For a second I think he's going to. I stand still, taking in the feel of his hands on me, the heat where he's making contact with my body, while the expression on his face changes from smiling down at me to something softer.
"Here."
He let's go. Both hands fall away from me at once and it leaves me more than unsteady. I feel abandoned and the places where he was touching me go cold.
Mostly, there's a crashing feeling inside me that feels utterly devastated as he pushes me just slightly to the side while he takes the long wooden spoon he's been using to stir the sauce with and uses it dish a small amount into a bowl.
"Taste it," he says as he hands me the dish and a spoon from a drawer, "let me know if it needs anything."
I dip the spoon into the red sauce and blow gently across the surface so I don't burn my tongue. The sauce is chunky with big pieces of tomatoes and onions and it reminds me of the way my grandmother cooked when I was little.
"It's good," I tell him when I taste it.
"You sound surprised," he says with a laugh as he watches me finish the small amount he gave me to taste.
Do I? I set the dish and the spoon on the counter and watch him add something else to the bubbling sauce and then toss a handful of pasta into the pot of boiling water next to it.
I guess I am a little surprised. It's one thing to get out of the shower and find him making an actual meal, it's another to discover he's doing it from scratch. It doesn't go together with his looks.
"You just don't really look like the kinda guy that does a lot of cooking," I tell him.
"Well I don't really have a reason to do much cooking," he tells me. I swear he's humming lightly as he puts his attention into the meal. It's a light sound that's almost, but not quite, hidden by the noise of the exhaust fan over the stove but there's an unmistakable melody that can't be blamed on the fan.
It makes me smile.
The man is huge. He towers over my 5 foot 4 frame by nearly a full foot. He's wearing a t-shirt that fits snugly over his chest and a pair of pajamas pants similar to the ones he loaned me that hang low on his hips in a way that dares me to pull the drawstring at his waist.
Everything about the guy is pure muscle, masculinity, and sex appeal.
But he's also a dude living above a store in the middle of nowhere in an apartment that assures me that he's been single for as long as he's been living here.
I mean, really, the place is all wood paneling and green shag carpet that's got to be older than either of us. There's a huge flat screen TV sitting on a wooden crate on one side of the living room and a leather sofa with duct tape patches against the other wall.
And I've seen inside his refrigerator; it's all beer. OK, not all beer. There's also a block of cheese that shouldn't be that color-- or that fuzzy, 2 bottles of ketchup-- maybe he forgot he had one already? Or maybe condiments get lonely? I don't know. And a whole watermelon.
I have no idea where he found all the ingredients to make the meal that I can't wait to eat right now.
"Oh." I realize he means me, I'm his reason for putting this all together. "Thanks," I say, "I've been living off of fast food burgers and gas station burritos for the last 3 weeks. This is amazing."
He smiles as he reaches into a cabinet over my head and pulls out a couple of plates. I like seeing him smile, I'll have to see if I can make it happen more often.
The tipsy feeling from drinking the beer too fast has long since faded. I'm going to have to admit it's him.
Stryker
"So you just took off on the bike?" I've probably asked her the same question about a dozen times now but I haven't gotten tired of hearing her talk yet.
"Yup." Jordan stands in front of my kitchen sink, washing dishes as I hand them to her. "It was probably a pretty dumb thing to do, now that I look back on it."
She looks up at me with her hand held out for the next dish to wash but it's just the two of us, there weren't many dishes to do.
"All out of dishes," I hold up my empty hands with a shrug.
She points at the pots on the stove, "Start giving me the pots and pans then," she tells me nonchalantly.
"You really don't have to help clean up, you know." I've been trying to take over this job since we finished dinner but she refuses to let me do my own damn dishes.
"I know I don't have to," she flicks soapy water into my face with a movement of her fingertips. "Now start handing me the pots and pans."
So it turns out Jordan isn't an angry man-hater at all and I'm a big, fat, idiot. A big, fat, idiot that almost lost out on an opportunity to get to know this incredible woman.
"I didn't mean to come off like it was an insult, you know," I start another lame apology as I reluctantly hand her the big stock pot I cooked the sauce in. "It's just that I--"
"Yeah, yeah," she says with a knowing nod, "you weren't expecting a chick."
"Kids cut across the hills all the time, underestimate their fuel capacity or how far they are from home-- every so often I wake up to one camped out by the pump. If I'd known you were a girl, I'd have invited you in when I got home last night."
Jordan laughs, "I'm not sure if I'm insulted that you think I'm too delicate to handle a night in a tent or if I'm skeezed out by the thought of being lured into some creepy dude's lair."
"Creepy dude?" I drain the beer from the bottle I had with dinner and watch her dry her hands.
"Creepy dude," she says affirmatively as she looks back at me and then winks.
"How am I creepy?"
I follow her back to the living room and watch her sit on one end of my ratty old, hand-me-down sofa and pull her feet up under her.
I really want to sit down next to her. I want her to lean against my chest and let me stroke her hair while she tells me the rest of her story, but we're just barely friends now...and she just called me "creepy."
There's not any other furniture out in the front room though. I look around and contemplate my options, and then decide to risk taking a seat on the opposite end of the sofa.
Jordan watches me with eyes that have held me captive since dinner. They're a sort of green-gray combination that change color with her moods. Right now they're a stormy gray as they watch me settle in on the other end of the couch from her.
"You live all by yourself?" She says as she casts a quick glance around my place. I don't know if that's her answer or if she's avoiding the question.
Nodding toward the mop of black fur that's laying on the kitchen tile mournfully staring at me as though I forgot to feed her, I answer with a simple, "Yup."
"In the middle of nowhere?" She smiles as she says it, like pointing out my own life to me is supposed to make me realize something.
"Yup," I say again.
"How'd you end up out here all by yourself?"
The sarcasm drops out of her voice and she shifts on her end of the sofa so she's facing me fully. Her legs unfold and stretch out toward me till her bare feet are against my knee casually.
She seems genuinely curious which, I guess is only fair since I've made her repeat her own story several times since we started talking over dinner.
"Well, I came up to help the old lady out," I start at what I figure is the beginning.
"Old lady?"
I know what she's thinking when she repeats the words.
"Nah...not like my old lady," I wave the thought away. "A fucking wife is the last thing I need in my life."
"Your mom?"
I shake my head, "nah...Mom died when I was in high school." I wait for the inevitable and she gives me a sympathetic frown.
"That sucks," she tells me softly with a gentle shove of her foot against my leg.
"Yeah, she had cancer. It was rough but life has to go on, you know?"
My hand drops down and she doesn't flinch when I pick her foot up and start rubbing her toes.
"Dad didn't take it too good though. I mean, like not good at all. He kinda shut down and never really got his shit toge
ther after she died."
I don't think I've ever really talked to anyone about it. Not really. But Jordan's listening intently and it feels good to sit here with her so I keep talking.
"The old lady was my aunt-- Dad's sister. She bought this place as a sort of a retirement thing in her 60s. But the place needed a lot of work and Dad's about useless for anything. I was coming up here every summer to help her out until she got sick. Then I moved up here full time to help run the place."
Jordan stretches out her other foot and sinks low enough to get both feet in my lap while she rests her head on the arm of the sofa. "What happened to your aunt?" she says softly, like she's worried I'm going to shut up if I realize I'm talking.
That almost makes me laugh.
"Aunt Dorreen passed away a couple years back," I tell her. "I mean, she got sick and then she got better but she couldn't run this place on her own anymore and being out here in the middle of nowhere wasn't a good idea if she needed an ambulance or something. She moved into town and I stayed out here. When she finally passed away, she left the place to me."
"Wow." Jordan crosses her arms behind her head and watches me rubbing her feet, "So you like it out here, huh? Never thought about selling the place and going back to civilization?"
"Can't say 'never,'" I tell her honestly, "but never seriously enough to actually do it, I guess."
I think about yesterday and how done with this place I was when I got home last night. Done with living in the fucking boondocks with shit for internet and going weeks sometimes without seeing a woman, let alone getting a chance to feel one wrapped around my body.
Not that that's what I'm looking for. Nothing permanent, anyway. Fuck that. I said it already and I meant it, I watched my dad lose his mind when Mom died. He hasn't been right since. I'm not looking for a woman to move in here and turn this dump into a home-- no matter how much it needs it-- and I sure as hell ain't looking for a woman to turn it into her home.
"It's gotta get lonely out here though?" Jordan's foot seems to stretch dangerously close to my crotch and I wonder if I'm imagining it, "Maybe you should invest in a mail order bride or something?"
"No way, I don't plan on getting married ever. My mom was everything to Dad, when he lost her, he lost his mind. I'm never going to let some woman be the center of my universe like that. Too big a risk. Staying out here in the sticks is a solid bet for avoiding getting into a relationship and that's how I like it-- Ninja's the only girl that gets to call this place home."
I guess I should know better by this point, but I still expect Jordan to give me a big lecture about how important falling in love is and how everyone wants it, deep down.
Hell, by the time I'm done telling her my take on love and how it can go fuck itself, I'm steeled for the standard speech I've been getting from women since I was 15.
Which is probably why I'm so damned surprised when she crawls over my lap and starts kissing me instead.
Jordan
I definitely can't blame this on the beer. The only thing I'm buzzing on right now is Stryker. The way he's touching me, even if it is only my feet, feels warm and tingly. Looking at him has been good from the beginning. But listening to him say he's not interested in love? That's sexy.
Don't get me wrong-- I guess it's kinda sad in its way, but it hits me somehow. The way his jaw twitches a little when he says it. Like he really means it.
He's heard my story. The bastard ex that walked out on me without warning. I came home to a note on the kitchen counter that said he "couldn't do this" anymore with his key to the apartment taped to it. He'd had his buddies come and move all his stuff out during the day while I was at work.
What a fucking coward.
A few months later, I get notice that I'm being laid off. The company is downsizing and I got caught in the purge.
That's the whole reason I'm on this trip: burning up vacation time that I'd been banking for a honeymoon that's never happening now before I lose it when my job ends in another few weeks.
The bike's the only thing left of me and Bryan. I didn't even want it, but Bryan insisted I needed my own bike when we went to the desert with his buddies. At least he picked something street legal when he decided what I should get without asking me what I wanted.
Something about hearing Stryker talk about not looking for anything permanent goes right to my core. I love that we're on the same page. I love that he's not going to be begging me to stay or following me back home. I love that when I impulsively crawl across the couch and straddle his lap, he's kissing me back like it was his idea to begin with.
His mouth is hot and his tongue coils with mine till we're both too breathless to keep talking. The only thing I want him saying to me at this point is exactly how he's going to fuck me.
I moan at the thought, my hand wandering down his chest and pulling at the hem of the t-shirt while his hands wrap around to grip my ass cheeks and pull me hard against him.
A gasp escapes me at the rough feel of that thick ridge digging into me through the flannel pjs.
Damn these fucking pajamas! I want to feel him. I've been drooling over his body all day, even when I was sure he was an asshole that didn't deserve the time of day from me.
I just don't care anymore. I don't care that it turns out he's humble and kind and can cook like an Italian grandma. We're here together for the moment and I plan on taking advantage of it.
My hands don't have a chance to slip between us before he's pulling my t-shirt over my head. OK, his t-shirt, really. It's way too big on me and he has to tug on it to get the knot I tied in it to come loose. As soon as it does, though, the shirt lands on the floor somewhere behind me.
Again, I don't have a chance to get my hands on that hard pole I'm grinding against because Styker's hands wrap around my breasts and his mouth finds one of my nipples.
My head drops back and I have to hang on to his shoulders to keep from tumbling backwards.
It feels so good, his tongue tracing the outline of my aereola in tighter and tighter circles till it flicks across the hardened bud in the center and then his teeth latch on, tugging lightly till I can't help but cry out. Then his head moves to the other breast and he repeats the process till I'm panting.
His hands wraps around my waist and I lean back, giving his mouth better access so he can make his way down my body.
Before I know it, I'm falling slowly backwards, landing on the shag carpet with Stryker positioned between my thighs.
His mouth continues to tease my breasts while his hands wander down my body till he's pulling the bow in the drawstring loose and slipping his hand beneath the worn flannel.
My eyes close and an involuntary gasp escapes me as his fingers find their goal and slide between my folds.
At first he touches me softly, gently, exploring and gauging my reactions while his mouth returns to mine for more hungry kissing.
It's been a long time since a man touched me like this, even longer since it felt this good. In fact, I'm not sure it's ever felt this good.
His touch becomes rougher, his fingers seeking the sensitive spot that makes me gasp again and tighten my hold on his shoulders.
"I like it when you do that," he murmurs against my lips. I'm not sure what it is that he likes, but the calloused pad of his fingertip brushes my clit again and I don't have time to ask. My hips buck against his hand and I cry out.
"Just like that."
I open my eyes and see him smiling down at me, his finger brushes over that tender spot again and it's all I can do not to beg him to make me come.
"I want to watch you come for me, Jordan." I watch his eyes fix on mine and I don't know if I'm lost in the deep blue depths of his gaze or the sensation of his fingers strumming me like a guitar. "But I want to taste you too," he says, his voice a shade darker, coarser, laden with lust as he moves purposefully and I feel his fingers replaced by the hot, wet feel of his mouth.
His tongue flicks expertly across my clit, his lips sea
led against me as his fingers slide inside me again. I feel the orgasm building. My muscles tighten and I hear myself breathing harshly as he brings it out of me.
"Let go, baby," I hear him whisper, "just let go and come for me."
Holy shit, I'm not sure I've ever heard anything sexier than the sound of his voice at this moment. I don't know if it's his hot breath against my skin, or the permission to give in to my own pleasure and only my pleasure that his gentle command holds, but I obey.
My body trembles and his hands grip me and hold me steady, his tongue resumes its maddening tap dance against my clit and I don't have a choice anymore. I feel the climax sweep over me and I'm caught in the crushing wave that consumes me for a moment that seems to go on forever.
"God, Jordan," Stryker's voice is strained and his words come out as a clipped rasp between soft bites to the inside of my thigh as reality slowly returns, "you taste incredible."
His tongue drags along my seam in a long, slow motion to prove his point.
"I need to feel you do it again," he's over me now, lined up with my body and I feel his naked cock press against my mound, "this time I need to feel you come on my cock."
He's face to face with me, his eyes holding mine without blinking when he says it.
I've heard guys talk dirty before, but it always feels so fake-- like they're trying too hard. But not Stryker, there's an urgent sincerity in his voice that makes his words sound less dirty and more matter of fact and there's something about that that goes straight into my brain and travels like electricity into my core.
It sets off a need inside me that leaks from my body as another surge of moisture rushes out of me and I wrap my legs around his waist.
I'm not thinking clearly. Somewhere in the back of my head through the fog, I know it. I just don't care. All I care about right this second is getting that monster erection that's pressing into my stomach inside me.
"Please," I hate the weak sound of my voice whimpering but it's the best I can manage. I'm lucky I can remember words at all at this point.
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