Love Me Better: No Such Unit Hopeless Romantics 1

by Kit Smart

  Men usually don’t.

  The moment I think it, my stupid heel somehow gets caught in the hem of my stupid dress, and despite a desperate flinging of my hands outward to catch myself, I crash to the floor; landing in an inelegant sprawl on my ass.

  Because that is how the universe rewards voyeurs.

  I squeeze my eyes shut in an instinctive if-I-can’t-see-you-you-can’t-see-me reaction, and curse my self roundly for having given in to the impulse to stay. I mean seriously, what kind of pathetic psycho spies on her boss whilst he’s masturbating? What the actual fuck was I thinking?

  I stubbornly keep my eyes closed through the flurry of motion that denotes Owen’s rapid rise to his feet to investigate what he probably thinks is a threat.

  I continue to keep my eyes closed through the sound of things being zipped and straightened. Maybe he’ll just leave without comment?

  “Did you enjoy the show?” Dry, very dry, but not, I judge, angry sounding.

  Cautiously, I open my eyes; meet his oblique gaze with something like relief. Possibly I have not fucked things up entirely.

  My gaze falls to the scarred terrain of his chest; framed by the snowy whiteness of his unbuttoned shirt and then drops to his abdomen as he pushes his hands into his pockets.

  “Well?”

  11

  Owen

  As I watch the woman in front of me shift herself into a more comfortable sprawl, I rock back on my heels slightly as I enjoy all of the feel good chemicals rocketing around in my bloodstream for once.

  I deliberately do not button my shirt even though the desire to do so has me clenching my fists in my pockets. She is not the first to see my scars, she is not even the first to see them under such intimate circumstances, but I wasn’t expecting her—hadn’t had time to prepare myself for her to see them.

  It’s not that I am afraid. Because I’m not. I am not afraid of her reaction.

  If nothing else, I know that she is kind; brutally kind.

  It’s because I feel stripped; like I am wearing my nerves on the outside.

  It’s because when I look at her, sprawled on the floor in her red dress and ridiculously high heels, that she claims are necessary for to be able to whisper in my ear; I want pull her to her feet; to pull her up against my heart and kiss her until she agrees to let me take her home; until she agrees never to leave.

  It’s because I can see the desire in her eyes, and because she does nothing to hide it. She just lets me see it all. No subterfuge; no games. Just honest desire.

  It’s because every cell in my body is telling me that she may just be something like my happily ever after.

  And it’s because tonight, for the first time since we met, I feel like I might have something to offer her; that for the first time since we met, I feel like I might be enough.

  But mostly it’s because of the malicious voice that still lives in the back of my head, whispering that I’m a broken mess of a man covered in scars so ugly that nobody, could ever see past them.

  And before, I reach for her, that part of me that is all exposed nerves and exposed hopes, wants a sign that perhaps she can.

  Seri toes off her shoes and leaning back on her palms pushes her legs out in front of her as she peruses me from the buckle of my belt to my collarbone with a slow and deliberate tilting of her head that ignites an impossible tingling awareness along the nerves of my abdomen. I force my hands to stay in my pockets as the desire to apply pressure against the places where the nerves beneath the scar tissue are only damaged rather than burned away completely; the places that now hum both with pleasure and twinge with an itchy sort of pain; courses through me.

  Inspection finished, she meets my eyes; kicks the ground neatly out from under me with her smile. “Well, if you’re going to keep standing there acting all sexy and looking at me with those come hither eyes; you’re going to have to kiss me.” She shrugs casually as though she can’t hear the way my heart has suddenly begun hammering frantically with exhilaration. “I’m sorry, but I don’t make the rules.”

  Owen

  It suddenly becomes very hard to breathe as her words hit me right in the chest; right in the heart. You’re going to be the death of me Seri Hunt.

  And by the cocky smirk on her face she knows it.

  Given the kind of rules she tends to make, I am hard pressed to object. “I kind of think you do.” I tell her without rancor.

  She throws her head back and laughs; gathering her dress in her left hand she pushes herself to her feet. Giving me a look she raises one crisp dark eyebrow, and dropping her skirt, pushes her hands into her pockets as she rocks back on her bare feet deliberately mirroring my stance. “Well?”

  “Well what?” I ask curious as I enjoy the unfamiliar sensation of the smile twisting my lips.

  “I’m waiting.”

  “For?”

  “My kiss.”

  I have to close my eyes briefly as that hits me hard. Blood and emotion blast through my body; make my hands shake. “The problem is,” I remind myself to breathe as my skin ripples and tingles in the wake of the violent rush of blood. Opening my eyes, I meet her gaze. “If I kiss you, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”

  The eyebrow returns; asks me how simple I am. “Who said anything about stopping?”

  “You may live to regret that.” I manage to force out, despite the vice suddenly crushing my throat.

  “I doubt it. I’m not interested in regrets.” She says casually as though it’s the easiest thing in the world; as though she isn’t a miracle of sorts; as though this is a normal exchange between lovers on a night like any other. As though I am a normal man, with normal sexual urges. Which, I realize, I suddenly am.

  For the most part anyway.

  “Well?” I challenge her, basking in her attention; basking in the way she keeps glancing down at my chest and belly every so often as though she can’t help herself; basking in the way the heat of desire deepens in her eyes every time she returns her gaze to mine.

  “Well what?”

  “Have you seen enough?”

  “Enough?” Her eyes drop to my mouth and I feel the phantom caress of her lips on mine.

  I begin to wonder how simple I am to be turned on by eyes on my lips.

  I decide that I don’t care.

  “Enough to decide.” I push my chest out; rock back on my heels; inviting her attention.

  “Decide what?” She follows the movement of my body and god help me, I feel myself preen under her attentive gaze.

  It’s been a long time since I felt this way, and I am not ashamed to be enjoying it.

  “Whether you’re going to let me ruin you for other men.”

  “Bold words.” She comments solemnly, but her eyes are sparkling with mischief.

  “I’m a bold man.”

  “Yeah?” She quirks a challenging little smile at me.

  “Yeah.” I can’t help but grin in return.

  “Prove it.” She invites with a sexy little forward thrust of her chin.

  I don’t even give her time to complete the motion before I am moving toward her; using my hands on her shoulder blades and my body, I back her slowly, inexorably against the wall where I use my hands to pull her hands out of her pockets.

  She lets me. Watches me with bated breath as I draw her hands up over her head; allows me to capture her wrists in my left hand as I use my knees to spread her thighs.

  As my body settles against hers she gives a little sigh deep in the back of her throat that goes straight to my cock, and I push myself gently against her belly, as with my right hand, I smooth the hair away from her face before moving to lift her chin and bring her her eyes up to meet mine.

  I push myself against her again; watch as she reacts to the feeling of me.

  That reaction feels good, and I don’t hold back. I let her see it all; just how exquisite it feels to have her there up against me warm and willing; how amazing it feels to feel something other than my own hand a
gainst my cock; how nothing else exists for me in this moment but her and the wash of sensations growing between us.

  And Seri gives it back to me; devours me with her eyes as I lean in.

  She holds my gaze until my lips brush against hers, drops them shut as she brushes the tip of her tongue against the soft skin of my lower lip in a slow, easy, exploratory movement that pulls a moan from deep within my belly.

  The gentleness of that movement; the thoroughness of her exploration; slams though me; has me pushing closer against her as the need to feel her against every centimeter of my body overwhelms me.

  Unable to wait any longer, I release her hands and slide my now free left hand behind her back.

  Taking my bottom lip between hers, she nibbles gently against my mouth as she drops her hands first to my shoulders; then down my chest where she pauses briefly before sliding them under the open sides of my dress shirt.

  Despite myself, I freeze at the sensation of her hands moving along the scars. Aside from in medical situations, this is the first time that I have felt hands other than my own there in a while, and the sensation is… startling.

  She picks up on my reaction; pauses. “Owen?”

  I drop my forehead against hers as I try to sort out the feelings rioting through me. “Yeah?”

  “Are you okay?”

  I press my lips against her forehead to reassure her as I swallow hard against the knot of emotion in my throat. I never thought I’d be here ever again. “I’m fine.” The desire to feel her hands against my scarred chest and belly wars briefly with the embarrassment of having to ask, and ultimately wins the day. “Could you do that again?”

  She looks up at me puzzled. “Again?”

  I hesitate briefly as a twinge of shame twists through me; tells me that what I am asking is the antithesis of sexy; tells me that I am ruining the moment and that I need to shut up and move on to the main event.

  Before I can say anything however, she works it out. “Your chest?”

  “Yes.” I manage to push out as a hot flush of embarrassment surges through me adding to the flush of arousal. Now uncomfortably hot, I feel sweat begin to form at my hairline. “I need to—” Explaining is a struggle. “Be here for a moment.” That is quite possibly the lamest thing you’ve ever said.

  The woman in my arms just nods. Offers me a sexy little smirk, designed, I think, push me past my discomfort. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  I want to believe it.

  As I stand there, trying to settle into the sensations her hands pull from me as they slide up along my belly and out across my chest then back down again, I really want to believe it.

  And parts of me; the parts of my chest, that swell with excitement and burst of arousal at every brush of her hand; do.

  The awkward parts; the numb parts where the nerve endings have been obliterated and which feel nothing; the parts where the nerves remain, but have been damaged; the parts that twinge and tingle and hurt; the parts that feel nothing but deep pressure anymore; are not quite as certain.

  “Breathe.” Seri whispers and I feel my lungs loosen as though her command were a switch, and I exhale against the top of her head.

  I feel her lift her palms; change the pattern of her strokes and I find it impossible to breathe for a moment as she feathers her finger tips along my chest skimming lightly across the places that can’t take too much sensation and lingering to caress and stroke and tease the places that can appreciate a deeper touch. She is so certain in her movements; so adept in her technique that it only takes a few passes of her hands before I am restless with desire; my hips pushing firmly against her belly as I use my hand on her back to pull her closer against me.

  I almost die of pleasure when she runs her knuckles along the outside of my right pec where the undamaged skin edging the large burn scar is excruciatingly sensitive. When she reaches the bottom of the muscle and twists her hand up to apply grounding pressure to the numbness of the burn scar in a motion that is shockingly similar to how I like to touch myself; I understand.

  She saw me touching myself; saw me react… she knows.

  The realization is at once humbling and viciously arousing and dropping my head I cover her lips with mine as blood floods into my pelvis and I am all but overcome by scorching urgency as I feel myself harden to what feels like an impossible degree.

  Pushing my self against her in an attempt to alleviate my now throbbing, aching cock; I all but ravish her mouth in my desperation.

  When I feel her hand between us; palming me through my trousers, coaxing me, unbelievably to harden further, I jerk as though I’ve been shot. I tear my lips from hers and drop my head forward; stand there sucking in great drafts of air; unable to focus on anything other than her hand on my cock, and the delicate pulsing sensation of pre-cum moving up along my shaft until it finds release at the tip.

  I am wet enough now that the sensation of my trousers brushing against the delicate skin at the head of my cock is pure pleasure.

  “Seri—” I groan and it is half protest and half benediction as I feel my testicles draw themselves up tight against my body. I reach down and cover her hand with mine; stop it from moving as I stand there at once reveling in the tightness; the heaviness in my desperately aroused body; and nearly consumed with the overwhelming need to find completion. It would be so easy. My body begins to tremble with need. Just guide her hand. You’re so close now that it wouldn’t take much; a little pressure; a couple of strokes…

  Impossibly Seri manages to flex her hand under mine, and I have to lock my knees to stop myself from falling.

  She finds my ear with her mouth. “I need you in me now.”

  The room spins as she takes my earlobe between her teeth for a punishing nip. “You’ve had me wet and throbbing for hours.”

  “Hunt.” My heart is pounding now; reverberating so loudly in my ears that I can barely hear her.

  I release her hand so that I can use mine as a much needed brace against the wall beside her.

  Immediately, I feel her hands go to my belt. “Hunt—Seri—” I try to focus but the way her hands are brushing against me; the spinning of the room and the frantic pounding of my heart make it difficult. I shift my hips away from her and have to catch myself agains as my legs refuse to cooperate.

  She stops trying to undo my pants and the world becomes slightly more coherent. “When I make love with you for the first time, I want it to be slow.” I pull my head back away from her mouth so that I can watch her eyes. “I want to kiss, suck and nibble every centimeter of your body until all you know is me and my mouth. I want to lay you down on my bed and push into you centimeter by centimeter until you can’t tell where you end and I begin; I want to rock against the walls of your pussy slowly, steadily until we live on a plane of pleasure so all encompassing that you don’t feel the urge to cum and then—only then—will I push you over the edge so hard that all you can do is scream with pleasure.”

  “Owen—” She protests. “We have all night for that. Right now we only have a few minutes before we need to return, and I ache for you.” She leans forward, tries to capture my mouth with hers. I evade and the room spins wildly at my sudden movement.

  “If you leave me like this for the rest of the evening, I will lose my fucking mind.” She murmurs, and I feel her hands on my flanks for the briefest of moments before my stomach roils and I twist myself to the side in response to the warning.

  I have an instant to be grateful before my legs give way, and then I am on my hands and knees being sick as the world tilts and spins around me.

  Seri

  That is so not the reaction I was expecting. I think inanely as I watch Owen vomit his guts out on the floor in front of me.

  After a second, my mental equilibrium reasserts itself, and twisting my dress up and to the side, I crouch beside him.

  He doesn’t look at me.

  I bit back the insane urge to ask him if he is okay, because clearly he isn’t, and put m
y right hand on his back to draw slow, and, I hope, comforting circles, while I try to figure out what to do with my other hand. It’s not like he has hair to hold back.

  Eventually, I decide on using it to support his forehead because I feel like I’ve seen that somewhere.

  I think about calling for help, but ultimately put the idea aside because as quickly as he got sick, he stars to calm.

  After a few moments of futile retching, he drops his head into my hand and just sort of stays there breathing hard, and pulling himself together.

  I give him the time saying nothing as I continue to rub his back.

  Under my hand, I can feel the slight shakiness in his back muscles and the way his shirt is sticking to him as he sweats, and, having been there, I empathize. Vomiting sucks.

  I look around for his jacket as I think to pull it over him in order to keep him warm, but don’t see it. I try to remember if I’d seen it when I’d first entered the room. Maybe somewhere near the sofa?

  “Seri—” There is a dreamlike quality to his voice, and I struggle to focus as I glance back at him.

  “Yeah?” I manage with some difficulty and my voice has the same dreamlike quality about it that his does.

  It occurs to me that I am perhaps very slightly in shock, and that I had better get myself out of it given that Owen currently has more of a right to be incapacitated than I do.

  Since my hands are both occupied, I bite down hard on my lip and after a moment the world reasserts itself.

  “I’m going to need you to take me to the hospital.”

  “Okay.” I say because what else do you say to that? It’s not like you refuse to take someone to hospital… Not unless you’re some sort of monster.

  Owen’s still not moving and it worries me. Nobody stays suspended on hands and knees hanging over their own vomit unless they can’t move. “What’s going on?”