Love Me Better: No Such Unit Hopeless Romantics 1

by Kit Smart

  I feel myself start to flush. “Nothing—” I search for an excuse, fail to find one and go with the truth. “Mental backchat.”

  She nods. “Okay, so—I’m not quite certain how to say this, but you caused quite a stir on Friday night, and as a result I have received a multitude of interview requests.”

  “I was not expecting that.” Relief flows though me sharp and hot.

  “You’re all over social media as well I’m afraid.” She slides her left arm around my neck. “You made quite an impression on the runway.”

  I wince as the import of that hits me. “That’s not going to please the powers-that-be.”

  “I don’t think that it’s strictly all that bad.” She tells me. “I mean, it doesn’t necessarily blow your cover as head of the organization.” She leans back and studies my face with almost comic exaggeration. “You’re a young, good-looking single man. It wouldn’t be outside of the frame of your cover story for you to also have a high sex drive and maybe be a bit of a playboy.”

  Except that I’m not. I push the part of me that is embarrassed by this scenario aside and consider what she’s saying in the professional sense. “That works.” I admit when after having considered it from all angles, I can’t find anything to object to. ‘I don’t want to.’ is not going to fly here.

  “Let me up Seri.” I help her off of me and stand up. “You’ve scheduled the interviews?”

  She nods. “Yes for later this week. I’ve forwarded you the schedule.”

  “Got it.” The desire to cover myself has quickly me buttoning my shirt. Although, I can’t fault her professionally—I know she runs the show where Courage After Fire is concerned, and I know that maintaining our cover story, and thereby ensuring our safety, is likewise her responsibility—I am a bit disconcerted that she didn’t wait to consult with me first and it is a relief when my clothing is rearranged and I am fully dressed once more.

  Seri

  When I return from walking Geronimo, Owen is sitting on the sofa with his head back and his eyes closed.

  The fire is lit and there is also a big pot of tea, two cups and a plate of biscuits on the coffee table in front of him which I approve of. You can stay forever.

  Not wanting to wake him, I am quiet as I settle Geronimo in his bed and put away my coat.

  I pause by the sofa and think over the merits of sitting down on the opposite end to wait while he sleeps verses going to my bedroom so as not to disturb him.

  I take in the way he’s pulled a blanket across his lap and abdomen and the way his head is tilted back exposing his throat and I suddenly realize how human he is.

  “I’m awake.” He says into the quiet of the room, thus, putting an end to my internal debate. He doesn’t open his eyes though. “I’m just resting my eyes.”

  I start guiltily. “Fair enough.” I tell him absently.

  My realization that he’s human, makes me understand suddenly, that I’ve probably been objectifying him a fair bit—first he was an object of lust, and then he was something of a sexual challenge—this whole time.

  You really suck. I tell myself as I move round the side of the sofa to join him. What exactly has been going on in your head?

  Eyes still closed, he lifts the edge of the blanket invitingly. ‘Join me?”

  It’s no hardship to slide under his arm and rest my head against his chest but it makes me feel slightly guilty when I hear his heart beat begin to slow under my ear as he drifts off.

  You’d better figure out what you’re doing here, and what he means to you, before you cross some sort of uncrossable line with him. I tell myself that there is still time; that we aren’t there yet; but, as, lulled by his breathing and heartbeat, I slide into sleep, I know it’s a lie.

  I’m already in over my head.

  Way over my head.

  Sometime later, I wake up to the sensation of Owen playing with my hair.

  A weight on my legs tells me that Geronimo has joined us on the sofa.

  Sensing that I am awake, Owen shifts to look at me. I tilt my head up so he doesn’t have to crane his neck awkwardly.

  “Hi.” He murmurs with a warm smile.

  “Hi.” I smile back as, unable to resist the temptation, I begin to run my hand along the strong planes of his chest through his shirt.

  I half hear, half feel the rumble of pleasure that this elicits from him and it feels good to be able to please him this way.

  “Promise me,” He dips his head to press a slow kiss to my temple. “That you won’t stop that.”

  “We may need to get up at some point to get some food and use the facilities.” I tease as I broaden my strokes to incorporate his shoulder and upper arm.

  “Not me.” He returns. “I’m content to stay here until I expire.”

  As I lay there stroking his chest and enjoying the way he soaks it in, it occurs to me that if he hasn’t had sex in several years, then he’s probably not had a lot of physically affectionate touch either. “Not the most exciting way to die.” I joke squeezing the top of his shoulder gently for emphasis. “I mean it’s not Romeo and Juliet is it?”

  Another rumble beneath my ear as he laughs. He moves his hand to the base of my neck and begins to rub gently at my scalp. I realize that the term petting is highly underrated as I all but preen under the attention.

  “Do you mind?”

  “Mind?” It’s hard to focus now.

  “The lack of excitement.” He says softly. “Do you mind?”

  An important question.

  I consider. “No. Not at all.” I think I get enough excitement at work. “Do you?”

  “No. This feels good to me.”

  My stomach rumbles and I tilt my head back to look up at him. Serious eyes meet mine and I perceive that this exchange is more significant than I had realized. Hmmmm….

  “I am going to have to insist on being fed every so often though.” I tap his chest gently with my hand. “Take me to your kitchen and feed me lover.”

  “My kitchen?” He grins. “This is your house.”

  “You’re definitely the superior chef here, therefore, the kitchen belongs to you.”

  This earns me a soft groan. “I thought we had agreed that we were, in fact, staying here on the sofa until we died.” He protests.

  “I’ve changed my mind.” I offer him an incentive. “I’ll rub your back while you cook.”

  When he breaks into the deepest, most carefree, pleased grin I’ve ever seen on him, I realize that I am on to something.

  “I could go for that.”

  He pulls me up with him and keeps me tucked under his arm and pressed against his side as he makes his way toward my kitchen.

  Once there, we separate briefly while Owen rummages through my cupboards and pantry and instructs me to bring him this pot and that tool.

  I wash the vegetables, while he unpackages the meat and organizes his work area beside the stove. When that’s done I bring him the colander of veggies, and sliding behind him, get to work on his back.

  Remembering his comment about having craved back rubs while he was in hospital recovering from his burns, I focus on making my motions as soothing as possible as I run my palms in long sweeping strokes up from the base of his spine to the top of his shoulders and then back down again.

  As I do it, I imagine pushing all of the loneliness and pain stored in the muscles of his back out of his body, and letting them refill with positive loving energy.

  Intent, experience has taught me, is important.

  A conversation between one person’s hands and another person’s body involves intentions that can be felt deep within the nervous system and because his nervous system has hot spots and darks spots and places in between where it’s pulled taut and is close to breaking; I am careful with it.

  A few minutes in, he tilts his head down to rest against the overhead cabinets while he chops.

  Underneath my hands, his breathing is slow and deep as he soaks in the attention, and I am
not surprised when, after finishing with the meat and vegetables, he braces himself with his hands on the counter and just stays where he is.

  Knowing that the hole of needs unmet within him is a deep one—one that will take time to fill, I keep going without comment.

  Eventually, he releases a long sigh, and straightening, turns to wash his hands under the tap. When he turns back to me, his eyes are clear and happy. Reaching out, he raises a hand to my chin and tips my head back gently as he presses an achingly tender kiss to my lips. “Thank you.” He pulls back searching my eyes as he does so.

  “It’s nothing.” I reply bemused.

  “It’s everything.” He counters. “I can’t recall ever having had a massage or back rub that was as viciously soothing as what you just did, so thank you.”

  “Any time.”

  18

  Owen

  “What we’re going for here is a kind of oversexed, red-blooded, alpha male who is very open and comfortable about his sexuality. A kind of erections happen attitude.”

  My stomach roils but I force myself not to react as Seri continues. This is professional. I remind myself grimly. Not personal.

  My body doesn’t believe me.

  “You were at an event where you were being auctioned off; surrounded by an excited group of women bidding on you. And you got excited.” I watch her shrug as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

  “Keep it light and humorous; like ‘you know how men are’ etc.”

  I force myself to smile in response. “That makes sense.” I tell her as I suppress my reflexive discomfort at the idea of making jokes about sex, libido, and erections.

  It’s for work.

  “Make jokes. Got it.” I nod.

  I study the handout in front of me as she leans forward. “The key to this is going to be confidence. You’re going to need to project the vibe of being super confident around sex. We want the interviewer and audience to detect your energy, and be mesmerized by it.” She shrugs. “Basically, we want the interviewer and audience to think you’re some sort of sex-god and focus on that, because, while they are focused on your sexual exploits and playboy ways, they won’t be asking any questions about your job and that will vastly reduce the risk of damaging our cover.”

  I don’t look up. “And how do I project the aura of a sex-god exactly?”

  She paces, gets into the swing of it. “Posture for one thing. Openness is key. Open your jacket and lay your arm across the back of the chair or sofa.” She stops and I understand that she’s waiting for me to follow her instructions. I force myself to open my jacket and shift back against the sofa.

  Laying my arm across the sofa back makes me feel exposed, open to attack. “Now, spread your legs and push the right one forward. Remember, you’re displaying yourself, so no crossing your arm over your chest or abdomen.” I look up and watch her considering me like I’m some kind of mannequin on display in the front window of a department store.

  What do you see when you look at me?

  “Just rest your hand on your thigh. Further up near your hip. Yeah, like that.” She nods in approval when I draw my hand up to rest against the inside of my thigh like a giant arrow pointing towards my cock.

  I pretend I’m okay with it. Try to project a confidence I don’t feel.

  “Remember to keep your body relaxed and open. This is all about: look at me I’m sexually active red-blooded male in the prime of my life.” She gives me what I can only term, a considering look. “You’re also going to have to smile and relax your face. No scowling. Keep it easy.”

  I breathe past the tension in my chest and do as she instructs.

  Is this what you want?

  “There is a high probability that you’re going to be asked some pretty sexually explicit questions. They’re going to go after all of the intimate details. Don’t hedge or use euphemisms. Doing so will make it appear as if you have issues around sex.”

  I do have issues around sex. “Right. No euphemisms. Got it.” I make myself sink into the posture she’s given me. Is this what you want? This guy? I imagine myself as I was before—before the burns and the meds, before the anxiety and depression— imagine how that guy would invite her to cross the space between us for an afternoon quickie. I shift my legs a bit so that they’re splayed open in her direction. I lean back a bit to display the muscles of my chest and give her an appreciative once over with my eyes. “ How’s this?”

  She pauses, her expression arrested as she takes me in. “That’s perfect.” She says.

  Perfect. I focus on maintaining my posture and expression as I breathe through the hurt.

  She’s looking down at her piece of paper. “Now I’ve brainstormed a list of potential questions that the interviewers may ask and I’d like to go over them with you before we leave for the first interview.”

  “Sounds good.” I tell her.

  Seri

  When I get to the Land Rover, Owen is already there; sitting in the passenger seat, arms crossed over his chest and eyes closed. I can tell by his breathing and the level of tension in his body, that he is awake.

  Respecting his need for space, I say nothing as I pull out of the parking spot and head down the driveway towards the main road.

  He has to be stressed by the idea of these interviews. Hell, I’m stressed by the idea of these interviews and I’m not the one who’s going to go up there and face all of those intimate questions.

  If I had any other choice, or any other great ideas, there’s no way I’d be putting him through it.

  He knows this, I know that, because he told me so when we discussed the idea of the interviews, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to be easy for him. Despite his openness about his PTSD, and other issues—despite the fact that he’s well on his way in the recovery process— there are still some open wounds that don’t really need to be poked at, and this is one of them.

  This, already has the makings of a very bad day.

  In my mind, I start preparing for the evening, for the after, for the part that is dark and painful and full of fallout.

  I don’t know where he’s going to be mentally by the end of the day, so I make a list of things; a list of relaxing indulgences—hot bath, massage, something nice to eat, cuddling, sex if he wants it— that I hope, will add up to a soft place to land, if he needs one.

  And if that’s not what he needs—if he needs something different—I’ll figure that out too.

  That much I can do.

  Turning onto the main road, I maintain the silence between us for some time.

  “I can hear your brain humming over there.” He says eventually.

  A quick once over of him reveals that he hasn’t opened his eyes. “I was just trying to decide whether to leave you alone or—” unable to find the correct words for what I’m trying to say, I let the sentence trail off into oblivion.

  “Or?”

  I sigh. “Disturb the peace with useless chatter?” I let that hang in the air between us as I focus on the road.

  After a moment, I feel his hand on mine as he pulls it across the vehicle to rest his thigh. “What don’t, for god's sake leave me alone Seri.”

  19

  Seri

  By mid-morning, I am seated at a conference table watching Owen approvingly as he nails his agreed upon persona during his first interview of the day.

  “How does it feel to be the Daily Guardian’s most eligible bachelor for the month of February?”

  “It’s a bit shocking actually. I didn’t have any idea that there was such a thing until my executive assistant told me that I’d won it.”

  “And what was your initial reaction to being told?”

  I watch Owen shift back on the sofa a bit as he laughs. Nice job with the splayed legs. “I asked for a mirror.” He wipes his hand across his face disarmingly. Just the right note of sexy and humble. “I had a look and decided that yeah, I am actually pretty good looking.” He waves a hand to hold off the interview
er’s next question. “No. I’m joking. To be honest, it was a nice surprise. A definite ego boost.”

  “Last Friday night, you were auctioned off in a charity event and I think it’s fair to say that our female readers are all waiting with bated breath to hear what you have planned for the lucky lady who was fortunate enough to win your company for an evening. Can you give us any hints?”

  A sheepish but charismatic shrug from Owen. How do you manage that and why haven’t I seen it before? “I’m afraid that for security reasons, I am not able to divulge the details of the planned date.” I watch him lean toward the interviewer conspiratorially. “At least not until after the fact.”

  “Well, in that case, how about putting some of our female readers out of their misery and telling us what it is you look for in a partner?”

  “The usual things I suppose; smart, funny, kind, lionhearted.”

  “Sexy?”

  “No. I’m not interested in sexy. Not in the way that I think you mean. I’m interested in intelligence, strength of character and most of all kindness.”

  “An unusual answer. Why kindness most of all?”

  “Kindness comes from experience I think—learning hard lessons, and it suggests an understanding and forgiveness of quirks and flaws. When I see that in someone…. Well, it sweeps me off of my feet.”

  “And do you have quirks and flaws?”

  “Yes. Of course.” Owen shrugs slightly. “Who doesn’t?”

  “You raised quite a stir with your walk down the runway on Friday night. Would you care to comment on the incident?”

  Cue charming laugh and casually dismissive hand gesture. “What can I say?” A little masculine peacocking. “I’m a red-blooded man with typical male anatomy, and my body functions in a way that is commensurate with that fact. The situation, the energy, the excitement of being the center of so much female attention; it can get to a man, and I’m no exception. If I’d had a few minutes to calm down before having to go out onto the runway, we wouldn’t be discussing this, but the timing was tight and I had to go on.”