“Only to pay my rent.”
I pout, looking over my shoulder as Lane leads me up a dark stairway. “Shame. It looks adorable.”
“Really? Looks kind of old to me.”
I wag my finger back and forth. “Remember, looks can be deceiving, Mr. Sheffield. It’s what’s inside that matters, and I’m sure that old, dilapidated bookstore is full of more quality literature than Amazon can shake a stick at.”
“Yeah?” Lane turns the knob on a wood-paneled door, wedging it open and smirking at me. “You think Amazon wants to shake a stick at the secret back room full of porn, too?”
“Oh.” I utter. Even I don’t have a witty reply for that one.
Lane’s laugh rolls through his entire body, his shoulders rising and falling. He places a soft kiss on the tip of my nose and walks into the one-room space. “We can still go tomorrow if you want. They open at nine. Maybe you’ll find something you like, after all.”
“Nah, I’ll pass. But—” I step into the tiny apartment and even though I’m dying to look around the entire studio, my senses are assaulted by the most delicious smell. “Oh my God! Lane did you make Thai food? Tell me you can’t actually cook Thai food because Thai food is my favorite. And it’s so delicious and savory and so . . . Thai.”
“That’s an awful lot of Thais in one sentence.”
I tilt my head and smile. “Seriously, though? Did you really cook my favorite meal or—this is takeout, right? You can’t be this perfect, Lane. Something’s gotta give.” I rush over to the two-person table, set with mismatched dishes and flickering votive candles. It’s flush against one wall of the little kitchen and covered with plated food that smells and looks divine.
Lane comes up behind me and slips his hands into the front pockets of my jeans. I lean into him, and welcome his sweet, tickly whispers in my ear. “Well, I’m far from perfect, but I did in fact cook your favorite meal.”
I spin around and throw my arms around his neck again. “The way to my heart is totally through my stomach, but you knew that already and if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re on some weird mission to fatten me up.”
“No such mission exists, Leni. I just like making you happy—however I can.”
“I would’ve been happy with celery sticks just to be here with you.” I nuzzle into the warm space where his neck curves into his shoulder, slyly eyeing the rest of the apartment. I’m trying to get a glimpse of where Lane has made his home, and although I’m eager to get the two-cent tour, my mouth is watering from the dinner he’s prepared.
“Can we dig in before I eat your arm?” My stomach growls and the sound somehow reaches Lane’s ears.
“I’m glad you brought your appetite.” He laughs, pulling back from our embrace to stare into my eyes. His are a deep, intensified emerald—aroused. I’m not sure if it’s all this kissing, the food talk, or just an effect I have over him whenever we’re together. Either way, I gaze back and feel myself falling.
I’ve never been here before. In love. For a brief time back in college I thought I was with Alex, but that was more of a crazy crush than the real thing. This? Lane. The whole entire thing—I’m pretty sure it’s the real thing. It has to be. I haven’t even had sex with the dude and already I’m hoping to have his babies one day.
“WHERE’D YOU LEARN TO COOK like that, Lane? And if you tell me you googled it, I’m gonna kill you.” I literally lick my lips of any remaining peanut curry sauce and take a breath to expand my lungs and very full belly.
“Then I’m safe from your threats. I took a course when I moved to New York. Part of my whole embracing my new surroundings thing.”
“You’re a man of many talents, aren’t you?”
“I guess you could say that, but I never really honed in on one. I . . . dabble . . . in a little bit of everything.”
The way he says dabble makes me giggle. I lean over the table, which doesn’t take much effort since it’s almost as small as a shoe box, and trace the pad of my finger along the thick veins in his hand. “What else are you hiding from me?”
Lane withdraws from my touch and stands from the table, taking our plates to the sink. I swear I sense a trace of nervousness on his part, but it’s not enough to mention and spoil an already amazing night. I’ve come to the realization that Lane doesn’t like to talk about himself, and when I put the spotlight on him he flees from the situation. I’m not sure if he’s just modest or if there’s something more pressing underneath there. Either way, I’m not about to make him uncomfortable after he just fed me the best meal I’ve had in God knows how long.
“Let me help you with that,” I say, pushing my chair from the table and bringing a platter over to the sink.
“You don’t have to. I don’t mind.” Lane smiles over his shoulder, his hands already sudsy.
I kiss his cheek and swipe a handful of foamy bubbles while he’s not looking, only to plop them on to the tip of his nose.
I laugh and back away, but Lane’s slippery hands drop the fork he was cleaning and he hurls straight for me. “Oh, you’re gonna get it!” He shakes the bubbles from his face, a single, thick drop of water sliding down his nose as he comes after me.
“Not if you can’t catch me,” I tease. I so want him to catch me, wet hands and all, but part of the fun is the thrill of the chase and playing hard to get. I’ll entertain that game and lead him right to the sofa, which I’m pretty sure serves as his bed since I don’t see one anywhere in sight.
“You little . . .” Lane dodges between a chair and an end table, but I dart past him and wind up tripping over a stack of books on the floor, face first over the arm of the couch.
“Ouch,” I grumble, wincing at the pain of stubbing my toe.
“Shit! You okay?” Lane comes up behind me, wet hands at my shoulders, pulling me up from my face plant.
Eye to eye, I examine the moment. It’s a mix of hilarity and passion—two things that make my heart pump wilder than anything else. Except chocolate, of course. The water’s still running from the faucet, Lane’s face is wet from my bubble assault, and his soaked hands have dampened my shirt to the point of wanting to strip it off. A rush of varying foolish emotions catch me off guard and I find myself ready to confess the deepest parts of my soul.
“Lane, I think—”
He doesn’t let me finish, though. His lips crash to mine and with no time to gauge what’s about to happen, it’s as if he read my mind and understands this shirt needs to get the hell out of our way.
Lips, hands, breaths, moans. It happens so quickly, I don’t know how to make sense of it all. The water is still flowing from the kitchen faucet, a strange but soothing background music to our heated embrace. If that’s what you want to call it. This is no sweet, love making prelude. This is raw and carnal and finally happening.
Lane’s in control, his tongue still navigating my mouth as if he’s steering my body to do what it’s told. I have no complaints, no inhibitions, not even as he slides my jeans down my thick thighs and undresses me down to a bra and panty set I secretly hoped would get his approval tonight.
Without breaking our kiss, Lane’s damp hands explore my entire body. “So beautiful,” he groans as his fingers grab and caress every inch of my exposed skin.
Okay, so I do have one teensy complaint. Lane’s clothes. They’re still on and that’s an issue. We need to get rid of those pesky things so we can finish what we started before he changes his mind again. I reach between us, where our bodies are grinding, creating a punishing but wonderful friction. In one motion, I unzip his pants and then hook my fingers into the waist of his jeans and boxers, working them over his round but rock-hard ass. Lane aids me in ridding him of the obstructions, swiftly standing and pulling everything down the rest of the way. I try to steal a peek of his goods, but before I can ogle, he returns to his rightful place between my legs.
“Your shirt,” I point out, wanting the skin-on-skin contact in the worst way.
My efforts t
o strip him down go ignored as time stands still and whooshes past us in equal measure. Bra, panties, socks, boxers—all gone. At one point I hear a foil wrapper and feel Lane sheathing himself against my thigh, all while his lips trail ardent kisses along exposed bits of my skin.
There’s no time to question or second guess or to even speak for that matter. And you know what? I don’t care! I’ve been trying to make this happen for a while now and I’m not about to set us back for a stupid shirt, even if I do wish I could feel Lane’s muscular arms and washboard abs writhing against me while we make love.
Nibbling on Lane’s lower lip, I reach below and stroke him. I bring his tip against me and urge him to come inside for the party. With one hard thrust, Lane enters me, tingles engulf my body, and my head falls back with a moan. “Yes!” I dig my fingers into his backside, pulling him toward me, meeting each plunge, rocking my hips with his. It’s intense and hot and everything I’ve been praying for.
Minutes, hours, or maybe days elapse around us as we lose ourselves in each other. In a mess of tangled hair and sweat-soaked skin, my body turns stiff and then limp as an orgasm of magical magnitude rolls through me. I’m pretty sure a unicorn just died for that, because all I can see is an explosion of rainbows and sparkly fairy dust as Lane pushes inside me once more and releases a string of curse words I’ve never heard him utter before.
I laugh when he collapses on top of me, wrapping my arms around him and relishing in our after-sex panting. Catching my breath and burrowing my fingers into Lane’s tousled hair, I almost whisper the words that are dying to escape me. Again. But again, my confession is interrupted. This time it’s the crash of a dish and a splatter of water against the tile floor of the kitchen.
“Shit!” Lane jumps up and discreetly removes the condom with his back turned toward me. In a mad dash, he manages to find his boxers and slip them back on, and then he springs to the chaos in the kitchen.
I find my own undergarments, both tossed onto the floor in a heap of crumpled lace, and run to join him.
“Oh no!” I cry, assessing the situation. A sea of sudsy water is overflowing from the sink; an unwashed dish rolls with the current of the water and cascades toward the floor.
Lane dives to catch the plate before it meets its fate with the tile, and then quickly shuts off the faucet.
The kitchen is a mess. Lane is drenched from head to toe. I’m standing in a puddle of water in nothing but a skimpy bra and thong. There’s really nothing funny about the situation, but I couldn’t contain my laughter if you paid me.
Lane spins around in slow motion and gawks. “You think this is funny?”
I take a second out of my laughing fit to study Lane and for a split instant, I think he’s actually mad. Until he grabs me by the waist with sopping wet hands and pulls me down to the floor to join him in the lake that has now formed beneath us.
“Stop! No!” I try to break free of his grip, but it’s too late. I’m covered in water and flailing around is just making me wetter. “You jerk! You didn’t have to do that.”
“This is all your fault in the first place.” Lane pins me down underneath him, straddling me, as he scoops big handfuls of water from the floor and splashes me.
“My fault?” I ask with tight-lidded eyes, trying to shield my face from the onslaught of dishwater.
“If you hadn’t made me chase you, we wouldn’t have wound up so . . . preoccupied.”
“Are you complaining about the last twenty minutes? Because I’m pretty sure that was the best twenty minutes of my life. Earth shattering, mind blowing, amazing.” I buck my hips to grind against Lane’s already stiff bulge. “In fact, I’m ready for more. Right here. Soap suds and all.”
All levity vanishes from his face as his eyes turn dark again. “Right here?”
“Right here,” I deadpan.
It doesn’t take much convincing before Lane’s pawing at me again. We’re slick from the water, our bodies slithering against each other with lubricated ease. Except of course, for the damn shirt again. It clings to his chest and the heaviness of the soaked cotton slaps against my bare stomach each time Lane rubs against me.
This time, I take control. My fingers creep down his arms and back, gripping the hem of his ruined shirt. Lane is preoccupied with my tit in his mouth so I seize the opportunity and yank the shirt over his chest, stopping when I can’t get it over his neck.
“Off. Now,” I demand.
Lane pauses as he hovers over me, and then takes a deep breath. He rises from his hunched position and slowly peels the shirt off. I watch him in awe, dying to uncover what I know has to be a model-like physique.
What I notice first is his face—apprehensive, vulnerable, exposed. What I see next, makes me curious.
“What’s that?” I ask, bluntly. His abdomen is scattered with five deep scars. One rests under his sternum, the others just at the side of his stomach, and another long, jagged line mars his belly button down to his groin.
“War wounds.”
War wounds? What war? Did I miss something? My dumbfounded expression must say it all.
Lane dismounts me and sits up. I adjust my bra so the girls aren’t sloppily spilling out all over the place and then sit up as well, pulling my knees to my chest.
“I told you I’m not who you think I am. I didn’t want you to find out this way and I meant to tell you sooner, but I started to think it didn’t matter. None of this matters when I’m with you. Not the past, not the insecurities, not a single thing. I should’ve just told you while we were running one day, or during one of our get-to-know each other chats about how we grew up. But I was scared you’d see me differently once you knew.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about or how his scars have anything to do with why I’d see him differently. Maybe my brain is on overload from the unicorn killing sex or from the chill seeping into my bones from being cold, wet, and almost naked on Lane’s kitchen floor. Either way, I’m clueless. “Dude, what are you talking about? I’m lost.”
Lane stands and sloshes past me to the bathroom. He’s back before he’s actually gone, being that the apartment is so small. When he returns he’s holding two towels and a picture frame in his hands. He offers me a plush towel, I gladly accept, and we both drape the downy, white cotton around our shoulders.
He sits back down and hands me the black rimmed frame. The three young men in the photograph are strangers to me. They’re young teenagers on a camping trip. A red tent and a bonfire give that away, and the gooey marshmallows pierced with wooden sticks in each of their hands solidify it. The boy in the middle—all chunky and mowhawked—looks oddly familiar even though I’ve never seen him before.
I examine the picture, wondering what this has to do with Lane or why he’s showing it to me now and then I detect an unmistakable trait on the boy in the middle that sends my chin to the floor.
Dimples. Those adorable dimples.
“Is this you?” I point to the chubby-cheeked, overweight boy sporting a sweaty, flushed brow and then I take another long glance at his scars. I’ve seen these before. I know what they mean. He’s had Lap Band and he didn’t tell me?
“Yes, Leni. That’s me. I hope this doesn’t change anything.”
Having plenty of experience coping with my own struggles, my own letdowns, my own insecurities, this shouldn’t change one damn thing. He’s still the same Lane—kind, caring, sexy, perfect—only he’s not.
He lied to me.
He kept this a secret as if it were something to be ashamed of. If he’s that embarrassed to keep this part of him from me, how am I supposed to feel about myself? The weight is a thing of the past for Lane, but it’s very much a part of my existing makeup today.
Hurt strangles me, erasing the happiness that’s taken place since I collided with that tree and let Lane into my life. Into my heart. The three letter f word that has haunted me my entire life has just tainted the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Like every other obstacle in my
life, I can choose to let it define me or work through it. But in this moment, smothered with deception and uncertainty, I wish I’d fade away.
A RUSH OF OLD HURT and pent up humiliation surge through me. My first instinct is to run. My second is to cry. Guess what I do?
“Why are you crying, Leni? Look at me.” Lane tries to pry my hands from my eyes, but I don’t budge.
“You—you, lied!”
All I can think about is Alex. He’s not Alex. I tell myself that over and over again. But lies are lies. No matter how big or small, when you find out someone you trusted, cared about, maybe even loved isn’t who they said they are—it’s a stinging slap in the face.
“Alex, you’re already in, bro. All bets are off. You can give up the act and dump the chubby chick to finally get your hands on one of the Deltas we’ve got lined up for you.” Ty, Alex’s fraternity brother, punches him in the arm and cackles.
Alex stumbles sideways and my hand is knocked loose from his grip. My heart feels like it’s bottoming out in my chest and slamming around my rib cage like a dropped bouncing ball.
I look at Alex, hoping his face will wear the same confusion as mine. I had to have heard wrong. I had to. Because the alternative would be—No! I won’t go there. Not until I know the truth. But what I’m met with leaves me with little hope.
Alex’s eyes go wide and my ears ring to the point of buzzing deafness at the degrading poison Ty’s vomited out of his vile mouth.
“Shut up, asshole,” Alex mumbles, shooing Ty away. If that’s not a dead giveaway, I don’t know what is. He’s guilty. If not by the mortified glare in his eyes or the way he’s warding Ty off like he has some disease, it’s conclusive by the pallid complexion on his face.
“How could you?” I cry, my lip trembling, my eyes so full of tears I can barely make out the small crowd of people who’ve formed around us. Five of whom are burly jerks who belong to the same brotherhood Alex has been hoping to become a member of since we started seeing each at the beginning of the semester. The same assholes who have always looked at me as if I have a third eye or who snickered behind my back when Alex and I walked past them on campus.
Moore To Love Page 19