by Dakota Gray
That comment gets her to look at me full on. “Grower,” she mutters.
It takes everything not to laugh. I step forward and wrap my arm around her waist. “And after you're done?”
“I'll leave.”
I don't like the way my stomach tightens. I don't like the way I want to know who taught her how to play this game. Shit, she does it so well she can stay toe-to-toe with me. Practice makes perfect, and I've had plenty.
Who did she practice with? What fucker got the privilege to see Robyn before she sprouted every prickle she has now? I don't know what it means that I like her sharp parts.
So, twisted and sick and wanting her again already, I ask, “Want me to get your back?”
“Add a 'please' and I'll consider it.”
I grab her curls and force her head up. Her mouth thins with defiance—shit—with lust, too. I can see straight through her. She shifts her ass into me and breathes, waiting for my next move.
I take what's mine and close my mouth on hers. I slide my tongue in when she lets me. I revel in the way she melts into me, but I break the mating when she moans. I don't let go of her hair. She needs a constant reminder of who is in control. “Do you want me to wash something else?”
Her teeth worries her bottom lip. “I'm curious about your scar.”
The remark lands and my hand remains a fist in her strands. “I got too close to a homemade bomb.”
I watch as her every thought flashes across her face. I drop my hand when sympathy becomes the mainstay. I don't need her to feel sorry for me. “I survived. Others didn't.”
She pushes my hand away from her waist only to turn and face me. “Do you get nightmares?”
“Not anymore.”
She's quiet for a very long moment. “Would you rather I soap up my fingers and play with your prostate right now than talk about this?”
I laugh then push my way under the spray. “I'm just not some war wounded hero.”
It's Robyn's turn to lean against the tile. I have no doubt she can see right through me. “'Cause that would make you weak?”
“Because I walked away with my sanity intact. I'm one of the rare few. So I'm not about to bitch and moan about some scars.”
“Some scars. Are they flesh wounds?”
I should be annoyed she's minimizing my minimizing. I'm just amused. “Pretty much.”
“And that's just a small poke in my belly?” She rubs her front against me—soapy and wet and fucking slippery.
“Despite the bait you just laid out for me, the only thing I'm going to bite is you.”
I let my fingers and mouth do some small explorations. She giggles. I swear she does. Takes a few seconds to realize she's stolen back the spray.
Robyn throws a smile at me, pretty much confirming the suspicion when I come up for air. I don't want to like her. And...I wonder if that's how she feels. “Why?”
“What?” She gives me her back again to finish washing off the soap from her front.
“Why did you want to know?”
Her shoulders go up. “Like I said, I wanted to make sure this is a fair fight.”
Any fun I was having seeps out into the steamy air. “Robyn,” I say in warning.
“If you don't think we're at odds, then I don't know what to say to you.”
We don't have to be sounds dumb so I swallow that. The only truth that matters is that I fucked over her friend. She wants me to pay for it. Her friend was...a NICU nurse. So a bleeding heart. She wasn't pretty—not with her sallow skin and lanky hair. She had a good laugh that was infectious. She dumped me the moment she realized I was exactly who I said.
That stands between us because Robyn can't let it go.
I finish washing up. What the fuck else can I do? Robyn's not going to tell me what I want to know, and I can be honest enough to say it likely wouldn't change the fact I want her here, and she wants to be here when she's not in her head.
Until then...
I hand her back the soap. “Let me get you a fresh towel for when you're done.”
“Nate...” She inhales then looks away. “Thanks.”
I really shouldn't give a shit what she might have wanted to say in that small pause. I should only care about the fact she still wants to fuck me.
But I do, and that's a fucking problem.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ROBYN
“What is it?” Nate asks.
He's standing in front of his dresser and I'm by the bed, but the mirror reflects his gorgeous back. Yes, gorgeous. You know, in every movie ever, where the camera is above a couple making love, and the man's back is all deep slopes, framed by corded muscles?
His is better.
An hour, maybe more, has passed since we left his bed, and only now are we trying to get our shit together. He's slipped into gray sweats that hang low on his hips. Either he's half-mast or the sweats prove once again to be god's gift to horny humanity.
“Nothing.” I readjust the towel. I'm wet. From him and the shower.
One side of my brain is fully aware I need to leave before things between us get any more complicated. He's supposed to be a one-off. The guy I use to help me focus on my life, my needs, to be selfish for a little while. I've put all my feelings, wants, and needs on the backburner for close to a year. Two years, if you want to be technical.
I'm following Samantha's rules.
Kind of.
I can, until he asks about Loraine, pushing hard for an answer. Samantha didn't cover that in her simple rule. What am I supposed to do when the fuckboy cares? When something dark sweeps up inside me, and I have to ask, have to know, do you remember her name?
See.
This is all fucked up beyond all recognition—best known as FUBAR. I tear my gaze away from him and search for my dress. I have no clue where he tossed it before jumping me.
“Check under the bed,” he says, as always reading my mind.
I don't linger over that facet of him. I drop to my hands and knees. There's my dress tucked under his bed. Right along with socks, shoes, a half-eaten bag of chips, and for some reason, a Mason jar filled with clear liquid.
When I straighten, I look him dead in the eye, “What's in the Mason jar?”
He laughs, not an ounce of shame in the sound. “Moonshine.”
My stomach warms. His accent makes me think of lighting bugs, lazy summer days, and the tart sweetness of honey. I don’t want to like the way his timbre plays over my skin but, as always, it draws me in.
“My father got me some for my 21st birthday,” I find myself confessing. “Had to smuggle it across a few state lines in my mother’s purse. She was against the idea.”
“The school teacher? What a rebel. Is that who you get it from?”
I press my hand to the knot of the towel. “I shouldn’t be surprised you know about my father.” I think about that, feeling disarmed. “Probably know about my mother too.”
“Doctor.”
Yet he doesn’t know Loraine. Or he does, and it makes no difference to him.
It's him and me.
Just Nate and I.
No one else.
“Of course you know,” I say as the realization comes to me. “You're friends with a guy like Duke.”
“Guy like Duke?” His expression darkens.
He doesn't have to tell me how he feels about the man. It's right there in his stiff posture and the tightening of his mouth.
He knows the depth of friendship.
Again, I have to say, it's just him and me.
“I've heard stories about his paralegals hiding in hedges to take money shots of witnesses to discredit their testimony. If you had him hunt down my name, Duke will likely know why I have a scar on my left knee.”
His shoulders lower. “I noticed it.”
The reply is guarded, and I don't know where the hell my walls have gone because I'm spilling words again. “Long story short, I was a tomboy. I had a bike and a makeshift ramp to test out.”
/> He shakes his head. “I only got the facts about you. The details of your life, not so much.”
I fiddle with the towel. “Questions?”
He makes an ummm sound, crossing the room to his bed to sit on the edge. If I lift my hand I can cup his cheek, but that action is too soft for what we are. I'm holding my dress instead of tossing it on. I'm standing there a few feet in front of him, instead of throwing up the peace sign and heading for the door. The problem is I've slathered on his soap that smells like a forest of man, and I'm close enough to him to know the fragrance is better on his skin.
He leans on his elbows and holds my stare. I'm sure now he's half-mast. His lids have lowered, and there's a flush to his neck and torso that makes me want to bite him.
Straddle his lap.
Suck his bottom lip.
Anything but talk and open myself to him.
“Never mind,” I say. “You don't care.”
His head shake is slight. “I'm curious, but the way you're looking at me...”
Does he need to finish the thought? I'm on death row, and he's my last meal. “Curious about what?”
“Why are you so comfortable with my kink?”
This I can answer without feeling like an exposed wire, but just in case, I drop my dress next to him on the bed and straddle his lap. The towel gives, showing all my worldly goods below the waist. His gaze doesn't waver for two full seconds.
I splay my hands on his chest. His skin is still damp from our shared shower. No pun intended, but we kept it clean. “Do you really want to hear about my sex life with other men?”
Something hot and sharp flashes in his eyes. “Keep it vague.”
“Sophomore year in college, my roommate was into BDSM. She took me to a club where I giggled half the night. Until the end. A man was being punished by his Domme. A woman. She took off one long glove and gave him an open palm. It was oddly beautiful and soothing. Arousing. She didn't touch his cock, and he still came at the last hit.”
He's silent as he takes in my words so I shift on his lap. Yeah. He's more than halfway there.
Nate murmurs, “You're attracted to the power exchange.”
“I find it interesting that what gets us off has very little to do with the actual act of sex.” I coast forward until my hands frame his head. I inhale. “The way a man smells, the way his gaze darkens, how his voice pitches low...” I slide my pussy lower over his gray sweats.
He only watches me. “Letting him spank you?”
“Let him is the important phrase here.”
“You topped from the bottom.” He shakes his head as though he’s disappointed, but there's a wicked light in his eyes. “Yeah. I can see you as a bad submissive.”
“Which is why I'm not in the lifestyle.”
His chin tilts up, and his eyes are laser sharp. “Who gave you trust issues?”
I bite his lip to shut him up. He laughs. I've made it obvious he's hit a soft spot, but he can't have access to my sore bits. I don't care how good he is in bed, he can't cup my pain and inspect it.
If I give him Lawrence's name...If I tell Nate how my first crossed the line during a scene, made obey an ugly word for me—I can't do that. I'm not still writhing in the pain of that mistrust but it's part of my DNA now.
Nathan can't have my blueprint.
I add tongue after the bite, and his laugh dies.
Better.
He trails his hands beneath the towel to cup my ass, and then I'm on the bed, on my back, the towel gone.
Much better.
He's a mouth and cock again, not Nate—the guy I'm finding it harder and harder to keep hating.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ROBYN
R: Is it possible to break a vagina? Asking for a friend.
Samantha, in her infinite wisdom replies back with, Are you in a romance novel? If so, carry on. Pussies are like Teflon in those.
Nate laughs and my face heats. I glance at him to see if he's been reading over my shoulder. His attention is on the TV. No joke, he's engrossed in Scandal. We're on his couch. I'm on his lap and he's sprawled sideways to watch the screen. I'm waiting on Uber to come rescue me from myself.
I'm not sure if it's possible, because even though he seems to be watching the show intently, his dick is paying attention to me. I'm sore and tempted and...so, yeah, I'm still one hundred percent unhinged.
My skin prickles right before turns he eyes me. His damp strands have a wave to them. His lashes are spiky from the water. His smolder game is A-one. I can feel my clothes dissolve under the heat of it.
“Don't even look at me in a sexy way.”
“Then wear panties.”
I'm doing my best not to smile. Thankfully my phone gives a soft buzz. “Learn some self-control,” I mutter at myself.
S: Are you staying?
R: Waiting for my ride now.
S: Why?
R: Work.
S: Liar.
He shifts and his dick gives me a poke like hi, whatcha doing? I doubt his movements are innocent because he's smirking when I steal a look in his direction.
I swear. This man. “Now that I think about it, if I were to wear panties, you'd just steal them.”
“Where's the car?” he asks.
“Stop trying to think about how fast you can fuck me.”
“Robyn.” He lowers his voice. If I had on panties they would melt. “You seem tense. I know what would help.”
Little known fact: All pussies can meow. Hand to god. “We're not doing that again.” He shifts his dick in a way that makes me clench. “Not today,” is my addendum.
“Will you be wearing panties tomorrow? Because if you're not...”
I'm pretty sure ice, and then a warm bath could get me back in working order.
And that's just sad. That's rock bottom. What happened to the kickass me who could spurn men without breaking a sweat? Aren't you supposed to get past a certain age and you're able to make smart decisions, and good dick can't sway you?
I'm wavering, wondering if I should go. Another hour won't hurt will it?
I say more for myself than him, “I'm working tomorrow.”
And after work?
Shut up, inner voice.
He holds my stare, and I'm pretty sure he wants to ask me the same question.
“The only acceptable thing I'll take from you is my computer. What's your number so you have my information when it's ready?”
See how I did that? There's “not my finest hour” and this dick-combobulated Robyn.
“Oh,” he says all slow and sly, “you mean my bank account number? My mama believes hard-earned work deserves pay.” He laughs after he tells me the numbers, but I'm not sure if he's serious.
I'm hoping between right now and when the computer is ready I'll find the self-respect I must have kicked under the hotel room's bed. Either way, I send the money since I know he's doing the work.
His phone beeps three times. Mine buzzes with another text from Samantha.
S: Why are you really leaving? Did he tell you to? What a fuckboy.
How to answer that? Sometime after the shower and before we parked in his living room, Nate had offered to order lunch. I've been in his house since the night before and not once has he made me feel like I'm overstaying my welcome.
I may be rusty, but I'm not new to sex-only affairs. The wet spot can still be moist and either I or the guy is looking for the exit. Round two is likely reserved for another day, especially if the first one takes long. There are no talks in the shower, an offer of food and sitting with me unfettered as I wait for my ride.
R: He wants me to stay. Or his dick does. :)
“Why did you do that?” Nate asks.
His voice...there's no come hither. My brows pull down confused at the change of tone from moments ago. He flashes me his phone long enough for me to read it. There's an alert from his bank about a pending deposit—the one I just sent.
I raise my brows. “Pay you for a compu
ter that you're about to spend I don't even know how many man hours making for me?”
His eyes narrow like he's trying to find the bullshit in the statement. I narrow mine back.
“I was captain of my debate team,” he starts, like that would persuade me to let him win any argument. “We can go a few rounds if you like, but, simply, don't do that. Don't pay me.” His neck flushes. I'm not sure if it's from anger that I gave him money or embarrassment over his financial situation. “Don't pay my way ever. Fuck, don't pay yours if I'm there.”
I can only blink for a second. This isn't bluster. He sounds and looks legitimately mad. Color me confused. I rest my phone in my lap. He's pissed at me because I don't think he's a gentleman? What the fuck?
My temper turns my voice into ice. “Because you take care of the women you pick up and drop off like dry cleaning?”
“Call her,” he snaps. “I will apologize for whatever part I played in fucking her up.”
The air in my lungs ceases to exist. Loraine. “Do you mean it?” I whisper. “Would you mean it?” I force myself to exhale and remember who I'm talking to—who I fucked. “Do you even remember her name?”
“No.”
The answer scoops out any emotion I had except for the grief. That is all that is left in the suspended moment. It's a sharp bitter taste. Though, I'm never truly free of the emotion. I can have a blank mind walking down the street and the scent of maple syrup will drag me back to all the times Loraine ate a maple donut—her favorite. I'd tease her and tell her to grow a damn decent palate. People can say holidays are the worst, but you can't understand until you've had to celebrate one without the person who made them worth celebrating.
But that wasn't the Loraine he knew. I know that logically. It's why I can fuck him. He's not burdened with grief. We're not sharing it, feasting on that twisted connection.
Yet it hurts.
It hurts to be alone while I'm clawing for the woman I called friend. I'm grasping for any signs of life I experience while with him.
No.
That was his honest answer and now I can't find my way out of the dark. It's what I deserve for being with him, here like this. This is why I went numb before. It was easier. Nothing could touch me, not even the grief that tried to drown me every time I took a deep breath.