by Lily Maxton
Damn it! “I was curious, that’s all,” I said calmly, returning my attention to my plate.
“I’m going to my parents’ house,” he said. “Not anything clandestine.”
“Don’t care,” I muttered.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw him grin. “You could stay here if you wanted.”
“Why would I do that?”
“You told me you don’t get much privacy in your apartment. You would have the whole house to yourself. The extra key is hanging on the fridge, so you can come and go whenever you want. Unless staying here alone is too much of a commitment,” he added mildly.
My eyes narrowed. He stared back at me blandly. “I didn’t say we couldn’t be friends,” I pointed out. “Just that neither of us should become invested.”
“Right. Friends who fuck.”
I shoved my plate away. “If you’re going to be like this, let’s just call it off.”
“I don’t think so,” he said.
“Then stop making snide little—” I broke off with a surprised gasp as he leaned toward me and our lips collided. He held my head between his hands as he took my mouth, our teeth gnashing angrily. It was a harsh kiss, a clash, a battle for dominance and a surge of wills.
By the time he pulled back, I was trembling and I didn’t know which of us had surrendered.
He traced a line from my jaw down the side of my throat with one fingertip, but I felt it through my whole body. “You blush when you get mad,” he murmured. “I want to follow it down and see how far it goes.”
And then he pressed a gentle openmouthed kiss against my neck. I tilted my head, hoping he’d do more. I felt like snarling at him when he stepped back, just as confident and unruffled as ever. “I’ll be home tonight. If you’re not still here I’ll text you, and you can decide if you want to come over.”
And he left me, dumbfounded and unsatisfied, staring at his long, lean torso before he climbed the stairs and was hidden from view.
Chapter Thirteen
I stayed.
Mostly I was curious and wanted to look around Evan’s house. After I slid my plate in the dishwasher rack, I trudged up the stairs. There were two small bedrooms on one side of the hall. The main bedroom was on the other side. I pushed open the door tentatively; I wasn’t sure what I expected to see, but when Evan’s room was revealed it looked like any normal bedroom.
A queen-size bed pushed, headboard first, against one wall. He hadn’t had time to make it. A forest-green comforter was pulled back to reveal cream-colored linens. Some invisible force drew me to the bed and before I knew it I was standing at the edge, my hand smoothing down one of the sheets. It felt luxuriously soft under my fingertips.
I bent forward at the waist and dragged a deep breath through my nose. The sheets smelled like him. I resisted the urge to climb into bed and fold them around me.
I glanced in the master bathroom before I left, blinking at a huge, triangular spa-tub with a mirror on the opposite wall. My face reflected white and pink in the mirror, pale skin with lips still lush from a kiss.
I wondered if he and his fiancée had been together in that tub. I turned away, not wanting to imagine it.
Would he want to bathe with me, my bare body reflected in the mirror underneath the bright ceiling lights? No one except Drew had ever seen me naked. My heart leaped to my throat as I wondered how many lovers Evan had known. How many comparisons could find me lacking?
I didn’t have a great body. I was short and thin with small breasts and barely jutting hips. The idea of him watching my reflection in the mirror was enough to make my knees weak.
In that moment, I almost regretted saying no to Drew. Letting one person see all your private parts was difficult enough.
Maybe staying abstinent was the better choice. Except I didn’t know if I could; making love to Evan had been like crack running through my veins—one time hadn’t left me satisfied; it had just left me wanting more.
The second I stepped into Evan’s study, I fell in love with it. The room took up one corner of the house. There was a wide window with a view of the park square in front of a gleaming wooden desk. The adjacent wall featured an alcove with a window seat. A plump, body-length cushion covered the seat, beckoning for someone to rest or sleep in the slanting rays of sunlight.
The room was light and open with airy cream walls—the kind of room I would have picked for a studio if I’d had the means. I felt like I’d wandered into a dream.
I drifted to the desk, let my fingers brush over the polished surface, let my mind wander to the best place to put an easel—the spot where the most natural light would fall on it. And then I left the room, shutting the door quietly behind me.
I sat outside with Vader for a while, my jacket pulled tight against the brisk air. The backyard was small, divided from the neighbors’ yards with a tall privacy fence, but there was a deck scattered with some lounge chairs and a red doghouse tucked into the corner.
Vader didn’t go straight for my crotch like before. Maybe he remembered that I’d already passed the initiation. Or maybe he knew it wouldn’t be as embarrassing for me in a pair of jeans instead of a short dress with a thong.
He seemed happy to see me though. He licked my hand a couple of times and then lowered to his haunches beside me. I scratched behind his ears, watching as his jaw lowered and his tongue lolled out enthusiastically.
“My dad had a German shepherd when he was a little,” I said softly, thinking I liked Vader pretty well when he wasn’t invading my crotch space. “There’s a picture of the two of them in one of Mom’s old photo albums. Dad couldn’t have been more than six or seven—the dog looked like a giant next to him. I never asked him what he named it.”
Vader laid his head in my lap, a warm, reassuring weight. He stared up at me with fond doggy eyes. I was jealous—life was easy for dogs; someone showed them a measly ounce of affection and they had a new best friend.
“I could ask Mom, I guess. But part of me would rather not know. Your owner’s right about me—I’m a coward, Vader.” I was a coward with an aching throat and I couldn’t swallow. I hadn’t spoken aloud about my dad in years.
Vader didn’t act like he thought any less of me though; he looked as adoring as ever. Ridiculously, gratitude rushed over me, curling around all the vulnerable parts until I dropped an appreciative, impulsive kiss on the top of his head.
After wasting time watching clouds drift overhead with Vader, and hitting up the kitchen for some snacks, I ventured into the study again. My breath hitched at all the natural light that flooded into the room, and the sense that it would be a shame to let it fade into darkness without using it. This space was the perfect art studio, I had the whole day to waste, and I’d passed a department store on the way over that would have basic art supplies. It was even within walking distance.
Was fate trying to bash me over the head with a message?
I sat down in front of the flat-screen monitor. My fingers twined together as I waited for the machine to boot up.
First I checked my e-mail.
Nothing.
Then I threw some random topics into the search engine.
By the time I did a search to find out if fish hibernate, I knew I’d taken avoidance to an entirely unprecedented level.
I sighed and pushed back from the desk forcefully, nearly overturning the chair. Then I bundled up in my coat, braved the cold air, and walked to the department store, heading to their arts and crafts aisle once I was inside.
I would buy a few materials. Just in case, I told myself. No one would put a gun to my head and force me to use them.
On the way back to Evan’s house, I took a detour and went into the park square, taking an empty spot on a wooden park bench. I held a cup of tea I’d picked up at a café inside the store in one hand, and a plastic bag with a canvas, paint, and brushes rested next to me.
As I looked out on the square, a scene unfolded in front of me. A little girl, no older than
three or four, had reached the top of an orange twisty slide and was afraid to come back down. Her father’s arms reached up to lift her.
It caused a sharp pain in my chest, so strong it nearly took my breath away. But I kept watching them; I couldn’t turn away, not when the father set the girl down, still clasping her hand, not when he took her to a smaller slide, and she hesitantly inched down to the spot where he waited for her. Then she did it again, and each time she grew more and more confident, until she was laughing as she slid down.
When they left, I stared down at my tea lid, practically drilling a hole with my focus. That first image would make a good painting, I thought; if I had the courage to paint it.
A few hours later, as the sky turned dark beyond the windows, I danced around the kitchen with Vader at my heels, making a simple casserole from some ingredients I’d found in the cupboards. A Van Morrison song blared from the stereo in the living room.
Vader cocked his head at me, whining a little as I poured some shredded cheese over the casserole.
I threw him a couple of rotini noodles instead—I figured grains were safer than dairy.
I twirled toward the oven as a fast song came through the speakers and placed the baking dish on the rack. I was happy, humming to myself as I danced. My art supplies were resting on the floor next to Evan’s desk, and even though I hadn’t taken them out, I felt more hopeful than I had in a while. Like maybe I could start painting again, if I really wanted to.
“This is my favorite one,” I said to Vader, shaking my hips like I was on the dimly lit dance floor at the club instead of in a respectable kitchen.
“Dani?”
“Oh!” I spun around to find Evan standing at the threshold of the room. He looked windblown and tired; he stood with a weary stance, his shoulders slumped forward, hair tousled. He stared at me with the strangest expression on his face—I couldn’t place it because I’d never seen it before on anyone else. But it was intense and stark; whatever emotion he felt, it was a strong one.
Trepidation tripped my heart.
“Evan?”
A plastic bag dangled from his hand. Then it crashed to the floor. A few long strides carried him toward me.
And then the countertop was digging into my back and Evan was bent over me. And I was kissing him back as hungrily and eagerly and with just as much abandon as he kissed me.
“Upstairs,” he said against my lips. “Now.”
A thrill of desire shot down my spine. There was something about his forcefulness, his command that held me enthralled. This was another side of him, one I’d glimpsed in the parking garage, one that I liked more than I would admit.
The nice guy who made silly jokes and watched Star Trek could also be as sexy as hell when he wanted to be.
“The oven,” I muttered between breaths. “Turn the oven off.”
He reached around me to turn the dial and then his hands were on my ass and he lifted me. I clung to him, arms thrown around his shoulders, my legs tight against his hips. He carried me up the stairs, tumbling me onto his mattress and sinking down beside me.
He brushed my hair back with gentle fingers, his lips following the revealed skin on my cheek and jaw. His teeth nipped my earlobe.
“I want to see you.” His breath was hot and moist on my ear.
“See me?” I squeaked, and suddenly all the heat that had been coursing through my body turned cold. “Can’t we turn the lights off?”
He drew back to look at me. “Why would we do that? Didn’t you let your ex-boyfriend see you?”
“Yes, but we’d been having sex for a while at that point. I figured I had to show him my body eventually. He was,” I paused, licked my dry lips, “the only person I’ve been with, other than you.”
“I see.” He frowned slightly.
My eyes traced that frown. “How many women have you been with?”
“I don’t think revealing numbers is conducive to the moment.”
He was hedging. That meant he was either a virgin, or he’d been with several women. And the deft way he kissed and touched me almost certainly ruled out the first. My stomach sank straight down to my toes. “How many?”
“I haven’t exactly put notches in the bedpost.”
“How many? Seven?” I’d read in some magazine that seven was the average number of partners men had. Surely he wouldn’t be higher than that.
He sighed.
Oh no. “More?” I breathed.
He paused to think for a few seconds. “Thirteen, including you,” he said. “But you don’t have to worry that I wasn’t safe.”
I barely heard him. My hands rose to cover my face. “You’re a slut.”
An exasperated breath left his lips. “No I’m not.”
“I thought you were a dork. Dorks don’t have that many bed partners.” And I was lucky number thirteen. This arrangement was already doomed.
“Through junior high and most of high school, I looked exactly like the stereotypical nerd. I was quiet in school and I was an overachiever and I didn’t have many friends. And then the braces came off and I got contacts and when I enrolled in college I started participating in more clubs and things like that. I started working out more; I gained a lot of confidence. Women who wouldn’t have even glanced at me before started to talk to me. And as a guy who didn’t lose his virginity until he was twenty, who hadn’t even gone on any dates … I guess I made up for lost time.”
I parted my fingers to peer at him through the cracks. “How old are you now?”
“Twenty-eight. Dani, why does it matter?”
That averaged out to less than two partners a year. I supposed he wasn’t a total slut.
“It’s just …” I screwed my eyes shut. “I’m not anything special. My body, I mean. With that many women …” I trailed off, unable to continue.
His fingers closed around my wrists and he pulled my hands away from my face, forcing me to look at him. “One uncomfortable quickie with you in the backseat of a car was better than anything I’ve done with any of them. And I’ve already seen your ass. It’s great.”
I glared at him. “Thanks for reminding me.”
“I’d like to see it again,” he murmured, grinning. “Now, if you’ll let me.”
“Maybe I could blindfold you,” I said hopefully. “People are into that kind of stuff now. So I’ve heard.”
“Sounds fun. But not this time.”
He put his hands on my waist and flipped me, so my face pointed toward the mattress. He reached for the hem of my sweater, pulling it over my head, and then unhooked the back of my bra. I sunk down on the mattress, concealing my breasts.
His lips touched the back of my neck, passed over each bump of my spine until I shivered. He reached under me, unfastening my jeans and sliding them down. He tugged at my panties and I felt cool air hit my bare skin.
I flinched. My heart wanted to thrash right out of my rib cage.
His hands followed my rear, lifting and shaping, massaging and kneading. My hips pressed against the mattress, trying to ease the ache between my legs. I felt his breath against the back of my calf; he kissed and licked his way up each of my legs, over the thighs and swell of my buttocks, back up my spine.
He turned me over. I was so caught up in what he’d been doing I forgot to cover myself.
His fingertips grazed my throat and collarbone as he stared down at me, his long lashes concealing his eyes. “The flush goes all the way to your breasts,” he murmured.
He leaned down and drew my nipple into his mouth. My breath caught in my throat as he sucked and then gently worried the point between his teeth.
My hands captured his head, my fingers sifting his hair, enjoying the cool, smooth feel of it against my skin.
He teased my breasts and my throat and my stomach. He even kissed my arms, licking the sensitive skin of the inner elbow, but he wouldn’t put his hand between my legs. My hips lifted, seeking contact, and he ignored it.
I growled.
I looked down, at his head between my thighs. My stomach clenched at the image. I felt like a sacrifice sprawled before him, his to master, his to own.
I got a little carried away. My head turned into the mattress fitfully. “Take me,” I murmured.
He paused. His finger just breached my opening and my hips jerked. “Take you?” he said, amusement coloring his voice. “I feel like I’m in the eighteenth century.”
He circled the tip of his finger, but he wouldn’t go any deeper. “Fine,” I said, angry and aching and on fire, “Screw me. Bang me. Fuck me. Just do it soon or I’m going to hit you.”
I felt his laughter shake the mattress. I was just about ready to lash out with my fist when he moved out of reach and I heard his clothes hit the floor.
“Yes, ma’am,” he drawled in his fake, horrible southern accent.
“Shut up, Rhett.”
He turned to open the drawer of the nightstand, the lithe lines of his body drawing my gaze like a magnet. A few seconds later, he rolled on a condom, then stretched over me. He captured my mouth in a soft kiss. I could taste the saltiness of my own body on his tongue.
In one quick movement, he rolled so I was on top of him and moved my legs apart to straddle his waist.
I wasn’t sure if I liked this. It made me too vulnerable, too exposed, but then his hands were digging in my hips and he was pushing me down.
His hands moved over my back. I lifted my weight, eased back down. His whole length filled me; he was more formidable than Drew. I’d thought that was supposed to be a good thing, but at this angle he was too unwieldy, pressing too deep. I tried moving again slower, tentatively, but even that didn’t help. I bit my lip against the discomfort.
Oh God. I felt like crying.
Twelve.
Twelve other women. Some of them had probably been gymnasts, contorting into all kinds of unusual, erotic positions. And I was having trouble with one of the most basic ones.