by Julia Kent
“You think I’m—”
“It’s brilliant!” He takes a long draw off his drink. “Seriously. Making sure you pick the same restaurant where I’m with Jessica. Using Jessica’s online presence to help boost your profile—”
“What?” Where does he get that from? I want to be tweeted about by Jessica Coffin about as much as I want to suck on Steve’s toes. “You think I’m jealous of you and Jessica and I’m dating Declan McCormick to…to…what?”
“Get me back.”
A deeply wheezy sound emerges from my throat as the tortilla chip I shoved in there lodges itself in the worst way possible. I’m not in danger of choking to death. Just gagging in pain until the offending object moves out of the way.
Hmmm. That kind of describes Steve, actually.
The tortilla chip cracks and goes down (and no, that doesn’t describe me), and with a big swig of my water glass I finally look at him with tears in my eyes from having my throat lacerated by a completely innocent piece of food.
“You think I want you back?”
He takes a big chip, dips it in the salsa, bites off half, and double dips. That’s right. He just offended Jerry Seinfeld and the crew with one bite.
“Of course you do. it’s been a year, you’re still single, and you’re here. With me. On a date. So—it worked.” He spreads his hands magnanimously, as if accepting defeat for some battle I didn’t know existed. “You win.”
“I win what?”
“You win me.”
“I don’t want to win you! I never win anything! If I’m going to win something, it should be an all-expenses paid trip to Puerto Vallarta or a Kia Optima, not an all-access pass to be the slobbering, under-appreciated girlfriend to an over-important fleshbag who thinks I’m inadequate and who has an ego bigger than his penith!”
Well, now. Who knew that was in me? He doesn’t seem offended, though. More worried that other people heard me, but not actually upset by the content and meaning of my words.
“You’re not the woman I thought I knew.”
“You mean the woman you rejected.” I reach for my own bucket of sugar and alcohol and take a few gulps of liquid courage. Mine is a cranberry margarita, which sounded way better when I read it on the menu. It tastes like a cough drop mixed with Love’s Baby Soft perfume.
“‘Rejected’ is such a harsh word.” Steve splays his massive hands across the table and stretches forward, as if he wants me to hold hands. Nope.
“No kidding it is. It hurts.”
Our eyes lock and I realize that just like I don’t understand why I’m here, he has no idea why he is here. For the past week since I got out of the hospital he’s hounded me to get together, and now he’s got me. All my attention, all my focus. But he has no idea what to do with me.
“And that’s why you don’t reject a woman like Shannon. Ever.”
The growling voice comes from behind me and I literally jump in my seat about three inches, falling back down onto the hard wood with a jolt that spreads up from my tailbone and through my eyeballs. Which are currently locked on Steve’s shocked face.
He is staring at a point behind me, above my head.
I whip around, knowing that voice, and my breath catches in my throat. Declan’s standing there, a day’s worth of stubble peppering that strong chin, his business shirt unbuttoned at the top, no tie, and he’s delightfully rumpled, his grey suit wrinkled in all the right places, pants tight and tailored to fit like a glove. He looks like he just spent the entire day in motion, and as my eyes take him in he looks at me greedily.
His hand slides along the bones of my shoulder, cupping the soft skin at the back of my neck, and his lips find mine for a gentle, polite kiss that makes me throb everywhere. Sexting last night wasn’t enough. Never enough. I swallow hard as he pulls back, the scent of him full of sweat and cologne and soap and home.
“Hi,” he says to me, eyes claiming mine. Steve clears his throat. Steve who?
“Good to see you, Declan.” Steve stands and offers his hand. Declan completely ignores him, his eyes boring into mine, hand on my neck like he’s drowning and touching me is the only way to breathe.
“Hey,” Declan finally says in Steve’s general direction.
“We were just talking about—” Steve starts to say, but Declan interrupts him.
“How you rejected Shannon.” Declan’s words are granite. Iron. Platinum. Take the hardest element and multiply it by every time Steve told me I wasn’t good enough and you come close to Declan’s voice.
I feel like I’m in a bubble. My skin is tingling and burning with exposure. People don’t talk to each other like this in my world. We aren’t direct and clear with our boundaries like this. We don’t make declarations like Declan, firm “no” statements that Steve is flat out wrong for trying to shame me—rather than me being wrong for whatever he’s trying to shame me over.
That invalidation is the greatest sin.
I’ve been taught to joke my way through discomfort. To let people cross my internal lines because that’s fine—they love me, and besides, maybe it’s okay. No big deal. Ha ha, laugh off that feeling in the pit of your stomach that says this is wrong. Hee hee, go along with the joke at your expense because pointing out the truth will make everyone else uncomfortable.
With Steve, I kept thinking all those years that if I could “just” change enough to stop his newest criticism, then I’d be perfect. If I could “just” be on edge all the time and try to guess what my next misstep would be in his eyes and stop myself before I transgressed, then he would be happy with me.
If I could “just” learn to live life according to mixed signals and constantly shifting expectations …which meant I would never, ever be good enough.
Ever.
A jumble inside me feels like shattered glass being moved and realigned with great care, like reassembling a broken mosaic to put it back in place with the least damage possible. Declan has armor I cannot imagine wearing. He has a core that knows who he is and what he wants without the reflection of others. No mirrors pointed back at him telling him to internalize what everyone else thinks of him.
If I hadn’t touched him, kissed him, joked and teased and played with him, I would think he was a god. But no…he’s flesh and bone and real and authentic and…
Mine.
And I am enough for him. Enough as is.
More than enough.
And that is true even without Declan.
“I—” Steve is speechless. Declan’s godlike status just went up a notch, because Steve’s bloviating is hard to stop, like trying to stop Mom from getting up at 2:30 a.m. on Black Friday to stand in line at a big-box store and come home with a television bigger than the height of our house because “It was only $39.97! and they gave me a free coffee!”
“Come here,” Declan says, pulling on my hand. He’s crossed oceans for me. Cut meetings short. Slept in airplane seats designed for children who aren’t tall enough to ride rollercoasters. His pull leaves no question, no opportunity to argue. I’m going with him, and Steve’s nostrils flare.
“What are you doing?” Steve asks. He doesn’t ask, though—the words come out in a livid monotone. Years of dating and he’d never shown jealousy toward any other guy, even when we’d been at nightclubs and someone grabbed my ass. No protectiveness, no possessiveness, no sense that he was upset that I was someone else’s hand candy, objectified and easy for a grab that meant nothing and everything at the same time.
All those years of being his…what? What was I to him?
“I’m taking Shannon,” Declan says in a tone that is the mirror opposite of Steve’s—full of passion and infused with feeling. His words are measured but the meaning behind them isn’t.
She’s mine. You fucked up. Go away.
Wait. Those were the meanings behind my words, actually.
Declan pulls a wallet out of his back pocket, his other hand firmly holding my elbow with a grip that is not unpleasant. He tosses two t
wenties on the table and with a gentle nudge turns me away from Steve, who sits there, impotent, staring gape-mouthed at the cash.
Declan’s steps eat the floor between where I’d been sitting and the main door, my legs like tingling rubber bands as I work to match him. The way he just treated Steve makes my brain buzz. It was so…rude. So…macho.
So…right.
Chapter Five
“Thank you,” I say as he pushes the door open and a burst of sunset explodes before my eyes, feeling returning to my legs, my lips, my body. As the steps take me away from a man who had never cherished me, never seen me as anything more than a tool, I feel my body fill in.
Like a paint-by-numbers project, here comes my dignity in a lovely shade of purple. Blue stands for confidence. Rich red for clarity. A sedate adobe represents patience, and green is the color of hope.
Declan’s eyes.
“For what?” he asks as he holds the car door open for the (of course) waiting limo outside the restaurant.
“For that.” I thumb toward the restaurant, half expecting to see Steve’s distorted face pressed against the plate-glass window. “Um, how much did you hear?”
“You mean the part about his tiny penith and his huge ego? Because that was great.” A half-grin and hearty laugh follow. “‘Penith’ will never not be funny.”
Declan’s hand is on the limo handle when I realize—my car!
“Wait. I drove here,” I explain, a sinking feeling hitting me at once. Practical Shannon. How would I get home if Price Charming sweeps me away on his mechanical steed?
“Turdmobile?” he asks. A passerby gives him a funny look, staring at the limo with one eyebrow cocked.
“Yep.” I look over at the parking lot where I stashed the damn thing. Even mixed in with a bunch of late-’90s junkers, the car stands out like my mom at a Submissive Wives conference.
“I’ll bring you back,” he says, opening the door. Declan slides in next to me, shutting the door with a sound that sends a thrill through me. We are hermetically sealed in the cool leather, the divider firmly up so that all we are is a man, a woman, and a bunch of alcohol in the back of a car bigger than most dorm rooms.
“Thank you again.”
“That was nothing.”
“That was everything.”
The ferocious, feral nature of the kiss he gives me before I can finish saying the final word tears away at any restraint I pretend to have. As his mouth devours mine, his hand slides up under the thin cotton skirt I’m wearing.
“Mmmm, skirt,” he says against my lips. Apparently my flesh has the ability to make him lose entire grades of vocabulary. Who knew? His fingers take advantage and slide right up my quivering thigh. He’s not teasing.
He’s very, very serious.
Today is not supposed to be the day. That day is supposed to be carefully planned, with roses and good food and wine and a carefully manicured Shannon. That day should involve a giant full-body waxing session, a few pokes in the eye with Mom’s mascara wand, and a trip to a lingerie shop filled with self-loathing and best-friend reassurance that spending $200 on pieces of silk Declan will tear off my body in seconds is totally worth it.
Right now? Here? I have leg stubble that is coarser than snapped pine trees after an ice storm. My lady place hasn’t been trimmed in so long it looks like Malcolm Gladwell’s hair. Small woodland creatures probably make their home in there, and while I did (thank God) shower this morning, it’s not like I thought my cobwebs would need to be cleaned out today.
Of all days.
He’s breathing slowly against me, body curled up and over mine, hovering and so…male. Being wanted like this by a man who is the undisputed leader in any given room full of penises is a turn-on, and my mind shuts off as the body takes over, his fingers making that all too easy as he finds my throbbing center.
Oh, he really is a god after all.
The way he strokes me, slow and deliberate, as his tongue works in concert with his fingers, my mouth and sex both wet and wild, brings me to the edge so fast. I’m so ready.
I want him so much.
The car pulls away from the curb and I giggle as we lurch, his erection pressing into my hip. His face is dark with want. I’m wet with need. We’re a match made in limo.
I undo his pants and reach in to grip him, the sharp hiss of air sucked in through his teeth my reward. I pull his pants down enough to look and see what I never got a chance to gaze at before we were so rudely interrupted by the Bee Who Nearly Killed Shannon.
He’s beautiful. Thick and veiny and big, skin soft and vulnerable.
“I didn’t break your penis after all,” I say. I can see a tiny puncture mark with a fading bruise, though, just an inch or so away from the base of him. If I’d been just slightly off…
“No, you didn’t. But maybe you will tonight. In the best of ways.” His hands roam over my back, skimming the surface of my skin, then pressing with more urgency.
I laugh, a sound of anticipation.
“Are you evaluating me? Am I aesthetically pleasing?” he asks in a throaty chuckle. “Do you have your app ready to write up your review?”
My answer is to release him and push him back against the seat. I throw one leg over his lap and straddle him, settling over his unleashed self, the thin cotton triangle of my panties the only thing keeping us apart.
“You’re part of a new project. The Shopping for a Billionaire Project.” I wiggle just enough to make him groan.
His hands slide under my shirt, cupping my breasts, and with a grace that makes me moan he unclasps my bra and wraps those big, strong palms around my breasts.
“How am I doing so far?”
I make a noise of contemplation. “Eh. Six out of ten.”
He arches one eyebrow, clearly displeased. “Six? I don’t do six.”
I wiggle against him, the shaft sliding along my nub, making my next words come out with a quaking tone. “No, you’re no six.” I close one eye and slide up, shivering. “Maybe seven?”
His abs tighten, shaft lifting just enough to make little light bursts appear, somehow making an entrance in my open-eyed vision.
“Six? Let’s go for ten,” he insists. The snap of my panties registers for a second as a sharp, cutting pain against one hip as he rips them off me. All that separates us now is something deeper than decency.
Declan senses it, too, and shifts just enough, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. The condom appears and he puts it on as I watch his hands, his face, marveling at the unreality of the moment.
Yet it feels more real than anything I can fathom.
He guides me back into his lap and I settle my thighs around his hips, his tip at my entrance like a beacon, mutual throbbing making a pulse that joins two rhythms.
And then he’s in me, kissing my neck, pulling my shirt up over my head, bra hanging from a door handle and he thrusts up into me, thumbs on my nipples, my body burning for more.
More more more.
The thrill of his fullness in me, of the movements as he kisses me, slow, languid kisses so lush and patient. The kind of kiss you give someone when you mean it. When you want to be with them.
When they’re enough.
More than enough.
“I have wanted you since the first time we met,” he says, serious and breathing hard, his hands on either side of my face, eyes lasered in on mine. A shock of hair falls over his forehead and the day’s beard gives him a rakish look, even as he’s tender and loving.
“You rivet me, Shannon. You make me want you more than I want to be in control, and no woman has ever done that. I abandoned a merger negotiation in New Zealand because I kept looking at our text stream and wondering why the fuck I was settling for pictures of you when I could be inside you.”
Oh!
I don’t have any words. He hammers his point home and I gasp, tightening.
He groans, breaking our gaze, pulling me in for a kiss that tastes like promises and desire.
“I needed you. Need you. Need this,” he says, pulling his hips back, clenching his abs, then sliding back up, making me pitch my head back, the sensation too immense to take in just through one part of me. My arms, my face, my flushed skin, it all feels like it’s part of Declan, and he’s part of me, and we’re both part of the sky, the clouds, part of everything.
“I need you, too, Declan,” I say as I tip my head back down and unbutton his shirt. The feel of his hot skin as I skim my palms across his pecs makes me wetter, the heat from our coupling like my own star, bright and radiant. “I can’t quite believe this is happening. That you’re with me. That we’re here.”
“You’re hot and warm and tight,” he groans. I pull in, making my core strong, and he makes a primal sound that is both threatening and satisfying. I made him do that. Me. His thumbs caress my hips and I surge for a second, shivering with a quick tingle. A moment of self-consciousness kicks in as his hand caresses my belly under my skirt, thumb pad stroking down again to find the spot I want him to touch the most.
But the palm across my belly makes me think about my curves. My abundant flesh. My…extra. My too much.
He frowns, watching my face. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” The word comes out breathy and forced, like a cheerleader whose leg fell off but she’s in denial, still completing her program. Damn it. Don’t do this, Shannon. Don’t ruin it. You would think I’d have felt this way when we were at the park, or the first time we kissed, or the times he’s touched me intimately, and yet – no. It takes being in a limo, surrounded by the trappings of wealth and status for me to feel this sense of inadequacy, quite suddenly.
I know exactly why, and it sucks.
The first time Steve ever hinted that I might not be good enough was, of course, in a limo. My junior year in college and we were on our way to some business networking event. He’d evaluated me from top to bottom and found the cut of my dress “a bit outdated” and asked whether I’d been exercising enough lately.
I ate a small salad for dinner that night.
Declan cocks his head and stares me down, thumb stroking until I move involuntarily, the self-consciousness replaced by a growing wave inside.