by Annie Kelly
“Of course, he majored in history, not science,” he says, grinning broadly. “But he forgives me for my ‘mistaken choice in subject matter,’ as he calls it.”
“It sounds like you have a wonderful family. I’m surprised you’d move so far away from them.”
He leans back in his chair, his lips pursed. I take the opportunity to examine his face. His cheeks are absent of scruff. He really is clean cut. A proverbial good boy.
The opposite of everything I’ve been drawn to lately.
“I guess I just wanted to strike out on my own,” Jeremy finally says. “Delaware isn’t all that far from Baltimore, anyway.”
He reaches for his wine and takes a sip.
“How about you?” he asks. “Why’d you stay so close to home?”
I open my mouth, prepared to say something about Dad, then snap it shut. For whatever reason, I just can’t go there. Not on a first date.
Instead, I say, “I got a scholarship. It was cheaper to stay.”
It’s not a lie, and it seems to satisfy him. Moments later, our food arrives and I dig into my pasta arrabbiata.
“I hate when women don’t eat on dates,” he says approvingly. “I think it’s important to have a healthy appetite.”
I raise a brow.
“When it comes to Italian food, you can bet I can put my fair share away.”
We eat, punctuating the meal with conversation about school, about where I see myself in five years, about what I want to do after I get my graduate degree. When the bill comes, he doesn’t even let me look at it before he slips a credit card into the waiter’s hand.
But him paying for the bill doesn’t make it feel like a date. I hate to admit it, but the whole experience feels more like a job interview.
And I keep comparing him to someone else.
Someone who is nothing like him.
Someone I have absolutely no business thinking about.
“Do you want to get coffee?” he asks as we stand to go. I peer out the window, noticing the dark clouds gathering in the sky, then shake my head.
“Nah, I think we might need to take a rain check on that—literally.”
He follows my gaze.
“Aw, come on—it’s not too bad. Hey, there’s a band performance at Franklin tonight. You want to swing by? I can show you the bullet holes in the auditorium door.”
I blink at him, then shake my head slowly.
“Uh . . . no. I think I’d rather just head home. Maybe another time.”
“Oh. Okay, sure.”
I can sense the disappointment in his voice, but he smiles at me as we head out the restaurant’s front door. The wind has picked up since we were last outside and I pull my jacket a little tighter. Jeremy notices and slings an arm around my shoulders, pulling me in closer. My breath stutters a bit and I glance over at him. He isn’t looking at me, but his cheeks are red. I wonder if he’s been waiting for this opportunity.
When we pull up to my apartment complex, the sky has turned from grumbly to downright wrathful, and I glance up warily through the windshield.
“You better hurry home,” I say, “so you don’t get stuck in this.”
He nods and licks his lips nervously. Quickly, I swoop in and press a kiss against his cheek before he can direct his mouth to mine.
“Thank you for dinner,” I say, somehow simultaneously pulling back from him and opening my door. Jeremy looks a little dazed, but he smiles and reaches for my hand, then gives it an awkward little shake.
“I’ll see you at school.” I say it firmly, making it clear this will be our last date.
I don’t think he gets the hint.
“I’ll call you later,” he insists.
I don’t say anything to that. Instead, I just wave as he pulls away from the curb, then take one last look at the angry sky before hurrying up the stairs to my apartment.
I’m home all of two minutes when the lights flicker in my bedroom, then the power goes out. I look up at the ceiling just as a sharp crack of thunder echoes through the apartment.
Shit.
I take a deep breath and try to relax. I’ve been in plenty of storms before. Then there’s a flash of lightning, followed by an almost deafening roll of thunder. I slip off my heels and dress, digging a pair of pajama pants out of my bottom drawer and finding a faded green T-shirt balled up beneath them. If I’m going to be stuck in here, I can at least be comfortable. Wrinkled, but comfortable.
I’m trying to decide between hiding out in the bathroom—no windows—or camping out in my bed under the blankets, when I hear a loud, staccato banging. At first, I think it’s just the thunder—or reverberation of thunder—as it echoes along the exterior courtyard. But then it comes again—louder and sharper this time. Along with a voice yelling my name.
I know that voice.
And the face, despite being soaking wet with rain, is just as familiar when I fling the door open.
You know, most people look like a drowned rat when they get caught in a rainstorm. Smith, on the other hand, looks like he’s ready for a photo shoot. His T-shirt—dark blue, or at least dark blue when wet—is plastered to his chest and torso, defining every inch and ridge of muscle. His hair is glued to his scalp, making me realize how much it’s grown in the six weeks I’ve known him. He’s starting to look a little less like a soldier and a little more like a student.
My stomach takes a swan dive.
He can’t be here right now. The barrier between us has become far too tenuous. Far too close to snapping. I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly aware that I’m braless under my T-shirt.
“I thought you were going to stay as far away from me as possible.”
He sort of smirks. “I changed my mind.”
I lift a brow. “I’d ask how you know where I live, but I guess that would be a stupid question.”
Smith doesn’t say anything to that—just scrubs a hand over his damp hair.
“I have to talk to you.”
I lean my hip against the open door, now pressed between me and the wall, and shiver. The polite thing to do would be to invite him in. The smart thing to do would be to send him away.
“Why?” I finally ask.
“I want to tell you something,” Smith says then, clasping the back of his neck with one hand.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
I peer up at the sky. “Fine, but you need to make it quick. I don’t like standing out here and you shouldn’t be driving in this anyway.”
“I’m leaving Franklin.”
A frown and furrowed brow take over my face.
“What? Why?”
I meet his gaze then, and something spicy and unavoidable flares up in my veins. His lips are parted and his chest is almost heaving with each intake of breath.
“You know why.”
The words are so low, they’re a half growl. I suck in a breath.
“Smith . . . ,” I begin, trailing off. His gaze pins me and he tilts his head to one side as he regards me.
“Are you saying you can keep doing this?”
I swallow hard. “I—I don’t know.”
He takes a slight step forward.
“Because I can’t,” he says, his voice strained. “I can’t see you every day and not touch you. I can’t listen to you talk without watching your mouth and imagine it wrapped around my cock. I can’t show up in your classroom and not push you up against the wall and slide my hand inside your skirt to see if my presence makes you wet. If I see you, I want you. Period. And I can’t do this anymore.”
“But—your credits . . .”
“I’m not worried about that,” he says, almost spitting the words at me. “And neither should you.”
“Excuse me?” I blink at him. He just shakes his head with his eyes narrowed. He looks furious. He looks furious at me.
“When are you going to say what you really want to say?”
“I don’t—what are you—”
“Come on,
Cyn.” He shoves a hand back through his hair. “Stop letting your brain do all the talking.”
I open my mouth, then shake my head. The fury bubbles up in my chest and feels like it might spill over into my entire body.
“You know what? That’s fine. Drop out. Do exactly what I wanted to do—quit. But then you’re the quitter. You’re the one who gave up.”
I want to punch him. I want to shake him.
“All I’ve done is defend you. What a waste of my time. You clearly don’t care about anyone but yourself, and you don’t care if you are something different—something better— than the parents you’re a product of or the friends you’ve surrounded yourself with.”
I cross my arms over my chest and tip my chin up.
“I refuse to be the only person in your life who wants something better for you. And I do, Smith. I want so much better for you—you deserve so much better.”
And that’s Smith’s breaking point.
He pushes off the doorframe and moves toward me. When his hands reach my hips, he doesn’t even pause as he pulls me into him. I don’t care that he’s soaking wet as I wrap my arms around his shoulders. Neither of us says another word and really, why would we? There’s nothing left to say that our mouths can possibly communicate better by speaking.
When Smith kisses me this time, it’s like he’s on some kind of quest—like he’s searching for something that he knows I’ve got and he’s waiting for me to give it up to him. If that something is a whimper, he gets it right away. He takes advantage of my open mouth and prowls inside.
There’s nothing about this moment that is gentle—it’s fierce and hot and commanding. His tongue delves between my lips, coaxing my own to meet his. I feel my hands move up to grip the front of his shirt as he presses a palm into the small of my back. A thick, hot coil of desire settles low in my belly and I force myself to pull back.
“Smith,” I manage to say when I’ve gotten enough of my own mouth and brain available to form words again.
But that’s all I say, because he leans back in and captures my bottom lip with his teeth.
“Don’t stop me,” he murmurs against my mouth, coaxing it back open, licking his way back in. “Please don’t stop me.”
Maybe it’s the please. Maybe it’s the darkness or the way his skin smells like rain. Whatever the reason, I shift in toward the apartment so that I can close the door behind us. As soon as I do, he’s got me pressed up against it, his body pinning mine in a way that leaves no doubt how much he wants me. How much he wants this. His hardness presses into my softness and we both groan at the contact.
Then, his hands are in my hair and he’s palming my scalp, directing my face up toward his as he lets his lips slide along my jaw to my neck. When his mouth reaches my ear, I know I’m lost to this man. Nothing matters now but how good this feels and how much I want it.
How much I never stopped wanting it—not for a single second, even when I should have.
“All I want,” Smith says into my ear, his breath coasting along my neck, “is to feel you. To taste you. To have you any way you’ll let me. I can’t not be here right now, Hyacinth.” Then he bites down lightly on my earlobe, and my body bows, arching out from the door and into the hard planes of his chest and torso. I reach up to stabilize myself or find some sort of balance, but instead let my hands course over his collarbone and his chest, feeling the straining, muscular flesh beneath and knowing that I need to see it again—this time without the body paint.
“Take your shirt off,” I say, hardly recognizing my own voice.
I’m already pulling at the hem, and Smith doesn’t make me wait. He reaches back behind his head with one hand and yanks the wet cotton up and over.
Holy shit.
He’s even more gorgeous than I remembered. His skin is tan and taut, his powerful frame as impressive as it was the night we met. More so even, since I’m seeing it in my own living room. Even the stormy weather can’t compete with the tempest brewing in my body and hurling itself right between my legs.
“Now you,” he says, cocking his head and caging me in with both arms.
But I’m still mesmerized by him, now reaching out to coast my fingertips along the prominent ridges of his six-pack. There’s a heat that feels like it’s emanating from within him.
Then, I realize what he’s asking me to do and I meet his gaze, feeling shy.
“I—I’m not wearing anything underneath.”
His lips lift on one side in that oh-so-sexy smile, and he leans forward and places his mouth against the crease between my shoulder and neck. I feel his tongue flicker against it and I huff out a ragged breath.
“Neither was I,” he whispers against my skin. “And, in case you haven’t noticed, your shirt’s gotten a little wet . . . it’s not exactly hiding much.”
I glance down, realizing that I’ve absorbed a lot of the water from his shirt into mine—and my white cotton tee is now practically see-through in the front. I’m basically ready to enter a Cancun wet T-shirt contest up in here, and I can feel my cheeks heat with embarrassment. The view isn’t perfect, considering the dim lighting, but every flash of lightning proves to give Smith a full-frontal shot of me and all I have to offer.
I look up at Smith again, watch the embers in his eyes create the kind of fireworks show you only see on summer nights, and I whip the shirt up over my head.
“Fuck,” he mutters, not even bothering to pretend that he’s doing anything but staring at every inch of my exposed skin. I lean back against the door, unsure of what to do with my hands, so I do what comes naturally. I tuck them into the front pockets of his jeans and pull him into me.
The feeling of his skin, so hot, against mine, still cool from the wet fabric, is like some kind of miracle. I feel enlightened by it. I feel alive. He hisses when our chests meet and reaches up to cup my face and kiss me hard—kiss me stupid, as it were, just like I asked him to not so long ago.
“You are so goddamn beautiful,” he murmurs, then slips his tongue back into my mouth, past my teeth, unfurling it and pulling it back, dancing with my tongue and reminding me of what I’ve been looking for since I even knew about kissing—that I wanted to be made to feel that kissing me was as essential to someone as air. Smith makes me feel that way and more.
When his hands slide from my face to my shoulders, I move mine to the backs of his and ease them down over my breasts. Once I’ve done it, it’s like signing a permission slip and he’s off running. I guess he felt he needed that consent from me before he went there.
And then he really, really went there.
“I’ve thought of you like this,” he said, his voice husky as he palms my breasts, my nipples hardening to an almost painful degree. The slight friction isn’t nearly enough, and I want to mewl as he lets his fingers replace his palms.
He’s gentle at first, pinching ever so lightly, yet still whispering in my ear.
“I’ve pictured you like this.”
“Really?” My voice is almost a squeak and he nods.
“Abso-fucking-lutely. Over and over in this very position.”
He lets his teeth graze my earlobe. “I’ve imagined you topless and wet, writhing against me. I’ve imagined coming here every night for the last month and a half.”
His lips brush at my neck, then he leans back to meet my gaze.
“Baby, I’ve pictured nothing but your face, your body, every time I’ve touched myself.”
Holy. Fuck.
I cry out when his mouth slides over the flesh of my breasts, then hovers just above a hardened peak.
“Tell me you want it,” he said, his eyes meeting mine.
I know that the desire he sees in my gaze is more than enough permission, but he wants to hear me say it. And I want to say it to him.
“I want this.”
And I practically choke on a cry as he takes the nipple into his mouth and sucks hard—no pretense, no gentle ministrations. He doesn’t need to ramp me up and he know
s it. I’m already there. I feel like I’ve been right there since the day I met him.
“Yes,” I hiss, digging my fingers into his scalp, loving the feel of his hair in my hands and wondering how long I can drag this out, how long we can make this go on until we realize that something has to stop us—common sense or morality or whatever it is.
“God, Hyacinth,” he murmurs, pulling back to place a kiss between both breasts, then moving on to the other nipple. “You are sugary sweet, baby—I knew you would be. I knew you’d be delicious. I feel like I could fucking OD on you.”
I don’t say anything to that, but every word he’s saying, every movement he’s making, is sinking beyond my belly button to my neediest flesh below, where I’m slick and wanting and completely irrational. Where I’ve needed him for what feels like an eternity and where I’m dying to have him now.
“Please,” I cry softly, not for the first time. Once again, I don’t know what I’m asking for. I don’t know if Smith knows, either. Or maybe we both want the same things, because all of a sudden he’s grabbed me behind my knees and is lifting me up.
“Wrap your legs around me,” he directs me, brushing my hair over my shoulder and leaning in to give me a sweet, lingering kiss. “I want to take you somewhere I can lay you down. Is that okay?”
Is that okay? Is that okay?
I want to snort or scream, but I just nod, biting my lip, and wrapping my arms around his shoulders as he carries me to the couch. I’m about to point him to my bedroom but, when he puts me down, I couldn’t care less if we were in a double bed or a Dumpster, because his hands are on my waist and he’s sliding my pajama pants down over my legs, all the while meeting my gaze with a kind of feral expression that would be scary if it weren’t so hot.
“When I think about that night at the club,” he says, pulling at one leg of my pants, then the other, “I try to imagine how that night would have gone had you not had nearly as much to drink. I think about how I would have made sure to kiss every inch of your skin before leaving, just so I could have memorized your flavor, so that it would have tided me over until this day. So that I could have remembered it as I watched you and wanted you and had to stay away.”