by Brill Harper
Look at that. He finally got me to shut up.
He holds me through the aftershocks and then I’m back on my kitchen counter. “I want to see that pretty ass again.”
I get my arm out from under me to open my junk drawer where I have a gazillion condoms. Maybe more than a gazillion.
He pauses, and I know he’s taking in the strange contents of the kitchen drawer. “I don’t want to know, do I?”
“When we thought I might be in charge of the bachelorette party, Perry ordered these for gift bags.” Now I have a case of cutely packaged condoms in my kitchen drawer. “They’re flavored.”
“Good enough for me,” he says.
He grips my hips tightly in his warm hands and pauses before one good thrust, filling me completely. He’s big. Bigger than I thought. I feel like he just split me in two. I squeeze my eyelids shut as tears sting my eyes. He holds still while I get acclimated to his size, then retreats and plunges again, sheathing himself completely inside me. He gives my neck a slow lick and firm bite while pumping inside me, sucking at that spot just beneath my ear. Shocks of electricity run along my veins, causing me to shudder and gasp uncontrollably underneath him. It’s not sweet or gentle or even comfortable being fucked against my kitchen counter. But it’s perfect.
Our bodies are slapping together loudly as he begins chanting my name. I feel my walls tighten and I don’t know where I am, but it’s not on this earthly plane. There are fireworks under my skin, and every nerve is blossoming with light.
Lightning.
He pulls my hair and we slap together harder. His manners, his control, are long gone. I love it. I love the way he clutches me like it’s the only way he won’t fall off the planet. I love the way he growls and calls me names and says words I didn’t think a guy like him would know.
“You're so fucking tight and wet for me... I want to feel your sweet pussy milk my cock of every last drop. Come for me.”
He strums my clit when he tells me to come and I do. On command. Wow.
And when he comes, he says my name like a prayer.
We’re breathing hard and I think I’m going to have bruises from the edge of the counter. Christopher rests his head between my shoulder blades. “I see stars, Stella. Do you see stars?”
“Yes,” I whisper. I feel awkwardly vulnerable. Like if I turn, if he looks at my face, he’ll see through me. See more than I want to show him. My muddled, fuzzy feelings. The tenderness growing warmer inside my ribcage. Like he can unzip my skin to bare my untried heart to him.
No, I can’t show him that.
He kisses the spot where he’d just laid his head and pulls back, pulls out of me. He’s pulling up clothes, zipping.
“Stella?”
“Yes?” I whisper again.
“Did I hurt you?”
I whirl around, forgetting my fear, eager to make sure he understands. “No. No, of course not.” Only we bump noses and crack foreheads and we both pull back in shock. Déjà vu of our first meeting.
I clutch the counter, waiting for the pain to dissipate. “Do you see stars again?”
He chuckles and the weight of the strange moment lifts. “Yeah. I guess I just need to get used to it for the next few weeks while I’m in Brazen Bay.”
Does he think I need the reminder that he’s leaving? That I might take what just happened as a sign of something else? Something permanent?
“I should go,” he says. “I’ll take the salads. Drop them off at the clinic.”
“Sure,” I say. I can’t read this guy. Not at all. And it’s driving me crazy. Not two minutes ago, he was grunting like a caveman and pulling my hair. Now he’s pushing up his glasses, which are askew by the way, and acting like we just got done with tea.
In my best Queen Elizabeth accent—which may or may not be fabulous, I say, “Thank you. I would indeed appreciate that.”
He cocks his head warily, and I’m glad he understands me as much as I understand him.
I help him box up the jars and he kisses me goodbye—on the mouth—and then he leaves.
And I am so confused that I do the one thing that I know will tether me back to the real world. I call my sister and ask how the wedding plans are going.
Chapter Twelve
Christopher
Yesterday afternoon was a big mistake.
In the harsh light of day, hiding in my office like a coward, I will admit that I really, really screwed up. Brunch and the farmer’s market were fine. And all she expected or even wanted from me.
But after.
I never lose control like that. Never. I treated Stella badly and I’m ashamed. I’m her boss...sort of. I’m not staying in town for long. We hardly like each other. And I took her like a caveman in her kitchen.
I spanked her. I’ve never hit a woman. Never thought I wanted to. But I was overcome with the need to mark her. The sight of my handprint on her ass took me someplace I’ve never been. And she fucking loved it as much as I did.
All of those are reasons enough to feel like a giant dick. But the one that won’t leave me alone is that I can’t regret it. I want to do it again. I need to. I need it. I need her.
Shit.
I do not need her. I don’t even know where that came from.
It’s like she is on some personal quest to strip me of control, and she did it. She egged me on. She challenged me. And I played into her plans exactly the way she wanted me to. But I never meant to bruise her. She probably thinks I’m a big oaf. That countertop had to be as unforgiving as my body behind her. I wasn’t gentle. I wasn’t even attentive. I just...I just took.
I’m a horrible person.
I check my watch. She’ll be here soon, and I need to find my center. I don’t enjoy the swinging pendulum of emotion she keeps time with. I will never be the kind of man who sweeps a woman like Stella off her feet and into the chaos of a grand love affair. Yesterday was an anomaly and one we won’t be repeating.
If I could just stop seeing the curve of her heart-shaped ass every time I close my eyes. Stop hearing the sound of her cries of pleasure. The sound of her ass turning pink. Stop feeling the silky skin of her back. And god, being inside her. The silky heat of her... Everything about her is beyond bliss—but I’m not prone to extremes. I’d rather stay to the center of contentment than the highs and lows of bliss and wretched disappointment. It’s over. It has to be, or I won’t survive it.
We’ll go back to pretending to be a couple and avoid the confusion of adding sex to the mix.
She’s here. I can hear her in the break room. I swallow hard. Okay. The thing to do here is make sure she knows I respect her but keep things professional. Friendly. Uncomplicated.
I need to not hide in this office. I have to remind my heart to slow down as I pause outside the break room door.
Her dress is a peacock feather pattern today. The violets and blues mesmerize me as I watch her move around the kitchen area. I can’t look at the counter. I’ll probably throw her across it.
What has she done to me? I try for her shoes but end up following her legs all the way up to her sweet, round breasts.
When I work my gaze back up to her face, she’s smiling at me. “Good morning, doc.”
She’s not doing anything wrong. But I’ve somehow bypassed upset or even angry and worked myself up to being furious. Furious with her for being so pretty and so off limits. Furious that I want her so much. Furious that I had one taste that will never, ever, be enough. Furious that she exists in this world because now I know my Kryptonite. And she just stands there. Eyes bright. Her head tilted slightly, exposing a sweet spot meant for my kisses.
I clear my throat. Aching to touch her but staying put. Feet planted. And then her eyes dim. And her smile fades. And she swallows what was probably her pride, and she sweeps her gaze down.
And now I’m furious that she let me dim her light.
I squeeze the box of paperclips in my hand. “I apologize. Good morning.”
The silence between us is a de
afening roar. It’s pushing on my skull like a relentless migraine. She’s losing faith in me by degrees. I am watching her as it happens. I’m the man who ignited like a forest fire last night. Savaged her body. And today, she feels my coldness. If she didn’t think I was a mistake last night, she does now.
For an instant, I wish I was that guy—the man she might have thought I could be. The one who’d have stayed the night. Kissed every inch of her, lingering and leisurely kisses. The one who would make her breakfast in that crazy kitchen and not complain that all her spatulas are colorful. The one who would kiss her now, right before she unlocks the front door. So that she’s horny and flustered when the first patient arrives. The one who would understand what she needs and not be blocked from giving it to her.
But I’m not that guy. I want a different kind of life than Stella does. I don’t want to feel what she’s trying to make me feel.
I hold out the box. “Here.”
Her brows knit together, and she moves forward with a hesitant step. “What is it?” She shakes it. Opens it. “Paperclips?” She meets my eyes. “I don’t understand.”
“They are plain paperclips. The stars come down today.” I clear my throat. “We made a bargain.”
I prepare for a Stella-like explosion. Instead, she stares at the box in her hand calmly, and I am the one snapping like a kite in a gale force wind. I want to yank the box back. Stuff the words back inside. I remember my parents’ epic battles and the apologies that always came after. I never understood how they just pretended the words weren’t said. The lines weren’t crossed. The up and the down of their arguments made me cringe—but they just apologized and carried on until the next.
Why do I feel like the same boy now? No voices have been raised. No insults hurled. No extreme emotion shown. She’s calm, and I’m cringing in the corner.
“Stella—”
It feels like the color is leaching from her dress. Like the room is fading to grayscale around me. It’s my fault. I dimmed the light. Removed the color.
“Stella—”
“Of course. Thank you for the thoughtful gesture. I’ll take down the stars for you today.”
I didn’t know. How could I have known that the flat look in her eyes when she looked at me would be so much worse than a fight? She’s looking right through me, and she’s building a wall. I see the cement blocks as if they are labeled: Distrust. Disappointment. Denial. She’s going to keep me out once and for all. Brick by brick.
I can’t take it. I have a manic urge to yell the things she won’t yell. Say the things she won’t say. She can’t retreat behind that wall, or I won’t ever see her again. The real Stella. And that is suddenly a tragedy.
The back door is rattling behind me, and I’m thrust back into the memory of the first time I held Stella in this very room. I was trying to keep her from falling. Now I’m scrambling and reaching for her and grabbing her, because dammit, if I’m going to fall, she damn well better join me.
Chapter Thirteen
Stella
Christopher is kissing me, and I am drowning.
I don’t want to kiss him back but tell that to my lips.
I don’t understand what game he is playing. I told myself after he left last night that I needed to play it cool. That we were a pretend couple. That we could have sex because sex was fun, but that it didn’t mean anything. A fast, fun fling.
I’m not looking for more. I don’t want or need a deeper connection. I’m fine about sex with no strings.
So naturally, I thought this morning would be fun. Flirty.
And then he plunged his ice-cold knife into my still-beating heart. Froze me. Humiliated me. And now he’s kissing me, clutching me like he did last night.
Carlita clears her throat and we pull away. How long has she been standing there? I come back into my body slowly and become aware of the heat in my face, of the paperclip box in my hand. The mulling spice of his aftershave is on my skin, in my nose. Permeating my fuzzy thoughts.
Carlita. Of course.
He knew Carlita was coming in, so he kissed me. It’s part of the act. Our ruse to keep me from being embarrassed.
And I fell for it because I am a special kind of stupid.
“I apologize,” he says, and pivots and stalks out of the room.
Carlita sends me a knowing look, and I have to pretend to be embarrassed that we got caught. It’s not that hard. I am embarrassed.
If there is a way to make a situation worse, more awkward, then I will find it. In this instance, I realize that despite everything I know about myself and the ornery vet pretending to be my boyfriend, I didn’t protect my heart. I’m halfway into the Year of Stella, and I have failed at the only thing I set out to do.
At least he’s as screwed up as I am.
At lunch, he comes into the break room and stops with an exaggerated pause. “What is all this?”
He does this sweeping arm motion, and then rakes his hand through his hair.
I smile brightly. Earnestly. I will not let him see what he’s done to me. I am made of titanium. “I’m using the paperclips you got me.”
They are spread out over the table, and I’ve been busy with the hot glue gun and paper hearts. And so much fucking glitter. “You told me to take down the stars. I did. You told me to use these paperclips. I am.”
“Stella,” he pauses, doing some sort of Zen thing while he pinches the bridge of his nose. “We made a deal.”
“This relationship isn’t working for me, and I think we should break up.” I add a freaking feather to the paperclip. It’s like a Michael’s Craft Store blew up in here.
“What?” he’s almost yelling, so he comes closer and lowers his voice. Because we can’t show emotion. It’s not allowed or something. “Why do you want to break up? I promise what happened last night won’t happen again.”
I think I hate him.
“You are damn right it won’t happen again. But unlike you, I am mature enough to handle what happened last night.”
Veins are visibly throbbing in his temples. “I’m handling it just fine.”
I snort. “Are you?” I wave the glue gun around. “I don’t think you are. I think you freaked out. There is no way you can carry this pretend relationship off. You’re going to make me the laughingstock of this town. And if it’s going to happen anyway, then I’d rather just get it over with now.”
“I’m not going to embarrass you.”
“No? You’re not a good liar. You don’t want to be around me. When you are, you don’t like yourself. You’re a terrible fake boyfriend and when your penis made contact with my girl garden, you freaked out—”
“I’m a terrible boyfriend?”
“Yes!” I yell. I must have squeezed the trigger because my finger burns, and I drop the glue gun. “Shit!”
He’s got my hand in his, and we’re at the sink before I know what happened. I try to yank away, but he’s running my hand under cold water.
“Just stop,” he says. “I want to make sure you’re not badly burned.”
“I’m fine.” His grip is strong, so I fume on the inside but stand still. “I’m not a fucking child.”
“Why am I a terrible boyfriend?” he asks so quietly I’m not sure I didn’t make it up.
“Nobody will believe that you are into me, Christopher. You couldn’t even stand to be in the same room with me after we had sex.”
“That’s not true.”
“You bolted. So afraid of what might happen next you barely said goodbye. And what did you think would happen? Because you know I don’t want a relationship with you or anyone right now. We might have been able to pull off at least being friends, but you don’t even want that from me.”
There’s this ache in my chest. It’s like a black hole, pulling all the things people say about me, all the things I say about myself, into it. Expanding and squeezing. I can’t bear to be his pretend girlfriend. Not when I know how he actually feels about me. It’s not his fault.
He didn’t ask for this. But Devon was right that night at the bar. About me.
I’m not a great prize. I like to think I am. That I’m pretty and strong and fun and sexy in all the right places. But sometimes, I realize I’m not really fun—I’m just not serious. And I’m not strong—I’m just as fake as this relationship.
He turns the water off and blots my hand with a towel. “Why don’t you have a dog?”
Strange segue much?
“Huh?”
He’s examining my finger. Taking more care than it warrants. “You’re so good with animals. You work so hard placing the unwanted ones in the perfect home. Badgering the town into becoming forever homes when we get a stray. Why don’t you have one?”
I swallow. “Nash doesn’t want pets in the apartment.”
Which isn’t strictly true. I mean he says no, but Nash now has two in his apartment across the hall. All I would really have to do is tell Tru I want one.
“You should get a dog. I think you have a lot to offer one.”
I shake my head. “I’m not responsible enough.”
“Is that what you think?”
“I’m a mess, remember? Immature. Too much glitter. Not enough substance. You’ve said so yourself.”
He frowns. “We should see this relationship through to the end. Wedding. I mean wedding.”
He pushes the hair out of my eyes, and his hand lingers near my face. The ache hurts more when he’s like this because it isn’t real. I didn’t realize how much I wanted it to be real. Everything slows down. I can feel my heartbeat in my ears and am sure he can hear it, too. He’s looking at my lips. I ...
“Oh, you two...get a room.” My sister’s voice cuts through the moment, and he rests his forehead against mine for a brief second.
“Megan, what are you doing here?” I ask, moving out of the near embrace that was going to cost me so much.
She picks up a construction paper heart and makes a face. “We have a fitting remember?”
I didn’t remember. Well, I remembered earlier today. When I checked my calendar. And then forgot again. With all the burning flesh and almost kissing.