Give Me Yesterday

by K. Webster

  I tell the doorman I’ll be right there and fetch my purse and keys. For some reason, I don’t want Chase to see my apartment. Okay, I know exactly why. My condo could grace the pages of a magazine, but even those homes have a personal touch. The décor is done in cream and different shades of brown. The walls are all adorned with sepia photographs of the city from different angles, but no people. There are not pictures of anyone in fact. No homemade blankets or pillows, no candles, sentimental knick-knacks, nothing to make the space seem personal. I’ve never had an issue with my apartment, but for reasons unknown, I don’t want Chase to see just how cold and empty I am.

  After entering the hall, I lock the door and take the elevator down to the lobby. Chase is at the counter shooting the shit with Gary, my doorman. When he sees me, his eyes light up and I go all squishy inside. He straightens up to his full height which has to be several inches over six feet because even in my heels, he’s several inches taller than me. Right now, in my flats, he towers over me and I can’t help feeling dainty and feminine.

  He walks up to me and kisses my cheek, and when he moves back, I see Gary gaping at us, his jaw practically unhinged. I frown at him and he immediately snaps his mouth shut and busies himself at the desk. I don’t understand his reaction, it’s not like I don’t have guests. My mother has visited me a few times and Lindsay stopped by once or twice before we lost touch. I’m wracking my brain to figure out who else has been at my place since I bought it five years ago.

  I don’t like the answer.

  Chase looks me up and down, smirking, but all he says is, “Let’s hit the road, babe.”

  The damn nickname flusters me, like every other time he’s used it. I should argue, insist on staying home, nip this in the bud, but I don’t. I don’t want to. For the first time in almost ten years, I admit to myself, I’m lonely. So, I let him guide me out to the vehicle, idling near the valet stand, which practically screams, “For a good time, spend an hour in my backseat with the owner.”

  He holds my door while I climb in, shuts it and jogs to the driver side. He gets in and glances over, “Seatbelt, Tori.”

  His tone is firm, a little rough even. I don’t usually forget, but I find myself burning brain cells from the heat he inspires inside of me. After I click it into place, he pulls out of the circular drive, carefully navigating the streets of the city—not an easy task when there are six-way intersections. The city planner was paid off by a notorious gangster to design it this way, making it easier to slip away from the police. Unfortunately, it also means more accidents and I find myself breathing a little harder from anxiety. Thank you, Al Capone. Chase practically crawls through each light until he gets onto the freeway for a short distance before exiting into a residential area.

  Eventually, he stops and parallel parks on the street in front of a charming, greystone townhouse. He shuts the Challenger off, gets out, and rounds the car to my side, opening the door and offering me a hand to help me out.

  Staring up at the house, I ask, “This is yours?”

  I can’t keep out the touch of awe in my voice. I definitely didn’t picture him having a place like this.

  “Yep. Bought it, gutted it, and am restoring it.” He eyes me, “Why? What were you expecting?”

  I chuckle quietly, my cheeks heating once again. What is with that? “I guess I figured you’d have a flat in some trendy neighborhood by the university.”

  Chase laughs and the sound reverberates through my body, putting my hormones on high alert. I bite back a groan of frustration.

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Tori. And a lot I don’t know about you, but my goal is to correct that sad state of affairs.”

  He leads me to a tall wrought iron fence which surrounds the tiny front yard. The gate is particularly tall, with an arch at the top, an old-fashioned gas lamp hanging in the center. Once he’s unlocked it, we step through and I get the full view. On the right side are steps leading up to a small covered porch, the stone arching over the entrance, and a gorgeous, mahogany door, with a stained glass center, set back inside. The house rises to a second level where a tall, rectangular window breaks the pattern of the greystone. The left side of the house expands outward with a bay window, the design stretching from top to bottom. Each section contains their own set of three windows, each with the stone arching at the top. There is also a rather large window near the ground, indicating a high basement. It’s amazing.

  Chase takes my hand, and we walk up the steps, where he unlocks the door and I find myself once again stunned speechless by the beauty. The natural woodwork is everywhere, the floors, the molding, and throughout the entirety of the staircase which takes up the right wall. It’s shiny and looks new, but it is also obvious that it’s the original, lovingly restored. To the left of the staircase, is a long hall with a lot of doors and I absolutely have to know what’s inside them all.

  Chase squeezes the hand I now realize he hasn’t let go of. His smile is proud and amused at my enthusiasm. “Want a tour?”

  “Yes!” I blurt out in excitement.

  He chuckles again and begins walking me around from room to room. The main floor is complete, a front room which was once a parlor, now a warm space intended to welcome its visitors. A full dining room, with a massive wall unit built around a large fireplace, a half bath, an office, and…oh my. The kitchen of my dreams is at the back of the house, rusty cream cabinets, white appliances, sand colored granite counter tops. Somehow it all looks vintage. All of this taking up the majority of the three back walls, with a center island. However, it’s the large window over the sink—which overlooks the big, fenced back yard, and a beautifully carved back door, painted to match the cabinets—which sells me on the room.

  The yard is perfect and someday, Chase’s kids will play out there, frolicking and having fun, and with no gate in the fence, he and his wife won’t have to worry. A cloud settles over me and I spin around, dropping Chase’s hand, and march out of the kitchen.

  “Where to?” I ask in a brisk tone.

  He’s looking at me with an unreadable expression, but he doesn’t verbalize his thoughts. He lifts his chin toward the stairs and we visit four bedrooms and two baths, all works in progress. Finally, an unfinished basement which will eventually be a “play area.” I beat a hasty retreat out of that room as well.

  Once again in the upstairs hall, I ask, “So? Where is this torture to take place?”

  Chase smirks and shakes his head, “You can’t be painting in those clothes, Tori. Don’t you own any ratty stuff for messy activities?”

  I stare blankly at him.

  “Okay,” he says, understanding dawning, “not a messy activity kind of person.” A sly smile slithers onto his face. “One more thing we are going to change.” He moves toward the stairs and grabs my wrist, dragging me up alongside him.

  We enter the largest bedroom, with the bay window overlooking the street, and he disappears through a door. He reemerges with an old, paint-stained T-shirt and sweatpants.

  I raise a cynical eyebrow at him. “Please tell me you aren’t expecting me to wear those?”

  Chase beams at me and my resolve melts a little. “I have no doubt you’ll make it work, babe. And look fabulous while doing it.”

  I want to argue, but seriously, what’s the point? He’s right, I can’t wear these clothes. Ones I’d worn, sure that I would be able to get out of painting. I can tell that will not be the case, so I snatch the clothes and motion for him to get lost. “Shoo.”

  He grins and taps the tip of my nose; one more thing I find adorable and don’t want to. “I’ll be right downstairs if you need any help.” I roll my eyes, push him out the door, and slam it in his chortling face.

  The T-shirt could be a freaking nightgown, coming half way down my thighs, and the sweat pants have to be rolled down to get them to stay on my hips. I avoid the mirror when I leave the room, confident I’ll have a panic attack should I see what I currently look like.

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nbsp; Chase had told me when we’d visited the living room that it was where our project would be. I pad down the hallway to the room and find him laying drop cloths over the furniture, the supplies already set out. I move closer to the wall, studying it, and then running my fingers over the coating. “This paint looks practically new, Chase. Why does it need another coat?”

  Chase is pouring paint and assembling rollers, but he mutters, “It was the wrong fucking color.” I wait for more explanation, wondering at his aggressive tone, but receive none. He finishes his task and hands me a paint roller. “We’ll hit the main sections and then do the edges by the tape.”

  I reluctantly take my tool, my nose scrunching in disgust, then with a sigh, I get to work. The rhythmic movement and the soft swish of the roller is actually quite soothing and we chit chat about nothing as we move closer to each other, finishing up when we meet in the center.

  Chase looks from the wall to me and bursts out laughing, the sound deep and husky, full of rich sound. His laugh is seriously a turn on, and it’s also quite infectious. I know what he’s seeing, but I play innocent.

  “What?” I ask with a small pout.

  “All that paint, how the hell did you get more on you than the wall?” he shakes his head, still snickering. “So fucking cute.”

  Without warning, he slides his hand around my neck and tugs me to him, bending and landing his mouth over mine. I stiffen for just a moment and he pulls back immediately, regarding me thoughtfully. There is raging lust swirling in his chocolate depths and something inside me snaps. He must feel it too, because the next second, there is no air between us. I’m plastered up against his body, his hands diving into my hair, scattering pins all over. Our mouths are attacking one another’s—tongues tangling, breaths choppy—whenever we take the chance to suck in some air. A tingling starts at my lips, spreading through my head, down my neck and shoulders, to my breasts where my nipples become hard, then down to my center where my wet pussy is soaking my panties.

  I feel as though I’ve found an oasis of fresh, clean water after having walked in the desert for an eternity. Chase moves forward, until I find my back pressed up against the wall—not the freshly painted one thank God—and his hands slide through my hair, down my throat, running his palms over my aching breasts, then traveling around and down to grab my ass. He molds his hands over the cheeks, yanking me forward even as his body presses me harder into the wall. With the tiniest lift, my legs automatically circle his waist.

  Holy fuck. Oh shit, fuckity fuck.

  An exceptionally large, scorching, bulge snaps right up tight to my center. Shivers rush through me from tip to toe, becoming shakes, and growing in strength. Then with a rock of his hips, I splinter apart with an all-consuming orgasm, the world turning into a kaleidoscope of color, spinning and making me dizzy.

  As the feeling subsides, I attempt to calm my racing heart and breathe normally. That’s when I register that we aren’t moving, everything is still. I open my eyes and Chase is staring at me, his face full of shock and wonder.

  “That is hands down the sexiest damn thing I have ever seen in my life, baby.” He continues to watch me and I begin to feel the effects of what has just happened. Guilt flushes through me and I wiggle, trying to let him know I want to be put down.

  He groans and buries his face in my neck, his breath tickling and teasing me. “Don’t move like that, Tori. I’m hanging by a thread here.”

  I immediately still. “Please put me down, Chase.” I ask calmly despite the panicking lunatic I’m barely able to contain. I keep my tone light, but there is no mistaking the tension.

  Chase’s head flies up, and the dark brown of his eyes are swirling with questions. I can’t keep his gaze and look over his shoulder to avoid more eye contact.

  “Tori.”

  I cock my head to indicate that I’m listening, but don’t speak.

  “Tori, look at me.” He shakes me just a little and I furrow my brows in annoyance at being forced to face him.

  Whatever he sees brings sadness to his eyes and he slowly releases my legs, sliding them slowly to the ground. The sadness is still there, but it’s being pushed away by determination, and he grabs onto my face with both hands.

  “Don’t, for one second, think that this was a mistake. It was amazing and I swear to all that is holy, it will happen again. There is something here, baby, and, I’m not going to let you ignore it.”

  My eyes begin to slide away again.

  “Tori, look at me.” His voice is firm and my eyes come back to his in surprise. “This is happening, and you need to learn to accept it. Because eventually, we’ll make it up to the bedroom where I have more pleasure in store for you.”

  I don’t—I can’t think straight. He can’t replace Ben, I don’t want him too. This is all wrong, that feeling from Sunday was a fluke. I shake my head at Chase and rip myself from his hands. I open my mouth, but have nothing. I don’t know what to say. So I bolt from the room, into the half bath, and slam the door shut. Sinking to the ground, the dam that was cracking bursts free and anguish takes hold, drowning me.

  Well, shit.

  Running a hand through my not-just-fucked hair, I groan and stare at the bathroom door.

  Forty-five minutes.

  The first fifteen minutes were spent with me begging her to open the door and to let me talk to her. The last half hour, I’ve only been listening. And waiting.

  She’ll have to come out sooner or later and when she does, I’ll be the one to catch her.

  Her crying has long since turned from sobs to sniffles, and now to silence.

  “I’ll have to start charging you by the hour,” I tease, but anxiety infects my veins and I press my forehead to the cold wood of the door silently praying she’ll answer.

  When I’m met with silence again, I stalk down the hallway and pick up my phone. A short while later, I’ve ordered pizza and am back at the door.

  I try a different tactic. “Tori, if you don’t open the door, I’ll break it down.”

  Shuffling noises resound on the other side and I grin at the prospect of her unlocking the door. Instead, I’m met with attitude.

  “Leave me alone, Chase. I want to go home but I don’t want to see you. Not like this,” she snips out in what must feel like an angry bite to her. To me, the sadness in her words is almost palpable. I want to reach out and grab them. Clutch them to me and hold them.

  “Babe, you need—”

  “I. Am. Not. Your. Babe,” she hisses through the door.

  With a resigned sigh, I decide to do what I promised myself forty-five minutes ago I wouldn’t do. Stalking toward my toolbox in the living room, I grumble at the idea of damaging my door frame.

  I locate my flathead screwdriver and storm back to the bathroom.

  “Last chance, Tori. Open the door.”

  Silence.

  “Suit yourself,” I huff.

  Jamming the flat end of the screwdriver between the door and the frame near the doorknob, I yank it until the wood splinters and cracks.

  “What are you doing?” she snaps through the door.

  Set on my task, I jimmy it some more until light briefly peeks through. With one heave of my shoulder, it cracks the frame enough to free the door. I stumble inside to find her sitting on the lid of the toilet, still donning her adorable painting outfit.

  The woman looks good in just about anything but wearing my clothes—that’s just fucking hot as hell. Inside me, the alpha roars with pride at seeing her in my clothes, as if she’s marked with my scent.

  Her eyes are open wide in shock. “You broke your door!”

  Smirking at her, I shrug my shoulders. “I’ve done worse. Are you hungry?”

  Not giving Tori the chance to think is what’s gotten me as far as I have with her. And now, as I change the subject of her breakdown which resulted in locking herself in my bathroom for an hour, she falters and shakes her head. “No, I, uh… need to go.”

  She stands but I
lean against the broken door frame and inspect her tear-stained, swollen red face. Blonde hairs are an unkempt mess and my fingers twitch to free the rest of them. The woman is even more beautiful than when she’s all put together, wreaking havoc on the poor souls who cross her.

  “You’re not going anywhere until I feed you,” I tell her in a firm tone and take a step toward her.

  She eyes me warily but doesn’t move. Seeing my opportunity, I don’t waste any more time and prowl the rest of the way over to her. Her hands go up in protest, but I encircle her waist with mine and haul her to me. When she’s plastered against my chest—where she belongs—I hug her to me and kiss the top of her head.

  Despite her earlier freak-out, she melts in my arms and rests her cheek on my shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” she barely manages through an emotional whisper.

  Shaking my head, I stroke her back. “Nothing to be sorry for.”

  We remain in silence and then I decide to take those damn pins out of her hair. At first, when I begin pulling them out, she struggles in my arms. Eventually, though, she resigns herself to letting me take them out.

  “I want to see you,” I murmur. Both inside and out.

  She tugs away from me and regards me with tears welling in her eyes. “This isn’t me,” she tries to explain.

  But it is.

  This is the part of her that claws to be released, yet the Ice Queen keeps her shackled in the recesses of her mind.

  Pulling her back to me, I then slide my palms up her neck and tilt her head up so I can see her better.

  “Nobody can be strong all of the time. That’s why it’s in our human nature to seek another soul out there. Someone to be strong some of the time for us. Someone to share our burdens with,” I whisper, stroking each of her cheeks with my thumbs.