Drawn to You

by Natalie Vivien

  “Yummmmm….” she groans with ecstasy. “You’re really missing out here. They’re so soft and tender… So wet.”

  My head falls onto the table, and I cover my ears with my hands.

  “Oh, please, Molly. Okay, coast is clear. I’m all done,” Juliette declares dryly, tapping me on the head after a few moments have passed.

  Sighing, I sit up and suppress a shudder.

  She takes the empty plate over to the sink and throws it in so hard that it shatters against the ceramic basin. I leap to my feet and edge back, gaping at the shards, narrowing my brows.

  My head is throbbing; my vision blurs. Juliette looks like an out-of-focus Marilyn Monroe—after she just got a really, really bad performance review.

  “Was that necessary?” I splutter. “I mean, what—why—”

  “Sorry. I’m just a butter fingers today,” Juliette says with an unsettling grin, half-angry and half-sweet. “I’ll buy you a new plate when I land a role. I swear.”

  “Forget it.” I move to clean up the broken pieces, but Juliette blocks me, positioning herself in front of the sink and pressing her chest—hard—right against mine. At least she’s wearing clothes now. The short black dress clings to her curves as if by static force, revealing every bra-less and panty-less detail beneath its thin, taut fabric.

  “Leave the plate, Molly. We haven’t had dessert yet. Your rules, remember? Eat first; chores second.”

  “And what do you have planned for dessert?” I gaze into her hypnotic blue eyes and grimace, shaking my head. “No, let me guess… Chocolate mollusk?”

  “Oh, I missed that wicked tongue of yours.” Juliette leers, leaning nearer, her blonde hair tickling my cheeks, her breath hot on my face. “So clever. So damn sharp.” Her mouth collides with mine, tasting of salt.

  I turn my head to break the kiss and turn my body around to wheel out of her grasp. Juliette’s long nails leave scratch marks on my forearms; I rub at them absently as I stalk out of the kitchen and head toward the front door, nostrils flaring with every breath.

  “Molly?” Juliette calls after me, but I don’t listen, don’t reply. I slide into my flip-flops and grab my keys from the side table in the hall. “Where are you going, Molly? I didn’t mean to—I just thought—”

  “No, you didn’t think, Juliette. That’s the problem.” I swing open the door, careless of its weight. It bangs loudly against the wall behind it and probably gouges the paint, but I don’t care.

  All I care about is leaving.

  “Wait, baby. We’re supposed to talk about—”

  “There’s nothing to talk about.” I glare at Juliette over my shoulder; my chest rises and falls with quick, shallow breaths. “It’s over, Juliette. We are over. No more dinners. No more kisses. I offered to let you stay in the house because I knew you had nowhere else to go, but if this is how you’re going to be—”

  “I’ll ease off. I promise.” She flutters those long lashes at me, blue eyes flashing with conjured-out-of-thin-air, crocodile tears. “Give me another chance—”

  “Don’t wait up for me.” I swing my purse onto my shoulder. “I’ll be late.” The door slams behind me with a satisfying bang, but I sob during the twilight walk to Ash’s cottage, pressing my palms against the scratches on my arms to stop the slow trickles of blood.

  ---

  When Ash ushers me into the living room and offers me a glass of iced tea, I don’t tell her anything except, “My dinner plans fell through. Want to order a pizza? Or Indian food, maybe? My treat.”

  But then I see what she’s holding in her hand: a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich on thick-sliced wheat bread. “I could make you one, too,” she offers, laughing under her breath. “I know it’s weird, but I love PB&J. Takes me back to simpler times, you know. Before things got so—”

  “Complicated,” I whisper.

  “Yeah.”

  My mom made me peanut butter-and-jelly sandwiches every day of my grade school career, using her own homemade strawberry preserves. I remember canning the preserves with her, watching her sure, steady hands as they worked. Her fingers were stained pink during the entire strawberry season.

  I feel a sudden homesickness for my mother, for the inherent comfort of her presence, the uncomplicated assurance of her love. Tears sting my eyes; the longing for a hug from my mom is so overwhelming that I’m struck by the urge to sob again.

  But I blink quickly, nodding toward Ash’s sandwich and giving her a watery smile. “I’d love one,” I murmur, “if it wouldn’t be any trouble. I know I’m early—”

  “No trouble.” Ash’s face softens, and she motions for me to have a seat on the sofa, shoving a sketch pad off of the cushions and onto the floor. “No trouble at all, Molly. One Rosenburg Special, coming right up.”

  “Thanks.”

  She winks and then moves into the kitchen, and I sit down gingerly, feeling out of place, uneasy in my own skin. My lips still burn with the bite of Juliette’s kiss, and the scratches on my arms have become angry welts, tomato-soup red. I changed after work into a t-shirt and jeans, but now I wish I had kept on my work clothes. Then I would have long sleeves to hide the scratches from Ash. I don’t want to answer any questions. I don’t want to talk or even think about Juliette.

  But my mind won’t stop reliving the ugly kitchen scene: the malicious, cutting look in Juliette’s eyes as she ate the escargot from my plate; the sight of her flinging the plate into the sink, purposefully breaking it to pieces; the unwanted pressure of her mouth on my mouth as her nails tore into my skin…

  I shudder and wrap my arms around myself, curling up in the corner of the couch with my legs tucked beneath me.

  Yesterday, I was grateful for the chance to close the chapter with Juliette and part on amicable terms.

  Today, I can’t help wishing that I had never gone to Detroit, had never seen Juliette perform there on stage, had never made out with her in that tiny dressing room with the silver star on the door, had never felt the thrill of being hers, of being claimed and kissed by such a picture-perfect, electrifying creature...

  Had never fallen madly in love with her.

  And had never felt the pain of a shattered heart.

  But I can’t change the past, no matter how much I want to.

  I can’t wave a wand and make it all go away.

  I can’t change Juliette.

  I can only change myself—and, I decide, sitting up and breathing out—that’s exactly what I intend to do.

  When Ash comes back into the living room several minutes later, I gaze at her for a long while, consciously, luxuriously, taking in the casual grace of her movements and the sensuality of her smile. She’s wearing a tight green tank top with khaki cargo pants and black sneakers—and she looks so lovely, my heart aches.

  “Order up.” Ash sits down beside me, kicking off her shoes. Her right hand offers me a small white plate while her left hand reaches out to give my fingers a gentle squeeze. “It’s sunflower butter, not peanut,” she says, gesturing toward the diagonally sliced sandwich. “With grape jelly and homemade bread from the bakery by the park.”

  “The Bread Basket? Oh, I love that place.” My voice sounds strained, raspy, but I go on: “Their scones are to die for. Have you had them yet?” I smile at her, setting the plate on my lap and picking up one side of the heavy sandwich. Despite my distress over Juliette’s behavior, I’m half-starved, and my stomach announces its emptiness with an appreciative grumble.

  Ash laughs, her voice warm and low, and then arches one brow over her soft grey eyes. “I can make you another, if you’re still hungry later. And I have tried the scones—and, in fact, have one hidden in the kitchen. Butterscotch. What do you say we split it over some cups of hot tea?”

  I bite into the hearty bread and nod as I chew.

  “Verdict: good?”

  I swallow and smile. “This is perfect, Ash. Thank you. I mean, for being so…” I pause, staring down at my plate, searching for the right word.
“Welcoming. After the day I’ve had, this moment…you…and this awesome sandwich…” I laugh lightly. “It’s almost too good to be true.”

  “I know the feeling.” Ash gazes at me with her lips parted, her eyes alive with shadows. Her hand is still holding mine, and her thumb makes slow, rhythmic strokes over my skin, reminding me of the drum music from last night. The same primal feeling flushes through my body, and I exhale, feeling hot, alive, all over.

  “I’ve…been thinking about you.” Ash licks her lips, eyes on me. “All day. When you knocked,” she smiles, ducking her head, “it was as if I had summoned you to my door.”

  Eyes wide, I swallow a bite without properly chewing it, and it gets lodged in my throat, painfully stuck. I cough into my hand as Ash leans near to press her palm on my shoulder. Her other hand smoothes my hair back from my face, her fingertips grazing me with a feather’s touch that, despite choking, still makes me shiver.

  “Are you all right, Molly?” she asks, her eyes shining, piercing.

  I swallow again, cough a little more, and then nod vaguely, watching her mouth. “Yeah, I’m…” I begin to whisper. But I forget what I was going to say, or no longer care enough to finish the sentence, because I realize suddenly that this is my moment, my stolen second, my chance to change my life, to wish—to carpe noctem, Terry’s voice insists in my head.

  Seize the night.

  Sure, I just choked on a sunflower butter sandwich. But maybe romances don’t always have to start in a royal ballroom…or in a dressing room with a silver star on the door. Maybe they’re sweetest when they start by accident—or with an accident, in the case of my disastrous history with Ash.

  I clear my throat. “Um—”

  “Hey. What happened to your arms?” Ash’s brows narrow with concern. “Did M.L.—”

  “No, not M.L.” Hell will freeze over before I let my poor cat take the blame for a crime committed by Juliette. “It doesn’t matter, not anymore. Ash…” I put the plate, with its half-eaten sandwich, down on the coffee table. Then I bend my head toward her and lay a hand against her cheek, effectively quickening the already frantic drumming in my chest. But I feel safe here, with Ash, and certain…

  “Molly?”

  “Ash. Would you mind if I—”

  “—kissed me?” she breathes, her lips millimeters from mine. “Well,” she says, then, her mouth sliding into a slow, saucy smile, “to be honest, I’d be insulted if you didn’t.”

  I swallow one last time, draw in a deep breath, and slide my hand behind Ash’s head, fingers in her short hair, urging her closer until our lips touch—barely touch, our mouths open and waiting—and then, with a moan, I’m kissing her, softly at first, and then urgently, madly, desperate for the taste of her, new and yet somehow familiar, a sweetness I’ve been in want of all my life.

  “Molly,” she groans, wrapping her arms around my waist and pulling me nearer, nearer still. I feel her fingers slide beneath the waistband of my jeans, gently massaging me there as our mouths press harder and harder and our bodies move together, never, ever close enough…

  I draw back for a moment, gasping, and gaze deeply into Ash’s grey eyes, dark now with longing, shining like onyx in the dim lamplight.

  “I’ve wished for this from the moment I met you, you know,” I whisper, my voice little more than a hot rush of air. Then I laugh, fingers tracing the swirling tattoo design on her chest. “After I felt assured I hadn’t killed you dead.”

  “I told you.” Her smile fades, replaced by an expression so intense that I shudder against her, one hand gripping her belt. “We were meant to meet, Molly Mason. Destiny…” She slides her hand along my arm until she reaches my wrist; then she brings my fingers to her mouth and kisses each one of them lightly, tormenting me—her lips slanting up, teasing. “Who are we to fight fate?”

  I can’t fight it; I kiss her hard, leaning my full weight against her so that she falls back onto the couch, kissing me and laughing, clutching fistfuls of my t-shirt and expertly dragging it up over my head. I shake back my hair and waste no time in gliding my fingers under her tank top, moaning at the smoothness of her skin as I lift the shirt higher and higher and lick her length, from her muscled stomach (inked with a sexy, dark-haired mermaid wearing a pirate hat) up to her ribs (inked with dragonflies fluttering iridescent wings).

  Then, after taking in her wicked, encouraging smile, I expose her naked breasts and cover them with fevered kisses. Eyes closed, my mouth finds her right nipple and sucks, biting gently, as I squeeze the left nipple with my hand.

  Her back arches beneath me, and I tear my mouth away to crawl over her long, lean body until I’m fully on top of her, breast to breast, and our mouths crash together, both of us breathless, sweating; all I know is heat and skin, tongues and anxious, stroking hands...

  “Molly…” she groans again, her fingers caught up in my hair, tugging. She wraps one leg around my back. “God, you’re so beautiful…”

  “You’re beautiful, Ash,” I whisper, abandoning her mouth for her curving throat. My lips trail kisses over her neck as my hand covers her breast and our hips move together. I kiss the stars on her shoulder and moan reflexively when she presses hard against me. “Oh…”

  Then she whispers a hot, breathy, “Wait,” into my ear, and I tremble, aching to take her mouth again.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I feel her sideways smile against my cheek, and then her tongue trails the shape of my ear, causing me to moan. “Nothing,” she murmurs, the low timbre of her voice coursing hot sparks of desire through the atoms of my body. “But let’s move to the bedroom, shall we? I want to look at you…every inch. Your petal lips…” She touches my mouth with a fingertip, then kisses me hard. “And hips…” Her own hips grind against me; I cry out. “I want to memorize you, Molly. I want to make you feel like you make me feel…”

  I capture her mouth one last time and then, breathless, wordless, nod, let her pull me to my feet and kiss me, pressing her body against me until it’s too much, until I groan and take her hand, running toward the bedroom door, cherishing the sound of her throaty laugh at my back.

  When we reach the threshold, she bumps against me, wrapping her arms around to cup my breasts as her mouth bends down to kiss my neck—

  And then there’s a knock at the door.

  “Seriously?” Ash growls.

  I stiffen, shrieking a little behind my hand. The curtains are closed, so no one can see in—and we can’t see out. “Are you expecting someone?” I whisper, not wanting her to stop, to ever stop…

  “No,” Ash breathes into my ear, turning me around to face her. When I take in her smoldering eyes, I reach for her head, drawing her mouth to mine for a long, desperate kiss.

  The knock comes again, and, groaning, Ash pulls away. “Listen,” she says, pressing her lips to the back of my hand. “Wait for me in the bedroom. I’ll get rid of whoever-this-is and meet you in there…” Her eyes burn. “Without delay.”

  “Promise?” I ask her, placing my hands on either side of her hips and pulling her against me, causing us both to sigh.

  “God, yes, I promise.” She kisses me hard and then lets me go, biting her lip, watching me until I softly close the bedroom door.

  I fight the urge to fall to my knees; I collapse onto my back on the bed, instead, arms spread wide, breathing hard. After a moment—during which, I assume, Ash hastily slipped back into her shirt—I hear the front door unlatch and can make out voices, Ash’s voice and…another woman’s voice.

  A voice I know too well.

  “No…” I whisper.

  I sit up straight, wringing my hands together.

  “…so I figured she must have come here—and, look, there’s her purse! Ha, I should have been a detective. Or dated one. I did have an awful crush on Nancy Drew, you know. I’ve always had a thing for brainy women. Like Molly. She graduated summa cum laude­—did she tell you that? Ah, probably not. You’ve only just met, and she’s such a modest
mouse. So where is she? In the bathroom, maybe? The kitchen?”

  “Uh, no,” Ash mutters, sounding ill at ease—or maybe just ill.

  And why shouldn’t she be? My ex-girlfriend has barged into her living room, and I’m closed up in the bedroom half-naked… And a quick glance in the mirror shows me that I look as if I’ve just been thoroughly kissed.

  The memory of Ash’s mouth on my skin makes me shudder and ache, but I shake my head and try to smooth down my flyaway hair. Now I really want to sink down to my knees. There’s no time for that, though. No time for anything. I fly to Ash’s closet and begin rummaging around. I had been wearing a plain white t-shirt, but I can’t find anything similar in Ash’s wardrobe, so I settle on a white tank top, instead. It’s too tight across my chest, and my unsatisfied nipples make the whole ensemble look a little, um, X-rated…but it’ll have to do.

  “…said she was tired and wanted to take a nap,” I hear Ash murmuring, and suddenly I feel weak with relief.

  If Ash had told Juliette the truth about my reason for being in her bedroom, this little cottage would have played host to the opening shots of World War III. Juliette had always had a hair-trigger temper, but she had never physically hurt me before, until tonight. And the scratches were probably unintentional… But the longer I can keep her in the dark about my feelings for Ash, the better—for all of our sakes.

  Quickly but quietly, I fling back the covers of Ash’s bed and climb beneath the cool sheets, closing my eyes. And I wait. My heart hammers so loudly that I’m certain it will give me away: no napping person’s heart would ever beat like this, like it intends to pound right out of my chest...

  But when Juliette swings open the door, telling Ash something about “an emergency,” she hurries to the bedside, high heels clicking on the hardwood, and rests a cool hand on my face. “The poor thing. She had a terrible day at work today. I hate to give her more bad news.”

  My heart slows, skipping beats.

  Bad news?