by Robin Lovett
“They leave off the ‘Lia’ part?”
“Yeah.”
He leans toward me with an open mouth. “More.”
I like him saying “more” to me, too much. The fork trembles in my hand.
With his mouth full, he says, “Braker’s not my real name.”
“What do you mean?”
He swallows. “My real last name is Baker. Some announcer made the mistake back when I was a junior racing on the track. It stuck. The whole ‘Braking Terror’ thing.”
“But it’s spelled wrong. Braker as in ‘baker’ is the noun, not the verb.”
He gives me the side-eye. “I don’t think announcers give a shit about spelling.”
“Well, they should.” I’m rambling, trying to think of anything except how close he is to me. I’m cowering toward the door so his shoulder isn’t touching mine. “Do people call you ‘Terry’ then?”
His voice lowers, tightens. “Terry is my father’s name. No one calls me that.”
“That’s bad, I guess?”
He scoffs. “The less I can be like him the better.”
“Okay.” I feel bad, like I said something I shouldn’t have, though how was I supposed to know “Terry” was the wrong thing to mention?
I take another bite of ziti myself and feed him one too.
He turns another corner and says, “I don’t know where you live.”
“You can drop me in two blocks.” No cars are allowed on my street so he’ll have to stop on the boulevard. I’m relieved we’re close. This car is getting warmer and smaller every minute.
“We lived around the corner from here last winter. That’s why we always go to that café. The barista loves us.”
I snort. “He never talks to me.”
“I’m sure you’re all sunshine and roses.”
“Shut up. If you think I’m so prissy, why do you talk to me?”
“Hey, I think you’re great. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. It’s nice to have to work for smiles. Yours don’t come cheap.”
I can’t help the smile that splits my face. “Thank you.”
“See?” He beams at me.
“Watch the road, please.” He says such nice things. I hope he’s not saying them because he’s expecting sex.
Chapter Twelve
He parks the car where I said, turning off the engine, though I wanted him to leave it running. I need out of this car. I refuse to sit with him longer.
“Thanks for the food and the ride.”
“Sure.”
I’m nervous and terrified that he might try to kiss me again. Or worse, I’ll want him to kiss me again and he won’t. So I don’t look at him. I search for the door handle, put the pasta pan on the seat, and get out.
I slam the door closed, then hear his car door slam behind me.
“You’re not getting rid of me that easy,” he says, striding up beside me with his hands stuffed in his pockets.
“You’re not coming up,” I blurt on reflex.
“Whoa.” He puts his palms up. “I’m innocent, I swear. What are you thinking, Miss Aurélie?”
I blush and stare at the ground. “Nothing.” I scurry across the dark cobbles, down the block. My thoughts jumped straight from him getting out of the car to him wanting sex. It’s not my fault. He made it very clear with his proposition last time that sex is what he wants. “Go home to your models or whoever.”
“Hey, hey.” He hurries to my side.
I jog down the staircase sidewalk to my door.
He jogs with me. “I don’t ‘do’ models.”
“Right. Never.” There’s no way that’s true.
“Well, I did, but not anymore. We all do stupid shit when we’re twenty-two.”
“I’m twenty-two.”
“Then maybe you should do some ‘stupid shit’ with me.” The streetlight shines on his spreading smile.
I stop near my door, but not in front of it. I’m not sure I want him to know where I live. He stands so close to me, I think he might try to kiss me again. But instead, his hand brushes my wrist and twines fingers with mine.
I like holding his hand. “No models?” My brain is having a hard time comprehending this guy. Does he, for real, like me?
“Nah,” he says. “Plastic. Boring. I’m a bigger fan of the real deal.” Like at the tram stop, he strokes my love handle.
It surprises me; I jump away. I don’t know if I want him to touch me again. I’m afraid that I’ll—that if he—
He follows me, and before I can fathom it, he cups my face in his hands and kisses me.
It’s different from the chaise longue. He doesn’t wait to slip me his tongue, he’s there, inside my mouth.
I am lost and gone. I grab his shoulders and pull him against me.
He wants me. I want that.
My lips are sucking and needy, and I’m whimpering, but I don’t care.
I wrap my arms around his neck and try to yank him down to my height. He’s taller than me, and I don’t like it. I want his head level with mine so that I can have more of his tongue in my mouth and feel more of him against me.
“Where’s—your—door?” He kisses me between words.
I point in the direction, and he walks me back into the recess, against the wall.
He happily devours me. Or I devour him. Whichever.
I climb him, and he catches my thigh, hitches it around his hip, lifts me on tiptoe, presses me into the wall.
His mouth and his tongue are better than cheese and croissants. I could eat those all day; him, though—just eating him isn’t enough. I want all of him inside me.
A pressure toughens between my legs. He’s rubbing me, right there, and he’s hard.
I lean my hips into him, to see if I’m right. He groans, and his fingers dig into my butt, and he grinds between my legs. Oh yeah, I’m right.
This is bad. Bad. I should not be doing this.
I have no desire to stop.
I rock my hips against him little by little, and it feels so good that I forget about kissing, only panting. His lips nibble my jaw, and he slides his hips up and down against me.
I’m breathing so hard I can’t form thoughts.
“Terr—Terrence,” I gasp, and still my hips. “I— Umm—”
“Yeah.” He stops moving too. “I’m—should stop.” He gulps. “Oh, you feel so good, Lia.” His nose is in my ear, my hair.
Me standing against him, his body, he’s stone, all over. Not just hard. Hard implies a certain give to the surface, like it can be related to soft. No. He’s granite, only muscle and skin. My hands drop to his narrow hips, my fingers hooking in his belt loops. I’m overwhelmed by the urge to press into him again.
It triggers alarm bells. I loosen my leg around his, and he lets me glide down off my tiptoes to the ground. The loss of being level with his face, of having his lips so close to mine, is weighty.
I nuzzle into his rigid chest, and he lowers his cheek to mine. His tongue touches my lips, and I resist the urge to let him in my mouth again. With a subtle grab of my hands and tilt of my hips, I could heat us up again. He really wants me, and he’s taking all his cues from me. When I want, he gives. When I stop, he stops. He’s not pushing for sex.
He whispers, “Can I see you tomorrow?”
Surely, how great is this guy? American or French, cyclist or academic, I don’t care, I like him.
“Yeah.” I giggle, a lot, and smile so broadly that I don’t want to stop it.
“Best smile ever.” Letting me lean against the wall, he steps back, pulls his phone from his pocket.
He asks, “What’s your number?”
“I don’t have a cell.”
His eyebrows pop. “You’re really into this hard-to-get stuff.”
I shrug. “
I’m trying to save money. My assistantship barely covers food.” I have a credit card; maybe I should buy a cell anyway. I want him to call me.
He stuffs his phone in his pocket and grasps my hip. “At the café, tomorrow? Usual time?”
“Yeah. I’ll be there.”
“Okay.” He kisses my forehead and waits for something. I have no idea what; I’m heady with him.
His fingers trace my collarbone. “Can you get inside?”
“Oh. Uh-huh.” I dig out my key with shaky fingers, and it bobs around the lock before I get it open.
From behind me, he kisses my cheek. “See you tomorrow, Lia.”
* * * * *
The ache between my legs pounds as loud as my thoughts.
I slip inside my apartment, my knees weak. I nudge off my shoes and fall on my bed.
A whirlwind day. This morning I didn’t know if I’d see him again. Then he’s in a bike race, I follow him to a party, and we make out, in a major way, twice. He’s an amazing kisser. He wants to see me tomorrow. Not only is he an “I don’t do models” kind of guy, but he also really likes me. Me.
He’s fascinating, not academically inclined, yet he has goals and a rich career with a complex strategy that I don’t understand. He has this innate dominance, this need to win, and yet is so generous in victory. It’s an enthralling contradiction. I need to learn more about him, about his mysteries, who he is and what he likes.
And what things he likes.
And what things I’d like him to do to me.
I sit up in my bed. I should change into pajamas. But I must admit a truth. For the first time in a long time—I’m wet.
I’m damp between my legs, from Terrence. Him rubbing me there, his kisses and his tongue…my God, his tongue. I want to suck on it all day, to own it with my mouth. I want him to suck me with it, everywhere.
Something tells me having sex with him would not be a “lie back and think of England” kind of experience.
Before I realize what I’m doing, my hand is between my legs, rubbing myself where it aches, and I’m imagining him on top of me, naked.
I don’t touch myself often. I’ve done it, but it’s never amounted to anything so I don’t force myself to bother.
But my heart pulses in my groin and it needs—release. I rub myself again, over the top of my jeans, using my hand the way Terrence moved against me.
Nothing happens.
It’s never upset me before, the big fact I’ve ignored for years that now screams at me. I bury my face in my pillow.
I’m twenty-two years old, and I’ve never had an orgasm.
Chapter Thirteen
I wake up the next morning, look at my clock, and fly out of bed so fast I trip over my books on the floor. I forgot to set my alarm. I’m late. I’m a teacher! I can’t be late.
Call in sick.
The thought is so unbidden, I squash it and scramble for clothes.
A shout travels through my window. “Lia! Liiiiiaaaa!”
I’m hearing things. I grab a clean shirt and bra from my suitcase.
“Aurelia!”
Someone’s outside my window. That must be what woke me. I push open the glass, and standing in the courtyard, two stories down, is Terrence, smiling up at me like the sun just came out.
I don’t know whether to laugh, scream, or tell him to go away. “What are you doing here?” I’m too shocked to smile.
“Want to hang out today?” He hops on his toes, like an eager boy asking me to go to the playground.
“No, Terrence.” I shake my head, all sleepiness fading from my eyes. “I can’t. I have to teach.”
Remembering how late I am, I pull back inside. It’s cold, and I’m only wearing pajamas. I leaned out the window in a PJ top with no bra. And hard nipples. Damn it.
I don’t have time for this.
I can’t believe I forgot to set my alarm. This is so not me.
I really should call in sick.
The thought pauses my fingers and lifts a heaviness from my shoulders. I haven’t used a sick day since I arrived in October.
I can’t. That’s only for if I’m really sick. I can’t cut out on teaching—especially just to spend the day with a guy.
Once dressed, I stuff ungraded papers in my messenger bag, hop into shoes, and dash down the stairs, out the front door, and—
Bump into Terrence. “Argh, what are you doing?”
He clasps my shoulders, I look up at his face, and getting to school—doesn’t seem important anymore.
“Hi,” he says, with warm eyes and a soft voice.
“Hi.”
“You’re running late.”
“I slept in.”
“Take the day off with me.”
“What?” I retreat a step. I can’t think so close to him. “I have to get to class.” But my feet don’t move, and I can’t take my eyes from his. The way he looks at me—like I’m fascinating, valuable, sexy—I want to watch him do that all day.
I close my eyes and walk around him.
“You’re already late. Just skip.” His tone is so lazy and light, like a bath of calm in my frenzy.
I pause. “Why?”
He’s easy-going, in loose-fit jeans and a hoodie, his stance cocked, his hands in the sweatshirt pockets. He’s a bottled powerhouse, like a sleepy lion. Even after a week of racing, he stands with the self-assurance of a well-muscled athlete.
How could I not want to spend the day with that?
I may like this guy, but he is bad for me. Calling in sick is not something Aurelia does. Forgetting to set her alarm is not something Aurelia does.
“I bought you a bicycle.” He points to two of them propped against the building. “I thought we might go for an easy ride.”
I scoff. “Me, on a bicycle? That’s not a good idea.”
His brows furrow. “You know how to ride one, right?”
“Yes, but—you were exhausted last night. Don’t you need a day off or something?”
“If I take a day off, my legs will seize up. I have to ride some. I figured, why not with you?”
“Why not with—? I can’t, Terrence.” I like saying his name.
He saunters closer. “Can’t what? Call in sick? Or go for a ride with me?”
The closer he gets, the more I remember how amazing it was to kiss him. I can’t help my eyes straying to his lips.
He inches a hand toward my face and tucks a stray hair behind my ear. “I promise to go easy on you.” His words tremble with humor and something else.
“I’ve never called in sick before.” My voice weak, I make no attempts to withdraw from him.
His knuckles brush my cheek. “It’s just one time. You won’t ever do it again.” His dimple pinches.
I think he might be teasing me, but he’s right. It’s just once. One time doesn’t make a habit.
He dangles his phone at me. “If you want to.” It’s a nice phone, a fancy, smart one.
“I don’t know the phone number.” I dig in my messenger bag, find the school number, dial it, and tell the receptionist in nervous French that I won’t be coming in to teach today.
I brace myself for a scolding, or at least some skepticism, but she makes a cooing sound and asks if I need a doctor. I give a fast denial, and the receptionist lets me off with an easy, “I hope you feel better soon.”
When I hang up, the back of my neck is sweating. This whole plan has flaws. I didn’t think this through. I could get caught.
“Okay?” Terrence holds out his hand for the phone.
Anxiety festers in my belly, and it’s all his fault. If anyone who knows me sees me out with him—if they tell the school, I could lose my Fulbright. “Why are you here? Why couldn’t you wait until this afternoon?” This isn’t why I’m in France. I’m supposed to b
e teaching!
“Maybe I didn’t want to wait.” His thumb brushes my bottom lip.
I smack his hand. “This is all your fault. I never do things like skip work and sleep late and go to parties and—and—” Make out on street corners in the middle of the night with strange guys.
“Lia, it’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. What if someone sees me with you? What then?”
“We’ll just have to get out of town fast, won’t we?” His tone is even, a negation to my spiking fear.
It irks me. He’s so calm when my life is falling apart. “You’re all wrong for me. Making me do bad things. Making me hate all the things I used to love. I haven’t wanted to read my books since I met you. Did you know that?” Yikes, this is turning into more than anxiety about playing hooky, but I can’t bear this anxious feeling. “I never did things like this until I met you. You’re messing with my life!”
He jerks back, his jaw grinding.
Oh shit.
That was mean.
He cracks his neck and speaks slowly. “I can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do, Aurelia. You can tell me to fuck off anytime.”
It’s true. I could.
Anger mixed with something else spirals from his eyes. “Go ahead. Change your mind, go to work, tell them you’re feeling better. Who gives a shit.”
My anxiety deflates a bit. I could change my mind.
“If you don’t want to go for a bike ride, we can go sit in a café somewhere. Grab your books. I have magazines to read.”
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” That sounds boring. And going back to work sounds miserable.
I stand there and wait for it, his retaliating insult. He’s going to say something mean back to me, then walk away, like the last time, when I called him a stupid jock.
Except he doesn’t. He stays and watches me, waiting for me to speak.
And I’m struck with—I want this. I want to skip work and go on a bike ride with him. Me hating my job and my books is not his fault. It’s all me. I’m scapegoating him. “I’m sorry.”
His jaw relaxes. “It’s okay.”
“I’m just freaked out.”
He reaches for my hand. “It’s hard to try new things.” His broad fingers engulf mine.