Flynn swung a muscular leg over hers, pinning it tight to the bed, ending the advance. “How many lovers have you had?”
“What?” she asked, pulling her head as high off the pillow as it would come. “Why? Whether it’s two or ten, will it make a difference? Is this some sort of test I have to pass?”
“Yeah, like I’d be the one to invoke that criteria.” He laughed.
His humorous tone started to irritate her. She wanted the passionate Flynn back. If he wanted to talk, fine; but let it be dirty little words of encouragement.
“It’s just a question. You can tell me it’s none of my business—which is probably true—or you can trust me and answer me.”
She searched his eyes, trying to figure out if it was a game or a serious inquiry. He was giving nothing away. In fact, he was painfully patient for a guy whose hard-on was pressing against her like a throbbing dam wall. She narrowed her eyes. Mia didn’t want to answer, not because it wasn’t his business, but because she didn’t want to think about any other man in that way; not with him. As if leisurely killing time, he tapped the sealed condom against the pillow, looking at her, just waiting. “All right,” she said with a breath of surrender, “I’ll tell you.” His leg relaxed, allowing her to move freely again. “Two. I’ve had exactly two . . . well, I don’t know if you’d call them lovers. I mean, technically I had sex with them, but never like this. Well, technically I haven’t had sex with you,” she said, trying to rectify that fact, her entire body pulsating against him, almost begging.
“And . . .” he prodded, clearly wanting more story.
She rolled her head around on the pillow, unable to convey the intensity of distress she was feeling. “And what?” She could tell he wasn’t going to budge, and wondered if he was this stubborn about everything. An exasperated sigh rose from her belly. He could get her to talk about anything. “The second one was Billy Banes. We went together for about five months last fall. We only did it, like, maybe five or six times. My personal opinion, I think he’s gay.”
Flynn tried to muffle a laugh as Mia jokingly slapped at his chest. “I’m sorry. And the first guy? Tell me it was better than that?”
Mia felt her expression go flat, the smile disappearing. She briefly entertained the idea of making something up, something exotic and delicious. But she couldn’t lie to him, not even to repay these moments of torture. “Mmm, the first. No, actually, it was worse.”
Flynn crinkled his brow, the playfulness gone from his eyes. “How was it worse?” The inquiry had turned on him. The question was suddenly worth every moment to drown in that penetrating look of concern, wrapping around her like a protective fortress.
“No, nothing horrible like that.” A thousand-pound weight lifted from his expression. “Just a major mistake. He . . . I gave it away to nobody, for no particular reason. The short story: very drunk, very stupid, very regrettable. It’s part of why Roxanne got so mad the other night.”
“Oh, God, now I am sorry I asked. We have to make a rule, right here and now. No R word, never ever when you’re in bed with me. Got it? She makes me want to take a vow of celibacy.”
She shivered a little at what he implied, that there would be a next time. “Well, you’re the one who brought it up. Good, does that mean we’re done with this sad exploration of my past?” He didn’t answer with any words, only sank deeply into her lips. She was nearly carried away, his passionate kisses taking her back to that idyllic place to which only he knew the way. Mia almost let the question slide. “Why, Flynn? Why did you want to know that?” she asked between panting gasps, meeting his roving mouth every so often. “Is it some sort of guy ritual? Is there a macho scale of virility you need to rank yourself on?”
He stopped, the look in his eyes sincere and doubtless. “I didn’t need to know. I just wanted you to remember who was before me. Because now, Mia, you know who’s last.” She didn’t question it; she didn’t ponder it. But the words caused a feeling to pulse through her more intensely than the vista he’d brought her to earlier. “Now, hand me that condom,” he instructed.
Her mind was awash with dreamlike thoughts that hadn’t even been a possibility that morning. She watched intently, silently, as he tore the packet open with his teeth, quickly sheathing himself. The thought of how many lovers he may have had did race through her head, but she pushed it away. No doubt the number climbed well into double digits, or worse.
Flynn eased into her with an expertise that said as much, slowly stroking her, teasing until she was ready. Her legs locked around him, coaxing him on. Only for a moment did he ever appear to be in anything other than complete control.
“You’re so fucking tight.” He groaned, swallowing hard, his eyes squeezed shut. She couldn’t tell from the language, his expression, or her own experiences whether that was good or bad. Without ever having looked at her, he answered, “Yeah, that’s a good thing, sweetheart. A very nice thing. But you’ve got me so hot it’s requiring a whole other level of willpower.”
“But I didn’t do anything,” she innocently replied.
In the midst of his controlled passion, he laughed, his head falling to the pillow next to her, a slight whimper of frustration seeping from his gut. “Mia, sweetheart, have you ever looked in a mirror?”
They flowed into a liquid chasm of like-minds and heated bodies. It was beyond anything she had imagined, read about, or witnessed in the soft-porn movie the girls had once rented. It certainly cast a shameful light on the bedroom skills of Billy Banes and the boy from Alpharetta. Flynn was simultaneously powerful and sweet, never letting her be anything but the center of his attention.
Once they’d made rhythmic peace with the crushing thunder of passion that possessed them, once he seemed sure she was able to handle everything he had, Flynn began again, taking her back to that much anticipated place. Mia had always been under the impression that this particular part belonged to the man, but evidently he hadn’t heard the same rumor. The thrusting crested to a violent threshold as the chintzy headboard smacked hard against the wall and a lamp vibrated off the nightstand. All the while his strong voice whispered through the air, asking if she liked it, if she needed him to slow down. At first there was only a timid nod as Mia replied with throaty rumbles of encouragement. She found her voice at the end, coming right before him, begging him for all he had to give. It was more electric than before, more satisfying because it led him to the same place.
In the moments afterward, the only sound was their exhausted gasps for air. Mia reached to her cheek, thinking the sweat between their bodies was pouring down her face. What a lovely picture that must be, she thought, sharply brushing the drops away, realizing they were tears. For all his bravado, Flynn was quieter than she expected, leaving her to wonder if he’d enjoyed it as much as she did. She found the strength to open her eyes. Flynn’s head was crooked in her shoulder, his body still heaving with deep breaths into a pillow.
“Flynn, say something. Please? You’re, um, making me nervous.”
“Can’t,” came the deadpan reply that she thought was an octave higher than his usual deep voice.
Oh my God, I was so awful he can’t look at me. He can’t even speak. “Why . . . why won’t you talk to me?” Her body wanted to brace for the answer, but all her muscles ceased cooperating after the last orgasmic explosion ruptured her.
A long arm flew up in the air, hitting the mattress with a thud. Still, his body didn’t make a move. “Destroyed,” came the muffled reply.
“Huh?”
Finally he wrenched his face from the pillow, his eyelids fluttering open then closed. For the first time she noticed his beautiful long lashes. Why hadn’t she seen them before?
Flynn struggled to push himself up, as if someone had zapped all the strength from his body. Words dragged from his mouth. “You. Destroy. Me.” His forehead bumped against hers, his hair creating a wall of privacy around them. Flynn softly brushed his lips over hers.
It gave her a smidge
n of hope, but no confidence. “Flynn, talk to me in sentences.”
He must have caught the pleading tone in her voice, because his head popped up, his face returning to that protective look of concern. “It means, Mia, that every sex cliché you’ve ever heard just happened, to me anyway.” She blinked, crinkling her brow. He pushed his hair back so she could see his face clearly. “Let’s see. The earth did in fact move, I’ve now touched the face of God, my world did indeed rock, and if you’d like I’ll cap it off with a cigarette in bed. Now, do you follow?”
A glorious if not conquering smile beamed across her face. She nuzzled against him and buried her head in his shoulder. “I follow.”
Chapter 11
Mia awoke in the middle of the night, a river of contentment lapping over her until she realized she was alone. His arm had been there before, curled around her very much like it belonged. She sat straight up in bed, reaching for the lamp. It was still on the floor. Her legs hit the ground in a panic, only a crease of light from the heavy drape illuminating her path. She fumbled toward the bathroom where the door was wide open and flipped on the light. He was gone. Her fingers raked through her hair, grabbing the long locks that still smelled of his whole body. “No, he promised! He said he wouldn’t do this!” Her heart pounded so hard she thought it would burst into a million pieces. This feeling was going to tear her apart, so vacant and opposed to everything she’d felt earlier.
Through stinging tears Mia spied his T-shirt on the edge of the bed. Maybe a little forget-me-not for idiots who’ll believe anything. She told herself to shut up and snatched the shirt, pulling it over her head. It wasn’t possible; she couldn’t have been that wrong about him. Her toe snagged the thong and she skimmed it up over her shaking legs. Anger and panic were driving her so forcefully that Mia didn’t bother to look around for his belongings. She plunged her feet into her flip-flops and threw open the door. The night air wasn’t much cooler than the day, and it hit her like a choking veil of steam. If he was gone, she hoped it would choke her to death. The distant parking lot was just globs of hard, dark shadows, making it impossible to discern if the motorcycle was still there.
Then she thought about the pond he’d mentioned. The moonlight cast a decent path and she headed to the back. She wanted to call out, but it seemed ludicrous if he was gone and desperate if he wasn’t. Her fast stride lapsed into a panicked run, her head pivoting from side to side, searching. Nothing. Nothing but lightning bugs, crickets, and heat. A security lamp launched a clear circle of light near a dock. She stopped, scanning its circumference. The breeze picked up, rustling a cluster of trees, drawing her attention. Mia whipped around, nearly knocking herself off balance. There, barely visible in the dim light, was a man crouched on the ground. Her heart wanted to melt with relief, but an icy warning from her brain held it back. Something wasn’t right. Calm steps, Mia told herself. Get the panic out of your voice. Don’t say anything stupid. Say something like, I noticed you were up and I thought we could take a walk in the moonlight. Yeah, because that’s what I always do in my thong in the middle of the night. A moment later and it didn’t matter. She was twenty feet away when a gasp rose from her throat and she ran the remaining steps. “Flynn, what’s the matter? What are you doing sitting out in a field—stark naked?” His knees were dug into the ground, hands tight by his sides, clenching tufts of grass. His long hair was the only thing touching his shivering body; his eyes were closed. There was no recognition, no sign that he knew she was there.
Whatever was happening to him—this was what she had seen in his eyes that first night. This was the something distant and scary. But that was before. Now, whatever the problem, Mia felt it was just as much hers as his. Cautiously she knelt by his side. His body was one steady convulsive twitch, the sweat catching in the moonlight, shimmering on his stony face. Mia wished she knew more, had paid better attention in sociology, psychology—one of those -ologies that might have given her a clue what to do next. She wished she were as smart as Roxanne. Instinct would have to drive the plan of action. That thought made her stomach a little sick. What if she made it worse? Pensive, she pulled her hand back, then reached out again. Mia gathered her nerve and touched his arm. “Flynn, can you hear me?” There was a screech from his throat, an inhuman sound. He looked at her, squirrelly-eyed and disoriented. “Oh, God, I’m sorry!” she cried, still not sure if he was hearing her. “I didn’t know what else to do. I . . .”
His hand reached for her face; it was all he could do to make contact. The tremors worsened if he moved. “Here . . . You’re still here . . .” he managed in some crazed voice that didn’t belong to him.
At least he recognized her; that was something. “Of course I’m still here. If you’d stayed inside, I would have been a lot handier. Tell me what’s happening. Why are you out here?”
“Don’t ask now . . . Do some . . . thing . . . for me.”
“What? Just tell me . . .”
“Inside, the duffel. Small . . .” He gagged on the jumpy, scattered phrases as if they were suffocating him. “Zip . . . per. Bring me the bag.”
She nodded. The fear in her face told him she’d do exactly as he asked. Mia raced back to the cottage and tore into the black duffel. There was nothing. Socks, T-shirts—a few tangible things that assured her he was a part of earth. Then she saw an outside zipper. She slipped her hand inside and withdrew a clear plastic bag. She bit hard into her lip, feeling used and disgusted. It was filled with joints, nine or ten neatly rolled maryjanes, looking party ready. “Damn it! Drugs? He’s about nothing but drugs. Damn him!” She almost threw it down and left. Instead, she held the bag up, staring, as if expecting it to explain. What Mia did know about hard drugs was scary and real, a vicarious lesson learned courtesy of Rory Burke. It was the kind of stuff that would make you turn and run. And she probably would have, but that underused instinct intervened. It’s a bag of pot. It’s not the same thing. Grabbing the duffel bag, disregarding his privacy, Mia rooted around, searching for something worse. It wasn’t there. The hope that she wasn’t that wrong about him, curiosity, an irrational bond—she wasn’t sure which one made her take the lighter she also found in the pocket. But as Mia headed toward the door, only one thought guided her: She couldn’t leave him there, alone in a field, naked and shivering.
She was wary on her return, keeping her empathy in check. There was no need to give any more of herself to him. Not until she got some answers. “Here,” she said, standing over the coiled mass of shivering flesh, thrusting the bag at him. He tried to reach out, but his hands were shaking so violently there was no way he could take the bag from her, no less light a joint. She tapped her flip-flop into the ground, knowing the choice was hers. “This is just pot, right?” He nodded. Believe him, or don’t. Mia drew the plastic bag back to her and grabbed a joint from the batch, tossing the rest aside. She put it between her lips, flicked the lighter, and drew several hard drags. The air began to fill with the murky aroma that defined college parties and courted inane laughter. At the moment, she couldn’t think of anything less amusing than this. Realizing she’d have to finish the job, she knelt next to him, holding it up to his quivering lips. He drew it in and she watched as he took grateful drag upon drag, thinking there had to be more to this.
It took almost an hour for him to calm down—or come down—enough to get him back inside. She said nothing, just brief pertinent bits of conversation like, “Can you get up? The cottage is this way. Watch your step.” Do you see the landmine over there? I’ve already fallen into it.
Strategically bypassing the bed, Mia helped him into a chair, her fantasy of waking up beside this unbelievable, inspiring man shattered. She tried to ignore the rawness, the empty promise that gnawed at her gut; tried to take responsibility. No one had forced her. She was more than willing to get into bed with a man she knew practically nothing about, whose past indicated something other than pleasant family dinners and warm holiday reunions.
Mia not so nicely
threw his jeans at him. “Can you put them on?” she snapped, turning her back while he struggled into them. He hadn’t said a word since asking for his party favors, and his silence baited her anger. “Then you’ve got about ten seconds to start talking if you don’t want me to walk out of here.” It was a bold move for Mia; she didn’t often take charge. Even in this condition he managed to unearth her emotions, although the ones from before were decidedly more pleasant. Silence answered back and her heart broke a little more. Her head nodded. This was what he wanted. Still wearing nothing but her thong and his T-shirt, Mia reached for her clothes. She kept her back to him as big, stupid tears rolled down her cheeks. Flynn didn’t deserve to see how much this hurt. With her clothes in hand, she headed for the bathroom, shrouded by what she guessed was her poorest choice yet.
“I don’t know how,” came a raspy voice, barely audible.
“Don’t know how to do what?” Mia whipped around, and her eyes scalded him with a sharp demand for answers.
“Explain it.” Flynn bent forward in the chair as if his stomach were in a wrenching knot.
Mia fought a wave of sympathy; he was such a mess on the outside. She wondered what might hurt that she couldn’t see. It was impossible to make out any expression through the mass of tangled hair. “Try,” she hissed in a tiny whisper.
“You don’t want to mess with this, Mia. It’s better if you just keep thinking what you’re thinking and go.”
“And how do you know what I’m thinking?”
His head tilted back as his gaze dragged up from the floor. His face was a ruin of despair and humiliation. “You think that was me rip-roaring high on something. Maybe a little PCP or meth.”
“I’m hoping to God not.”
He leaned back, managing solid eye contact. “It wasn’t, I swear.” Mia let her jeans slip back onto the bed as she stood, pressed against the mattress edge. “Believe me, I didn’t want to ask you to get my stuff, but it was the only way down.”
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