True Devotion

by Liora Blake

  Crooking one eyebrow, I give him a small smile. “What an amateur sleuth you are.”

  He grins and shakes his head at the ground again. His discomfort lends me the ability to reclaim my sarcastic bearings. “Also, yes, a completely nutso stalker. I smell like chai? Really? So creepy.”

  “I knew I shouldn’t have told you that part. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “Probably not.”

  Rising up, he stands at the edge of the bed and rests his knees against the mattress lazily.

  “OK. So, now that you have new ammunition to make me miserable, let’s shift our focus. You have to be starving.”

  I nod my head and point at my belly. “My stomach is crying out for anything at this point.”

  “It doesn’t appear you have any cereal, which is my specialty. The lack of cereal in this house is an abomination, I’ll tell you, but we won’t get into that now. How about toast? I can make toast like nobody’s business.”

  “I can make my own breakfast.”

  Already sauntering down the hall, he turns over his shoulder and raises his voice. “Nope, I got this. It’s gonna blow your mind, sweetheart. I’ll use your bread, if that’s cool. I may have an ulterior motive: I’m dying to try it.”

  When I hear him in the kitchen, opening drawers and rattling plates, the sound of a serrated knife slicing through the crisp crust of the bread, I slump back to the pillows and take a few deep breaths. The damn toast is going to be the final frontier; I can feel it. The freaking toast. I’m quite possibly the world’s easiest nut to crack. Because a guy with messed-up hair who slept in his clothes on my couch last night is about to get an eyeful of my everything just because he’s going to put some crunchy bread on a plate.

  I close my eyes again and let the sensation of last night take over. He’s here, in my kitchen, I’m not drunk, he’s being nice, and every inch of my body wants him. In a few short minutes, he will be in here again. Holding the toast. And I’m not hungry anymore. I pull a pillow over my head and breathe into it, partly because I can’t have him see my face right away and partly because the smothering effect feels oddly comforting.

  “The key to excellent toast is in the proper ratio of butter to other condiments. ‘Always be generous with the butter’ is my approach. No such thing as too much butter. Although too much jam can ruin it—”

  When I toss the pillow off my face, he’s standing near the foot of the bed, awkwardly holding a plate and gawking at me. His eyes lock with mine and I’m guessing that every lewd thought I’ve had is practically written across my face in big block letters. Moving closer, he sets the plate on the nightstand and looks down at me.

  “You OK? You look a little out of it all of a sudden.”

  Instead of answering, I lift my arm up while still letting the rest of my body recline against the mattress and grab a fistful of his T-shirt in my hand. His eyes drop to the gesture and I can feel his body freeze in place. He does nothing, just stands completely still, staring at my hand. Using the posture to help, I pull myself up and rise onto my knees in front of him. Finally, he looks up at my face, a few inches from his, and a deep exhale slowly runs out of his lungs.

  “Simon.” His name emerges from my lips as a statement, not a question or a plea, just a quiet announcement that somehow also simmers with expectation. I drop the fistful of shirt and move my hands up to his shoulders, letting them drift lower to rest against his chest. Under the touch, his chest starts to rise and fall deeply.

  “What, Devon?”

  His words are barely a whisper, so I’m pretty sure the two words are all he can handle at the moment. Dropping my eyes to his mouth, I wet my lips in anticipation. “I just want to thank you for taking care of me last night.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I want to be very clear about how thankful I am. Really. Really. Thankful.”

  Letting my hands drop from his chest, I move them slowly up to the top button of the plaid shirt I slept in. The one that brought him into my closet when I was undressed from the waist up, the one that he had to get down for me, the one he handed me just before he started skimming his fingers over my back. Loosening the first button, I lock my eyes with his. In his gray gaze is desperation, maybe even a little bit of fear.

  Grasping the second button, I slip it out, knowing that the deep-set part of my breastbone is teasing into view. The third button will expose my cleavage, the swell of each breast on display for him. Pop. I set it free.

  His jaw clamps tightly. I can see the way his cheeks are moving under the tension. The fourth button slips open and my belly button is there. Only a single solitary button left and I can slide it off; then he can touch me the way I want. When I undo the last button, I pull my hands down to open it completely, ready to leave my body there for him to take. Before I can slip it off, his hands thrust out and grab my wrists, then he leans forward to press his forehead to mine.

  “Has anyone ever mentioned that you have the world’s fucking worst sense of timing, baby?” With each word he mutters, his grasp on my wrists seems to get tighter.

  The sensation of rejection—again, for fuck’s sake—starts to claim my heart, and in its wake my blood pressure is dropping so quickly I think I might pass out. I tug back on my wrists, trying to release them from his grasp. If I can just get the use of my hands back, I can shove him so hard he will fall over, then button my shirt and lock myself in the bathroom until he leaves. How did this happen again? How did I end up throwing myself at him for the second time, and why in the hell is he always saying totally inappropriate shit to me if he doesn’t want this?

  If there is one thing I hate, it’s feeling like a fool. And this kid has managed to make me the fool one too many times. Enough. I am completely over this, for good.

  “Let. Go.” Through gritted teeth, I manage to spit out the words without screaming, even though that is exactly what I want to do. To scream in his pretty little ear under it bleeds.

  “No.”

  “If you don’t let go of me in a hot fucking second, Simon, you’re going to be sorry.”

  “Just give me a damn break, OK? If I let go of you right now, I can’t be trusted with what I’ll do with my hands.”

  “Are you actually threatening me right now?”

  He growls loudly. “Not in the way you’re implying, but, yeah, consider it a threat.”

  Slowly, he loosens his grip until I can jerk my wrists free, but before I can leap off the bed and break something in frustration, he shoves his hands up into my hair and pulls our foreheads together more firmly.

  “I’m saying if I’m not careful with my hands, I’ll throw you down on this bed, rip the rest of your clothes off, and fuck you so hard you won’t be able to remember what day it is. Then again, just to make sure you can’t walk straight. That’s my threat, baby.”

  All the air in my lungs disappears. After a moment, I find the ability to speak again.

  “What the hell is it going to take for you to actually do it? Do I have to beg you?”

  His fingers curl into my scalp for a second before he releases them and steps back. Shoving his hands through his hair, he looks up at me, clearly exasperated.

  “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “Doing what? Throwing myself at you? For the second damn time? I don’t know. Apparently I’m a glutton for punishment and rejection.” Slinking down, I curl into a ball on the mattress and pull my shirt closed around me. “You can leave now.”

  Pacing around the room in a small circle, he stops and glares at me. “Seriously? You’re dismissing me? Not happening. Not until everybody here is clear on what the hell is going on.”

  “I’m clear on it. You’re an asshole who gets off on getting chicks to fall all over themselves to get a piece of you. Then when they do, you blow them off. It must be some kind of power-trip thing, and I can’t believe I fell for it. Twice.”

  “Oh Christ.” A quiet, annoyed huff leaves him, just before he scrubs his h
ands down his face. “You are such a piece of work, Devon.”

  He stalks back over to the bed and looks down at where I’ve rolled over on my back to stare at the ceiling. “Devon,” he says in a tone that tells me I’m testing his patience. “Would you please look at me so we can have an adult fucking conversation?”

  Absolutely not. He did not just call me immature in some roundabout way. If he wants immature, he’ll get it. Here we go.

  Silent. Fucking. Treatment.

  I continue staring at the ceiling, hoping he will get so enraged that he’ll leave. Doesn’t work. Instead of leaving, he grumbles under his breath and proceeds to crawl on top of me, straddling his legs over mine. When I try to squirm out, he rests his full weight against me. I sit up and begin to shove at him with my arms, hoping to use the inertia of crazed wiggling to escape. He manages to capture my forearms in his strong grip and tugs a tiny bit—nothing rough, just enough to let me know he isn’t giving in. Only because this is Simon, a guy who’s never raised a single hackle of unease or fear inside me, do I resist the urge to brawl about until he lets go.

  “I’m going to leave in a minute. But not before I’m sure there’s zero misunderstanding about this.”

  Letting out a deep grumble, I fall back to the bed again and give up.

  “Good girl.”

  When I tilt my head at his words, narrowing my eyes to make sure he’s a hundred percent clear on the fact I don’t like him saying “good girl” to me, he grins and drops my arms from his grip. Convinced I’m staying put for the moment, he props his outstretched arms on either side of my head.

  “Here are all my cards, Devon. I’m laying this shit out for you right now. I want you. I want you so bad I can’t focus on anything else if you’re in the goddam room. I want to kiss you and tease you and fuck you for days on end. I’ve wanted you since day one, when we met two years ago. I’ve tried to be good, because of the Trevor factor, but I want all of it with you, got it?”

  Inside, my brain is on fire from his words. Outside? I’m gritting my teeth so it looks like I’m still pissed and he should be prepared to defend the parts of his body he values most in case I decide to shove my knee up into his crotch.

  Simon lets one side of his mouth quirk up, teasing and taunting with just that little twitch of his lips. “Nothing? Did I finally shut you up? Good. ’Cause I’m not finished.”

  Averting his gaze for a moment, he catches his breath and looks up out the corner of his eyes. After he closes them for a quick second, he looks back at me as he draws a hand down the center of my body, landing on my belly.

  “We cannot do this right now, because you’re hurt. Look at this, Devon. Look.”

  Using just his index finger, the tip of it grazing across my bare belly, he gingerly draws back the left side of my shirt until a large bruise is visible. He drops his voice into a near whisper, pained, as if he hates what he sees.

  “You have a welt the size of a softball on your side, a knot on the back of your head, and a bunch of bruised ribs. You can’t tell me all that doesn’t hurt like hell. And the shit I want to do with you? I won’t be able go slow. I’ve wanted you for too long, which means I’m not going to be able to hold back. I need you whole; that’s the only way we’ll both get what we need after all this time.”

  The silent treatment is working in my favor now, keeping me from letting all the words out that are brimming on the tip of my tongue. Words that demand what I need. Words that make it clear that I don’t give one single fuck about going slow or him holding back. Bruised ribs be damned—if he does it right, I shouldn’t feel anything but him fixing what really aches right now.

  Simon’s hand settles against my bare skin, softly covering the bruise with his palm. His shoulders tense up for a moment. Cautiously, he lets out a resigned exhale. “Are we clear, Devon?”

  I nod my head and bite down on my tongue until it hurts. His hand slips away from my side and he moves to drop back onto outstretched arms, hovering directly above so he can look me in the eye.

  “And if we’re doing this, then I want you for real. Not only if you’re drunk or when you think you need to thank me for taking care of you. So don’t start this shit unless you mean it. Because if I’m going to potentially fuck up my friendship with Trevor, I’m only interested in one hundred percent.”

  Crawling off the bed, he stops in the middle of the room and hitches up his jeans on his waist before heading down the hallway. Calling back to me, he raises his voice a little.

  “On second thought, I may also require a doctor’s note. It should say something like, ‘Devon Jenkins has been cleared for hours on end of filthy shenanigans with Simon Cole. All manner of dirty orgasm-inducing antics are acceptable.’ Without that, I may not be able to scratch that itch you’ve got, sunshine.”

  Once I hear the front door shut behind him, I leap out of bed to make sure it’s locked before pulling all the shades down tightly and crawling back into my bed.

  Alone, desperate, and simmering in so much throbbing desire I think I might implode.

  Damn him.

  Damn him to hell.

  7

  Orion

  Stacia routinely sends me random texts like this. Occasionally, she sends a picture, usually a sketch done in her hand. What these texts mean is that she has an image or idea in mind and she wants me to show up at the studio so she can add to the ink on my back. I do the same when a vision strikes me. Sometimes I just need to embellish my skin with something that makes me more of who I am. Or who I think I want to be. Never who I should be, never what I was.

  I text her back. We’ve done this so many times that I can respond with as few words as she sent me.

  TH? Red Velvet?

  + DdL

  Here’s the translation for those who don’t speak our language: Stacia would like to add a tattoo on my back of the constellation Orion. I am agreeable to said plan. I’ll be there Thursday morning, right after I drop McKenna off at Carlton. I’ll stop by the little cupcake bakery down the street from her place and pick up a half dozen for us to eat, including red velvet and the dulce de leche she has requested.

  Easy, right? That’s just one reason I know that I would want Stacia with me if stranded on one of those fictitious deserted islands, because we could build a rescue raft out of driftwood and banana leaves without speaking more than twenty words to each other. Then we could pilot it to civilization together using only hand signals and feminine grunts. When the TV people tried to interview us about our harrowing journey, we would both walk away and flip them off as we did.

  A few days later, after Stacia adds the constellation of Orion’s Belt on my shoulder, just a few stark lines tied together by five-pointed stars so tiny they could have been mistaken for moles, she cleans up and I meet her out back. Behind the studio, Preston has enclosed the space with a wall of stacked fieldstone, surrounding all his handmade furniture and rugged art installations.

  Preston is possibly the best husband ever. He builds things with his own two hands, from furniture to art objects. He welds, he saws, he paints. What’s more, he incorporates the coolest embellishments into everything, like the way he buried Stacia’s name inside the intricate filigree work of the teak table that sits outside, now topped with clay pots of begonias and lavender.

  Trailing vines and climbing roses have grown in over the last few years, so thick now that the greenery and crimson roses nearly obscure the stone wall. In the far corner of the space, Preston built a platform bed, covered it in a plush futon mattress, and made sure it would fit perfectly where the sun squarely shines every day from midmorning to midafternoon.

  Stacia is lying back on an enormous pile of feather pillows covered in jewel-toned fabrics and sequins. She’s licking the edge of a paper cupcake wrapper, making sure she doesn’t leave behind any cream cheese frosting from the red velvet she just devoured. Once she inspects it thoroughly enough to suit her, she crumples it up and tosses it to the box where our other empties
sit.

  “So.” She shifts her body on the mattress, stretching out and crossing her legs at the ankles. In a black pencil skirt and Swiss dot–covered blouse, the stance forces her feet, clad in bright teal-blue high heels, to hang off the edge of the mattress just a bit.

  I shove the lid on the box closed and look over at her from behind my sunglasses, sitting cross-legged before stretching out on the mattress myself and mimicking her posture.

  “So.” I parrot the word back.

  Clearing her throat a bit, she turns her head to me, and even behind the black cat-eye sunglasses she’s wearing, I know she’s staring me down. “I met your boy yesterday.”

  “What boy?” Panic drifts through me but I try to keep it out of my voice. The only boy I want is a boy I don’t really have.

  “Simon. The suddenly infamous Simon.”

  “He is not my boy.”

  “Interesting. Because the way he acted, I figured you two were all up in each other’s business.”

  Turning my head toward her, I narrow my eyes and then shade the sun from my face. “After five minutes with him, I’d think you would figure out that ninety-nine percent of what he says is complete bullshit. The remaining one percent is probably all you can count on. So you shouldn’t put much stock in what comes out of his mouth.” Stacia hums and lets a small grin tease the corners of her mouth.

  Trying to remain cool and uninterested, I follow up. “Was he here to get work done?”

  Stacia nods and murmurs a yes but doesn’t expound. Now I have to know. I can’t help it; I’m pathetically weak when it comes to him.

  “And?”

  A full smirk crosses her face. A knowing, I’ve got your number, Devon kind of expression.

  “He had me add a couple of things to the work on his chest.”

  Well, I’m not going to be able to leave that alone. Simon’s naked torso is a thing of my desperate nighttime fantasies, ever since I saw him lift his shirt in the backyard and he proceeded to call me out on it. That, coupled with our last encounter, the one where he broke down everything about how he was going to take me once I was healed, has made for a couple of weeks of steamed-up and frustrating bedtimes for me.