact that his cock is also very appreciated.

  His nose flares in arousal and his ab muscles tighten. “Thank you.” His eyes don’t leave mine, but he draws forward. His hands slowly untie my robe. In barely a whisper, he breathes, “I love your breasts.”

  Oh…I reach back for the lip of the sink. My nipples stiffen. I’ve officially decided I enjoy us so plainly and directly telling each other what we love.

  His palm slips into my robe, sliding against my bare waist. I set aside the lube, and then curl my fingers over the hem of his drawstring pants, pulling him closer.

  A noise gravels his throat. With his free hand, he reaches past my shoulder, his hardness pressing up against me, and he turns on the sink faucet. To drown our noises, most surely.

  He’s a very skilled multi-tasker. At the same time, his other hand is on its own mission to my breast. He cups me with a firm palm. His thumb brushes over my tender and aching nipple.

  I’m already soaked from all we’ve done tonight. And so thankful that I at least put on a pair of panties before we left the bedroom.

  I reach down in his pants to clutch him. “Fuck,” he groans softly and thrusts forward on instinct. My ass digs into the cabinet, and I throb for a harder entry.

  Quickly, he picks me up around the waist and sets me on the sink. Breath ejects from my mouth. Frizzed hair sticks to my lips.

  My robe opens completely exposing my bare skin. But it doesn’t feel any cooler. I’m burning alive underneath his heady gaze.

  “Thatcher,” I say his name like I’m pleading for him. I reach for the strings to his pants to tug him closer. My legs spread and he fits between them.

  “We have to be quiet,” he whispers so softly. It’s barely audible even over the water gushing into the sink.

  He bends down to kiss me. Lips on lips. His hands start to roam my body with an intensity that I thought we left in the bedroom.

  Apparently, it’s here. Everywhere. As long as we’re together, I’m not
sure it will disappear.

  He slowly trails kisses down my neck. My breasts. Stopping to take my nipple into his mouth. I fist his hair and tremble.

  Fingers digging into the soft flesh of my inner thighs, he releases my nipple and stands straighter. He takes all of me in for a moment. Back in the bedroom, I’d drink up the look he’s giving me. Like he could devour each and every inch of my body.

  But for some reason, here under the bright bathroom lights, I suddenly stiffen like a wooden board. Frozen up.

  He notices almost immediately, his eyes jumping up and digging into mine with concern.

  “Jane.”

  Don’t close your robe. I command myself. My breathing comes out in a weird panicked wave. This has never happened. Not once in all the times I’ve been with a guy. And I know what’s causing it. I do.

  “Jane, please talk to me,” Thatcher says, worry cinching his voice. He actually raises it above a whisper, risking it.

  I take a measured breath. “So you may have noticed that I have stretch marks,” I say briskly, trying to spit this out. “And I’ve never felt the need to explain them to any of my past friends-with-benefits. They didn’t need to know why I have a freckle on my butt cheek any more than why I have stretch marks on my belly.” I keep going, barely a pause. “But you’re different. I actually care what you think of me.” Because I really, really like him. More than I’ve ever liked anyone before.

  I continue quickly, “And before you say anything, I just need to get this out.” I take a deeper breath and straighten my shoulders. “When I was nineteen…” I stop there because suddenly my eyes begin to water. Pressure wells on my chest. The opening to this story is like digging up a painful insecurity I’d long ago buried.

  Shitshitshit.

  “Jane,” he whispers. “You don’t have to say a fucking word, if you don’t want to. I like all of you. Every part.” He frowns. “Goddammit.” He curses under his breath and then shakes his head. “I’m really fucking sorry, if I ever gave you the impression that I didn’t.”

  “No.” I balk. “You haven’t. Not once. This is just a sudden, old insecurity come to wreak havoc on me. I thought I’d put it to bed. Honest. It’s me.”

  He looks deeper into me and then past me and his eyes narrow into blazed pinpoints. “If it wasn’t me—” He looks murderous.

  I grab at the waistband to his pants. He nears again, his palms on my thighs. “You can’t fight them,” I say into a soft smile. His willingness to slay my enemies and any foe that has ever hurt me is so very attractive.

  “I can. Physically, I can.” His muscles are pulled into taut bands. I have no doubt, he could destroy most men.

  “I wish you could,” I rephrase. “But they’re long gone, and others are just nameless, faceless humans sitting behind a computer.” I take a breath and continue on, ready to explain. “When I was nineteen, I gained twenty pounds really quickly. Practically overnight it felt like. And out of the blue, these showed up. I lost some of the weight, but the marks are here to stay.”

  I touch my belly where the white stretch marks have been for years. Though, they started out puffy and red. My weight has always fluctuated between ten and twenty pounds, and anything I gain goes directly to my hips and belly. I’m not plus-sized or curvy in all the right places. I’m not skinny. I’m not fat. I’m an odd in-between, a size that the media hardly ever shows. In the end, I consider myself chubby.

  “When I noticed them forming, I was at Princeton,” I explain to Thatcher. “Alone. My best friend was miles away, and I had barely anyone to talk to. So I went to the internet. Which—was a massive oversight. Because all I could find were women talking about how they take pride in their mommy stretch marks. They’re badges of honor. And they are . But the more and more I searched for people to make me feel better about mine, all I could find were horrible, demeaning blog posts and comments in forums. They called them permanent, everlasting reminders of a mistake . Then they continued on explaining how it should be a wake-up call to a lifestyle change.” I shake my head. “Those were the last words I should have read at the time.” All I wanted was for someone to reach out of the computer and give me a hug.

  To tell me that I’m beautiful. And that I never made a mistake. That my body is mine. And it’s unique. And it happened to say you’re going to get stretch marks this month. But that’s okay. Because it loves you. You love it.

  And really that’s all that matters.

  And I did eventually hear all of those things.

  When I went home and my mom hugged me and told them to me.

  In the bathroom, Thatcher still looks like he could go into a computer and commit murder. “Please tell me you didn’t take those shitbags’ advice.”

  “I almost did,” I say. “I started a diet and forced myself into a gym every day for two weeks. But I was so unhappy. I don’t like working out to lose weight. Now I only exercise when I know it’ll make me happy.”

  It’s not every day. Sometimes I go for months without it. I do what feels right. It’s how I’ve learned to love myself despite what other people think.

  “I admire that about you,” he says outright. I almost think I hear him wrong, or it was a slip up. That he was just thinking it in his head. But he keeps going. “You do things that make you happy. That’s hard for some people.”

  “Is it hard for you?” I wonder.

  He stares into me like he’s thinking about something in particular. “Sometimes.”

  I’m about to ask for more details, but his hands rise back to my soft hips. “Jane.” He looks at me with a level of seriousness that steals my breath. “I love your stretch marks.”

  He says as plainly and definitively as he said I love your breasts earlier.

  I smile.

  “I love your lips,” I tell him. “They are quite soft and kissable.”

  Light reaches his eyes. “I love your freckles.”

  “I love your ears.” They’re prominent when he tucks his hair behind them. They frame his face very well.

  He leans in closer, our mouths a breath apart. “I love your thighs.” His hands dip down between them. His lips on mine. Our tongues caress in a frenzied, hot kiss.

  I only part to breath out, “I love your throat.”

  He’s a heartbeat away from a laugh.

  “It’s very…” I run a finger down his Adam’s apple, sending chills down my own arms. “I love it.”

  He nods like he’s taking in this fact. “Well, I love your armpits.” He lifts me up under them and sets me on the ground. We continue complimenting each other. Loving different things. Clothes are shed until I’m disrobed and bare and his pants are in a heap on the ground.

  We’re breath and limbs and I’ve found myself straddling him on the bathroom floor. His shoulders rest against the glass of the closed shower door.

  Breathless and panting, I’m in between a kiss, when he whispers against my ear, “Christ, you’re beautiful.”

  Those words sting my eyes for a second.

  I usually don’t need to hear those words to feel them. Especially from a man. But sometimes, it’s so very nice to have it reaffirmed. It feels so wonderfully good to be called beautiful. Especially from him.

  I return the kiss deeper and harder and then break away to reach for the condom package on the ground. He grabs the bottle of lube as I rip open the foil.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask,” I whisper. “You’ve had fingers or other things in your ass before? I wasn’t your first?” He seems to be far too comfortable letting me back there. Unfortunately for someone who likes butts, like me, not many guys are.

  He leans up to put a kiss on my lips and take the condom from me. “Fingers, yeah.” He rolls the condom on his length. “Other things, yeah.” He rubs lube along his erection and then holds out the bottle to me. Our eyes catch. I’m a little frozen.

  “Other things,” I repeat.

  “Toys, very small,” he says. “Here.” He rubs lube on my fingers
and then reaches for a towel so he can dry his off. Just so he can clutch the back of my head without getting it in my hair.

  My brain is spinning with excitement and possibilities. “Do you have a prostate massager with you?” I ask.

  “In my bedroom. Another night.” He kisses outside my lips. “Was I your first? I couldn’t tell.”

  “You couldn’t?” I frown.

  He shakes his head. “You’re good with your fingers, but you were really curious.” He looks me up and down, taking in my reaction. “I wasn’t your first, then.”

  I nod and then his own fingers slide up between my legs. To check to see how aroused I am. He does that a lot. I realize because he’s so big that he really doesn’t want to hurt me. He’s very well attuned to his body.

  And he’s been adeptly learning mine.

  Our mouths meet again, and while we kiss, he slowly slides himself into me. His lips are beside my ear. “Remember go slow at first.”

  I learned that the hard way the first time I was on top with him. Overeager, I tried to take him completely in me way too fast, and he bottomed out. There was more pain than pleasure, and he spent most of the night concerned and going so slow it was like riding a torturous edge.

  My knees dig into the fuzzy bath rug, and Thatcher grips the bottoms of my thighs as I start to move up and down on him. Everything throbs and aches for more and more and more. Like I’m finding the right switch on my body.

  I move a little faster.

  “Jane. Fuck,” he says almost under his breath. Still trying to be quiet.

  He stifles a deeper groan, so much so, that I can feel the noise rumble through his body. Up against mine.

  “God ,” I say in a heavy breath and then lay a palm flat on his chest. It’s slick with sweat. Still sitting against the shower door, he bucks up into me, his length sinking deeper.

  Oh God.

  I’m already clenching around him. Legs trembling. Earth splitting feelings pinching me with pleasure.

  “Jesus,” he breathes, still awed at how sensitive I am under his touch. It makes staying on top of him difficult because I get tender fast. But I try because I adore this position.