“Oh no.” I reach out and slide my arm through his and hold it there as we walk. “You had no chance to say goodbye.”
“No. I didn’t. My mom’s devastated. It’ll take time, I guess.”
We walk on, my arm through his. After a few steps I confide, “My mom died, too.”
He looks over. “So you know, then.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “No one prepares you for it. And no one gets it until they go through it themselves.”
“No, they really don’t. They say things like, they’re in a better place. I hate that more than anything else.”
“Me, too. It doesn’t help.”
“Because it makes you feel selfish for thinking the better place is still alive so I can tell him I love him.”
Understanding twists grief throughout me. “I wish I could see her just once more. I’d tell her how well I’m doing now. How much I miss her. How much I love her and can’t believe I have to grow old without her.”
He nods and leans so that my arm falls and he takes my hand in his, to hold it, our fingers entwining like hair in a braid. He pulls our hands up to his lips and kisses them in a comforting way, like he’s done it a million times. The charge I feel from this little kiss is intense. I'm thrown by its sweet intimacy. As we walk, and he looks at the sights, I realize that I can’t remember the last time I walked down a street holding hands. It’s been three years since I’ve been in a relationship and my casual sex-buddies and I don’t hold hands because we don’t go places together. It would make things confusing.
But this doesn’t feel confusing. It feels… right.
I take a deep breath and say, “I’m going to ask you something crazy. Are you ready?”
He glances to me with a warm smile. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
I take in a dramatic breath, the importance of what I’m about to say barely hidden behind a nervous smile. “Okay. Here goes. Oh God… this is hard. Okay…”
He squeezes my hand once, his eyes dancing. “Just say it.”
“I’m trying! Okay. Would you… like to come back to my place and see… my heart?” I used the word heart on purpose as a joke, but it sounds weird and scary, not funny at all.
“You sure?” The way he looks at me, feels like he is going to kiss me. I want him to. I really want him to.
I get very still. “Yes. I’m sure.”
He takes my other hand, now holding both. We stand facing each other and the chemistry is through the roof as I look up into his eyes.
“I’d love that. Thank you for trusting me with this. Wow. I’m going to be the first one to see your work.”
I feel like a teenager, my heart racing. “I have to tell you…”
“What?”
“You looking at me like that? It makes me feel good.”
He laughs, brings both my hands up and kisses them. The butterflies have taken over my insides and are having a party of grandiose proportions. I think he’s waiting to kiss me, waiting for the right moment. The suspense is killing me!
I whisper, “Umm…will you call a cab for us?”
He nods, turns and lets go of my hands, stepping away to the edge of the sidewalk to raise his arm to traffic. His profile is strong and beautiful. I want to trace his nose with my finger and I’m jealous of the light from the lamppost for beating me to it. My gaze drifts to the cab approaching and it occurs to me that if my cabbie friend is driving it, I will be convinced that angels planned this entire night. The headlights block my vision, and I lean forward in anticipation. But when the cab stops in front of us, it’s not him. It’s just a normal apathetic cabbie who’d rather be anywhere but here.
Maybe I can believe it, anyway.
Mark holds the door open. “What’s making you smile?”
“Nothing,” I lie.
He slides in after me and doesn’t pry. I tell the driver my address and Mark reaches over and takes my hand again. “Give me that.”
I laugh and look at my hand nestling back into his. “This is all very weird.” I look out the window and get silent.
He squeezes my hand. “Hey. Don’t disappear.”
I laugh nervously, glancing over to him. “You see everything, don’t you?”
“Is it annoying?”
“No… I like it.”
“Good. Because I’m not meaning to do it. I feel like I know you.”
“You do? For me, it’s that it’s weird because it doesn’t feel weird… and yet it does.” I laugh. “Forget I said that.”
“I promise you I won’t.”
“Suit yourself,” I tease, and look back out the window until we drive onto my street.
“It’s on the right. You can park in front of that white car right there.” The driver nods.
As Mark pays for the cab, I say, “Okay, before we go in… my living room is my studio and I do not hold back when I paint, so it’s pretty much the opposite of some squeaky-clean, organized room you could photograph for a magazine.”
“I’ve been warned.”
He opens the door and gets out, holds his hand out for me to grab onto. I use its sturdiness to balance me as I climb out, worried what he’s going to think of my home. As we walk to the door, I spin back around, my finger in the air. “And I have dust-bunnies in the corners. I am not tidy.”
He smiles, very amused. “Got it.”
I turn to open the door, but spin around one more time, my palm out. “And I really need to go to the grocery store, so all I have is wine and water.”
“Thank God you’re telling me this.”
His flat delivery sends me over the edge into laughing. I open the door and we go in. But in the elevator, I announce, “I do have a very clean bathroom!”
“What a relief.”
More laughter from me, but still I mumble as I unlock my door, “I really wish I’d gone to the grocery store. This is embarrassing. Okay, here we go!”
He steps in after me and looks around the room I spend most of my waking hours in. He points to the piles of unframed painted canvasses. I nod, crossing my arms protectively around myself, taking in a deep breath of courage. I walk to stand against a wall for support. As I watch him begin to look through my paintings, for the first time in months I desperately want a cigarette. Do I have one hidden somewhere? Is there an old pack in a jacket in my closet, maybe? Where’s the nearest newspaper-stand? I could just tell him to wait while I go buy some…
“Wow.” Mark whispers a few times. My heart is hammering fast. Then he freezes. “Oh my God.”
“What? What?!”
“Nicole. This painting. I had a dream about this painting.”
I stare at him, stunned. “What?”
He looks over to me and turns around the painting that means the most to me. It’s the first piece I painted after my wall broke down, the first one I painted here that night I feel asleep on the floor. I frown at him, confused. He looks at it again in disbelief, then back to me. “I swear to you, I dreamt this image right before I came here to New York. Not this visit. The last one…a little over a month ago?”
“That exact painting? Are you sure?”
He stares at it, nodding slowly. “I’m sure.”
I push myself off the wall and walk to him. “You dreamt of my painting? How can that be?”
He looks at me, trying to understand too, what this means. “I’m positive. That’s why I knew what I wanted for my interface. This is so wild, Nicole. I was supposed to meet you and more than that, I think I am supposed to do this thing.” His words gain speed, excited. “You know, the girl I told you I met here? She’s the one who encouraged me try, and I was talking to her about it because the inspiration was nagging at me.”
“It does that.”
“Yeah! And, to be totally honest, I was bragging to her about making this thing, but I hadn’t really done any work on it yet. It was just an idea in my head when I came here. And she said there are so many opportunities to be had. Why not try it? And something about
how she was so optimistic, gave me hope.”
Instantly, I am insanely jealous of this woman. I want to ask more about her, and I want him to never bring her up again. I manage to choke out, “She must have been a good person to have done that for you,” but it takes a lot of effort.
He nods and picks up another painting. All I can think about is strangling that girl, and smoking a cigarette, so I don’t see it until he turns it around and asks, “Who’s this?”
Michael’s face is staring back at me from the portrait, dark and enigmatic, with eyes that are fire-red like the devil. “No one important.”
“Hey,” he puts down the canvas and steps toward me.
I blurt out, “He’s not important anymore. Is she?”
Marks concentrates on my face, seeing everything I’m trying to hide. He shakes his head. “I think she was a path meant to lead me to you.”
My heart hurts when I hear this, because it’s such a beautiful idea that I want to believe it so badly! But I don’t trust men! I can’t let this guy in. I can’t let anyone in. What is wrong with me?
He takes another step to me, so close now, and pulls me to him. My breath catches and I feel like I’m swaying even though his hands are firmly holding me. Staring into his eyes, I am an open book to him. I can see myself and my fears, reflected in the way he wants to prove to me he’s trustworthy, the look he’s giving me telling me he’s a good man. But his eyes… they tell stories I don’t know I’m ready to hear, promises of happiness and possibility. There’s that word again… possibility.
I whisper against his lips as he leans in, “I’m trying so hard to resist you.”
Pressure from his hands on my back brings my chest against his. “Just stop.”
“Oh God.” Our lips meet and a wave soars through me. I feel this kiss everywhere. In my hair and the tips of my fingers, in the soft skin behind my knees, in the soles of my feet and the top of my head and everywhere in between. When he pulls away slowly, I hold my breath, eyes closed, knowing I will do anything he asks of me.
He says quietly, “Oh Nicole, I think I’ve waited a lifetime to find you. And I hate to say what I’m about to say, but I’m going to leave now.”
My eyelashes flutter open. Hearing what I just heard punches me in the gut. I feel like I’m dying, and the worst part is that I know it’s not because of him. It’s because of Michael and his doing this very same thing! Over and over leaving me, right when he had me!
Mark sees my pain. I close my eyes and struggle against him, but his arms have me securely held and I stop fighting. I barely had energy or desire to fight as it was. He reaches up and takes my chin in hand. “Look at me.”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Nicole, please.”
I open my eyes, trying hard to mask the anger and hurt.
“It’s not because I don’t want to carry you into the bedroom and do things to your body that have never been done before. It’s because I don’t want to do them tonight.”
I blink a couple times, defeated. “Okay,” I whisper.
“Hey. I need you to believe me. I’m trying to do this right.”
“Are you married?” I ask, point blank, vulnerable.
He smiles through a sigh. “No. God, no. That would be a terrible thing to do to you. No. I’ve never been married. I have no girlfriend back home. I promise. Believe me?”
I search him and find only truth. “I had to ask. I didn’t, once.”
He kisses me again to push away my fears. All the feelings of his lips on mine, race through me again, and double. I slide my arms around his neck, nibble his lips, touch my tongue to his. The kiss grows more heated and dangerously pulls at both of us to deny his wishes, and maybe my own. Because I think deep down, I want what he wants. I want to do this right.
I pull away. He groans. I shoot him a look as I step away to hold onto the wall to steady my spinning head.
“Nicole.”
I don’t look at him for fear I’ll jump on him and rip his clothes off. “I love the way you say my name.”
He smiles and I can’t help but look over my shoulder to see it. He walks past me toward the door and says, “If you have plans tomorrow, cancel them.” He turns. “I want to spend the day with you. The night, too. We’ll go to Central Park and to dinner…and do anything else you want to do. I want the whole day.”
I lean on the wall, and smile. “Okay.”
“After one o’clock, that is,” he adds, holding his finger up.
I laugh. “What’s before one o’clock?”
“The meeting with potential investors.”
“Oh, right. Well, then after one o’clock, I am all yours.”
“I don’t want to leave.” He shakes his head, using a hell of a lot of will power to walk away. I follow him, my eyes scraping up and down his gorgeous body. His ass is to die for in those pants. He is killing me. He turns around and I look up. He smiles, catching me in the act, and reaches over to pull me to him again, passionately kissing me as he lifts me a little off the ground. I slide my fingers into his soft sandy-brown hair, pressing against him. This feels so good.
I groan against his lips, “No. I think you’re right. I want to wait, too. Why is this so hard?” and push him away, kick my feet to be let down.
“We’re idiots.” He sets me down and drags his feet the last couple steps. He opens the door and stands in the hallway, shaking his head at me. I lean on the open door, rest my head on it.
He points to my welcome mat. “I’ll meet you here – right here – at 1:30 p.m!”
“I’ll be here. Oh!” I run over to where I dropped my bag, pull out a card from my wallet/phone case and run back. “Here! Just in case you’re running late… or something happens.”
He takes it and gives it quick flick with his finger. “Deal.”
We look at each other for a tormented second. “Bye, Mark.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not saying goodbye to you.”
He walks away to the old elevator, still waiting on my floor. He throws me one last look and waves before the doors close. I don’t wave because already my imagination has gone places I don’t want it to. I close the door and go inside, trying to shut my brain off. “Stop it!” I say aloud, as I imagine him getting hit by a car, or running into that girl. All imagination leads to my never seeing him again and that being our last kiss. These are the types of thoughts that always come when I’m feeling happy.
I say aloud, “Don’t be stupid, Nicole. He’s going to be fine. You’ll see him tomorrow.”
But the fear feels very real.
I pace around and call out to my guardian angel. “I didn’t get the cigarettes, right? You owe me one! Go watch over him… okay?”
Only silence is my answer.
I look toward the paintings, thinking about his dream. How can that have happened? I look back up to the ceiling, desperately. “I’m serious. Make sure he’s here tomorrow. I can’t take another heartbreak so soon. Look at me! I’m chattering to myself, alone in my apartment.” I stare, waiting for a response I know will not come. Sighing and giving up, I’m surprised by a knock on the door.
He came back for more kisses!
“Oh, I don’t think I’ll be able to turn him away if he wants more,” I mumble, excitedly running over to swing open the door.
Standing there with fire in his eyes, his strong jaw set firm, is the last person I would expect to see at my home. “Who was that?”
My heart stops. “What are you doing here? Were you following me, Michael?”
He pushes past me. “Close the door.”
I’m so shocked. I comply without argument. I follow him as he storms into my studio. He scans the place fast. His glare lands firmly on the two large piles of paintings, askew from Mark’s perusal. Michael marches to them and picks one painting up, then another, and another, until he’s devoured them all like a blind man who’s been given one day to see…but only one.
I’m silent as I watch. Wh
at does he think? Does he like them? Sweat sparkles on my forehead and in between my breasts. My chest is heaving from astonishment. I bring my palms together and subconsciously hold them in the prayer position, the tips of my fingers touching under my chin. Michael sets the last one down, looking straight at the wall in front of him. His voice is hoarse and pained. “Who was that guy you were with?”
I don’t answer. I’m so angry with myself, because for the life of me I can’t help but be elated by his presence. His being here should be repulsive to me, but I’m so happy that he’s here! The conflict is a nightmare I can’t wake from. Tears blur my vision and I can’t think of a single thing to say.
His head turns as though on a swivel and he glares at me, raking over my body because it’s plain that I’m dressed-up and in his mind this means I had a date with Mark, maybe not our first. The jealousy bursting out from his skin is intoxicating. To see how much he cares, so plainly on his face... I can’t believe it!
“Who was that? Why aren’t you answering me?” He aches as asks. He isn’t hiding the torture inside him. I want to punish him. I want him to hurt more than he hurt me, if that’s even possible.
“I don’t have to tell you anything,” I whisper.
“Fine!” he growls and yanks free of the visual hold I’ve got him in.
He storms by me to the front door. From deep inside my soul comes an anger unknown to me. As he passes me, I leap onto his back, clawing at his head and snarling, “How dare you come here and act like you own me!” He spins in circles, growling at me as I kick at him with my dangling legs, holding on for dear life. He reaches back, grabs hold of my thighs and wrestles me to the ground. He pins my arms down. I fight and twist against him, tears racing. I’m overpowered by the ravenous desire for him to kiss me or die, or both.
I yell into his face, “I hate you! I hate you!”
“Stop it! Stop it, Nicole!” he roars. The war rages inside him, mirrored back to me in his eyes – both of us haunted and tormented by impossibility.
He lunges and kisses me hard on the mouth. I bite his lip harder. He yells and jumps off me as blood oozes out from a small hole I made with my teeth. Both our chests expand and contract rapidly with our wailing heartbeats as we stare furiously at each other. I scramble to a seated position, fast, holding onto the floor with both hands as I stare at him, looking like a crazy woman – no more crazy than he is.
I Love My Hope (Nicole's Erotic Romance) Page 6