Beyond Repair (Deeper Than Desire)

by Charlotte Stein

  She didn’t know when she’d grabbed his right arm, yet it was happening. It was more than happening. Her nails were kind of digging into him, and she was breathing all hard and funny. Somewhere in the middle of it all she started shouting his name, so loud and frantic she barely noticed when he finally came around.

  He had to grab her arms right back, and tell her, Hey, hey, I’m okay.

  It didn’t stop her making a fool of herself, however. The second those blue eyes met hers—so full of earnest concern and other amazing things—she just reacted. She smacked her body into his and made a vise of her arms around his shoulders. She hugged him the way people who’d known each other for years hugged each other—even though they’d only met the night before.

  And even more appalling...he was a fucking movie star.

  She was randomly hugging a movie star, like some fannish imbecile. He wouldn’t understand that she had these sudden panics, or that she worried all the time about everyone dying. He’d just think she was an insane groupie, or something.

  She had to pull away, now. In fact she was on the verge of doing that very thing when she sensed it. Just a stirring at the side of her at first, but it was soon followed by the feeling of his hand hovering over her back. When she strained she could almost make out its warmth, though she still couldn’t quite piece together what he was doing.

  It felt as if he’d forgotten how to move his body. She was almost concerned, until that indecisive hand quite suddenly sank down over her back. She felt each finger spanning her tightly—from her shoulder blade to the bottom of her rib cage—and wanted to laugh.

  He was hugging her in return. And quite clearly, he was rusty at it.

  “Oh my God, I’d forgotten what this felt like.”

  “Not a lot of huggers in Hollywood, huh?”

  “None like this—holy shit. Okay, I’m just going to kind of slump into you now. So if you’re averse to that, say before I’m swamping your helpless body.”

  “I don’t mind if you swamp.”

  “Are you sure? Because I think I’m a fumbling virgin at this.”

  “You’re doing fine. In fact I think I’m close to a cuddling orgasm.”

  She sort of wished she hadn’t said orgasm, but it was too late to change her mind now. He didn’t waste a single second. As soon as she’d answered, his other arm slid around her waist. Those big biceps tightened, real close to her face. And most overwhelming of all—his head sank into the space between her shoulder and her throat. It made a little nest there and settled in against her skin. She could actually feel his stubble, so rough against such a sensitive spot...and was that a hint of his lips?

  She thought it was, but wouldn’t accept that it was anything but innocent.

  He wasn’t trying to kiss her, for God’s sake. This was just the way the hug had shaken out, with her almost curled beneath him and his face smushed against her neck. He had warned her he was about to swamp, and when people swamped sometimes strange mergings happened. It was no big deal.

  “Ohhhhhh yeah.”

  No big deal at all.

  “Oh baby this is so good.”

  Really not a big deal.

  “Can we just stay like this for a thousand years?”

  Okay, maybe it was a little bit of a big deal.

  “We probably have to. I think you’ve fused us together,” she said, just to make things a little lighter. She even managed a tiny amused breath, which should have sealed the deal. It didn’t, however. Somehow the word fused had come out just as sexual as all the rest of this, and the little sound had a husky quality.

  It was almost a moan.

  She was moaning at him now.

  While he in turn asked increasingly loaded questions.

  “Is that such a bad thing?”

  “No, it’s cool. I like having four arms.”

  “And a penis?”

  Why did he have to talk about penises? She had absolutely no idea how to get around that one. All she could manage was a wavering, “I can’t wait to pee standing up,” but that only seemed to make things more complicated. Now he was laughing, which was good in one way. He sounded so normal now when he did it.

  It was just the feel of him doing it. That was the real problem. The sound seemed to vibrate right out of him and into her. She actually felt buzzing in her own bones, and maybe also around places she wouldn’t think too closely about. The penis talk was enough on its own. She didn’t need to start thinking about any other body parts that had sexual connotations. He was still recovering and she barely knew what sex was.

  Connotations were just not possible.

  She wished they weren’t possible.

  “Mmmmm you’re so warm.”

  “I am?”

  “Yeah. Squeeze me tighter.”

  “Like this?”

  “God, yeah, just like that. A little to the right, maybe.”

  “I can’t get any closer to the right.”

  “You could if you hooked that leg over mine.”

  He said it in an innocent kind of way, yet it was clear what he was asking. If she hooked her leg over his, she’d essentially be straddling him. She’d be fucking straddling him. She couldn’t straddle him—not under any circumstances. She needed to think of a way out of this, but how? Solving puzzles was really not her strong suit. She was pretty sure she’d proven that over the last twenty-four hours.

  And this was no exception.

  “I think I kind of need to pee.”

  What sort of person tried to get out of amazing, sensual hugs by mentioning bodily functions like a three-year-old? It didn’t even work, either. All that embarrassment, and it came to absolutely nothing.

  “And I guess you think that means I’m going to let go?”

  “Well, unless you want to experience your new lady parts.”

  “Why on earth would you think I wouldn’t? Now hold on tight.”

  “You can’t be serious,” she managed to get out, shortly before he showed her just how serious he was. He didn’t even have to put both arms around her. He just kept that big hand on her back and pushed off from the couch, and suddenly she was hanging off him like a little monkey.

  “No no no, I’m falling!” she said, though she understood on some level that it was another kind of panic talking. She wasn’t really afraid of flying off him. Even if she did, what was the worst that could happen? She might bruise her bum. Maybe she’d look like a bit of an idiot.

  She already looked like an idiot, so that didn’t matter.

  No, no, it mattered that the feelings were still happening. And now that he’d lifted her, they seemed way more intense than before. The open space between her legs was pressing against...she didn’t know what it was pressing against. She just knew it was there, and that there was no way to stop it. She’d semi-linked her legs around his hips the second he’d done it, and she couldn’t back out of that now.

  It would look weird. Christ, everything was so weird.

  Yet agonizingly, he didn’t seem to notice at all.

  “You’re not falling. You just don’t like being lifted up by a big oafish idiot.”

  Or maybe he did notice, in the coolest way possible. At the very least he was aware that his manliness was disturbing her—and that relaxed her a little. It gave her the space to tell him it was okay, in a roundabout sort of way.

  “I never said you were a big oafish idiot.”

  “But you don’t like being lifted.”

  “It’s not as bad now that I’m up here.”

  “Getting used to it, huh?”

  “Yeah,” she said, because she was. She could feel herself slowly calming down. His hand felt really nice on her back, when he held her like this. It wasn’t just a simple cuddling touch anymore, or something that made her think of sexy things. It kept her strapped in, like a seat belt. It kept her nice and safe and secure.

  And then she realized what might be prompting such a thought, and suddenly she was back to square one again
.

  “But you should probably put me down.”

  “I don’t think I can. The hugging’s just too good.”

  “You won’t think so when you realize how exhausted you are.”

  “Are you kidding? I feel great. I feel like I could go for a run.”

  He’d warned her, but she still wasn’t quite prepared for his sudden dash around the living room. She had to do an embarrassing gasp and hang on tighter, and even more so when he went for the stairs. It was like being suddenly six foot five, while standing on the bow of a rocking ship. She dared to look and saw the steps over his shoulder, practically rolling like waves as he ran her up them.

  She almost screamed. She almost demanded he stop.

  But when she went to do both, something else came out instead. It just swelled up through her body, bright and brilliant and so unfamiliar it took her a second to recognize what was happening. For a moment she was sure she was going to be sick, and then it became clear—this was giddiness.

  She was actually giggling with giddiness, like some ridiculous kid.

  She felt like a ridiculous kid—and especially so when he suddenly dumped her on her bed. The last time anyone had done that she’d been four years old, and in major trouble from the tickle monster. In fact, the memory was so strong she almost expected him to do it. He’d lean down and dig his knuckles into her ribs, just like someone else used to do. And though the thought of someone else dimmed this fun somewhat, it didn’t darken everything completely.

  She was still laughing when she realized where they were.

  In her bedroom.

  On her bed.

  With him almost straddling her legs, and his knees digging into her mattress, and both of them breathing hard in a way that had seemed innocent a moment ago...but now kind of didn’t. Even she could see he was staring at her too intently, for fun playground antics. His blue eyes had gone dark, despite the sun starting to strain through her thin curtains. And there were a million little things about him that she wouldn’t really have recognized, if she hadn’t seen them so many times in his movies.

  His lips were parted, the way they did before he was about to really kiss some starlet, and those heavily lashed eyelids of his had dipped real low. However, nothing beat the way his big chest had started going up and down and up and down.

  Like heaving bosoms, her mind offered randomly.

  Before she stomped on it and shoved it in a cupboard somewhere. Even if this was some kind of semi-sexual thing, he probably wouldn’t want to be compared to a woman from an old-school romance. He probably wouldn’t want anything she could do, in fact, because the last time she’d had something like intimate contact with someone she’d accidentally punched the guy in the face.

  Good God, she couldn’t possibly let him see her fumbling, punching attempts at something she knew nothing about. She couldn’t, she couldn’t.

  “I still really need the bathroom!” she said, then wished she hadn’t gone with that exclamation point on the end. The words themselves sounded bad enough, but with the panic placed on top...it was no wonder he somehow ended up halfway across the room. He probably thought she was going to pee on him.

  Though that wasn’t really what his expression seemed to say. It was less disgusted and more sort of hurt—as if she’d cringed away from a slap he was never going to give or maybe balked over his disgusting advances. Of course, both those things were completely ridiculous. She was certain that no one like him could ever think like that.

  But either way she felt the need to draw a line through them.

  “Actually, you know...I’m all right. Maybe you should come back.”

  “I should come back?”

  “Yeah, come over,” she said, and was proud of herself for doing it. It put her out on a limb and it kind of made her throat catch, but she felt she covered her fear admirably.

  Though like always, she was proven wrong shortly afterward.

  “Even if you kind of sound like you’d rather I stayed over here?”

  “Just ignore my voice. There’s a frightened nun living in my throat.”

  He went to answer and had to stop to make room for the most awesome laugh. It was all surprised and full of joy, and it followed through into his words.

  “Who are you? I must be dreaming you. Did I die, and this is my reward?”

  “If your idea of being rewarded after death is a five-foot-five-inch hermit who makes you run right off a bed, you probably need to rethink your priorities.”

  “You’re five foot five? Seriously? I thought you were smaller.”

  It’s just because I hunch, and now have one leg shorter than the other.

  “It’s just because you’re enormous. You’d probably think King Kong was kind of petite if you ever got the chance to meet him.”

  “How would I ever get the chance to meet King Kong?”

  “If there was a nuclear disaster and all the animals mutated into giant versions of themselves. In which case you’d just be like, hey, everything is now normal sized.”

  “That’s completely not fair. I’m only six-four.”

  “Do you really think saying six-four makes you seem less enormous? That’s the tallest I’ve ever known anyone be. I almost searched your shoes last night for lifts.”

  “You did, huh?” he asked, and as he spoke she could see he was starting to creep back toward her. By the time his next words were out he was almost at the bed again, because apparently their words were a doorway. They let all kinds of things back in before either of them had even had the chance to think about it. “Well, I hate to disappoint you—but it’s all me.”

  “No apple boxes, then?”

  “Nope.”

  “They don’t CGI you an extra couple of inches?”

  “Feel me and see.”

  He was close enough to do it now, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to. She did work up the courage, however, to pat the bed beside her. And she was more than glad when he took the invitation—despite his addendum.

  “Okay, I’m gonna lie down next to you. But we’ll just take this pillow here and put it between us, so there’s no cause for alarm.”

  It was her turn to laugh, this time.

  “Because we’ve suddenly transported back to the eleventh century?”

  “Yeah. This is, like, courtly love.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s pure and chaste and most importantly, unthreatening.”

  “I don’t think you’re threatening, Bernie,” she said, then immediately wanted to take it back. She hadn’t even meant to say it—the word just popped out of her, as though they were close enough to give out cute epithets. He probably didn’t even remember her calling him Bernard, and for one horrid moment she hung suspended over a pit of complete embarrassment.

  But he pulled it back.

  “I’ve always wanted a goofy nickname,” he said, and as he did his eyes closed in the same way they had the night before. They drifted shut all slow and sweet, as though he was savoring the very thought of being in that place with someone—a place of safety and warmth and weird desires.

  It made her think she might be going mad. That she was just imagining the connection she could feel slowly blooming between them. No one connected that fast, and she was going to prove it. She was going to unearth all the rest of the people he formed immediate bonds with, with a well-timed comment.

  “People must have called you cute things before,” she tried.

  Then watched as the whole plan nosedived.

  “People call me Stark. Like a 1930s newspaper reporter.”

  “Well, what about when you were a kid?”

  “When I was a kid I spent so much time around important industry people I started to think my first name was ‘you’. ‘Hey, you, stand there.’ ‘Hey, you, you’re blocking the shot.’ ‘Hey, you, get out of the way.’ Even my mom started doing it after a while, which is probably why we don’t talk much anymore.”

  She wanted to stop
there, she really did. The mom story was bad enough on its own, without adding even more terrible things to the pile. Yet somehow she found herself trying one more time. There had to have been someone else he’d invented names and shared silly jokes with, and all of that stuff.

  There had to be.

  “But you must have girlfriends who—”

  “Girlfriends who what—want me to be a Bernard? Good God, no, that’s never happened before. I had one who thought it was cool to call me Captain Amazing, but I really don’t think that’s the same thing. No, no, people I hang around with would never dream of turning me into some ordinary nerd. I don’t think they’d even understand what makes me so happy when you do.”

  “It’s pretty obvious.”

  “To you.”

  She fell silent then and filled it with plucking at a thread that had come loose from the pillow between them. It made her look as if she were idly passing the time, rather than what she was really doing—debating whether or not to go a little deeper. He might not like it if she did. She certainly wouldn’t have.

  But in the end she had to try. It was practically a compulsion. It made her gums ache and her palms sweat, though she knew why she couldn’t fight it. It would have been easier to wrestle with the waves on the ocean. It would have been easier to pluck people falling from a crashing plane out of the sky.

  “Is that why you did what you did?”

  She heard him sigh, but forced herself not to look. If she looked, she might get scared and try to run away from this conversation. And then the next she knew he’d be on the news in a coffin, being carried by people who turned him into a 1930s news reporter or thought his name was “you”.

  “Are we there already?”

  “We probably should have been last night. I should have called a doctor, and you should be in hospital now discussing this with someone who knows how to help you.”

  It was true, but it sounded grimmer than she’d intended. He wasn’t dead, yet every bit of lightness and humor in their conversation suddenly was.