by Anne Malcom
But men like him didn’t whisper. Such a soft and feminine word wasn’t exactly right for the way his rough tremor quieted to vibrate through the air in a way that had my stomach and below my stomach doing a jump.
My gaze flickered over his body, the tight tee and the faded black jeans and the boots. All better than I had remembered. Then I traced the clean-shaven jaw, high cheekbones, finishing at the chocolate eyes.
“No holes or shrapnel sticking out of you,” I said on a rough swallow. “I’m glad.”
“Makes two of us, Snow,” he murmured, his eyes lingering on mine before doing a similar once-over of my body. The gaze was physical, a thousand calloused hands running over where his eyes touched my skin.
The distance between us seemed to glow, taunting me. I shifted uncomfortably on my shoes. And not just because they were new and fabulous but rather painful.
“And you’re now on my doorstep,” I rasped, trying to shake off the numbness at the edges of my mind. “In the middle of the night.”
Wasn’t that the thing? Whenever you desperately wanted to sober up, alcohol clung to you like Velcro, but when all you wanted to do was stay drunk, you were sober in an instant.
Keltan stepped forward, shortening the distance between us. “And now I’m on your doorstep,” he repeated. “In the middle of the night. Though I didn’t get here in the middle of the night. It was late, sure, but I told you this was the first place I’d come. I’m a man of my word.”
I moved my eyes up; the closer he got, the higher his eyes got. “Why?” I whispered.
He stared at me for a long beat. Or it seemed long to my fuzzy mind. Tipsy people weren’t the best to judge the passing of moments.
But then again, moments with him weren’t exactly slaves to things like laws of nature.
Then he wasn’t staring at me with that cocktail of emotions swirling in his eyes. He was kissing me. And despite my inability to stand straight, get out of a car without help and sober myself up, I was able to respond to the kiss.
Enthusiastically.
He yanked me into his body with one hand, the other tearing into my hair as he kissed me with a ferocity that was nothing like the gentleness of that morning that seemed to be a lifetime ago.
I let out a little moan from the back of my throat as I raked my fingers up the fabric of his tee so my nails could scratch at the smooth, sinewy skin of his back.
He let out a hiss between his teeth and pulled back, eyes wild.
“I’m here because of that,” he rasped, voice thick and rough. “Because of bungee jumping, running and crunchy peanut butter, babe.”
To my immense displeasure, he stepped back, leaving only the empty air to embrace me.
One hand held onto mine, the other open, palm up. “Keys,” he demanded.
On reflex, I immediately went to my bag and retrieved them, placing them in his large palm.
He gave me another lingering look before turning to unlock the door, my hand still in his.
The locks clicked and he opened the door, walking us into the hallway in silence, flicking on the lights and leading me into my living room.
The lights illuminated my small but cozy space. The blinds were open so the shadows of the sea in the distance were showing through the darkness. There was a white domed chair next to a bookcase that sat next to that wide window. Perfect for reading and being still.
That was the idea.
I never sat there.
Or read most of the books in that case.
Still wasn’t something I excelled at.
Keltan led me to the sofa I’d been on with Polly earlier in the day.
“Sit,” he commanded.
Like someone had come in and snatched my body when I was too busy drinking cocktails, I obeyed.
He let go of my hand. Then he stood there, in the middle of my black-and-white room, my black-and-white life, and leaked color all over the place. With one simple stare that was far from it.
“What?” I blurted, unable to take the stare. I instinctively rubbed the side of my mouth for errant lipstick. That must have been the reason for the stare, something on my face. How embarrassing. Then again, it was his fault. He was the one who had just kissed the sense out of me. It was his fault for smudging my lipstick.
I frowned at him, despite the look. The one that dampened my panties to an even higher degree.
“Just thinkin’ how fuckin’ insane it is that you look even more goddamn beautiful in real life than how I imagined you every single night of my last deployment,” he said, voice thick. He rubbed his hand over his mouth. “Taste better too. Didn’t think that shit was possible, but it is. Then I was thinkin’ what a lucky bastard I am for not getting killed or blown to bits so I could come back here and realize it.”
I blinked at him.
“Wow,” was all my drunk mind conjured up.
He grinned. “You say less than I remember. But I’m thinkin’ that’s on account of the martinis. Those are your favorites, if I recall correctly?”
He winked before turning on his heel and leaving the room, in the direction of the kitchen.
I nearly fell off the sofa, craning my head to watch his ass move in his jeans.
I continued to sit while he was gone, hearing cupboards opening and closing. I probably shouldn’t have done that, just sat still, frowning at my unused bookcase while trying to figure out if that all actually just happened.
A dinging from my purse gave me something to do.
I fumbled for the phone and squinted at the screen.
Rosie: What did you do to Dwayne? The alpha biker life-sized doll is malfunctioning. You break it you buy it, remember?
Me: Talk morning. With more coffee and less drunkenness.
Xoxox
Rosie: With all the coffee.
Me: Just replace his batteries or hit him on the side of the head. That should do the trick.
I decided telling her about Keltan at this juncture would not be good. Also, the man himself was striding back into the room with that walk he had.
It was a great walk.
I moved my head up to him, where he had a glass in one hand and a closed fist in the other.
“You have a great walk,” I told him when his legs came to rest in front of mine.
I craned my neck so as not to focus at the crotch in my face and try to make out the bulge. He was grinning from that angle. Didn’t even have a double chin.
Figures.
I’d have about twelve chins if our positions were reversed.
“Thanks. It has been somethin’ I’ve been working hard on,” he replied dryly. He held out the glass for me to take.
I did so, holding it uncertainly, not sure whether I should drink it or try and bathe myself with it to sober up.
It would ruin the sofa, I decided.
“Hand,” Keltan requested.
I immediately gave it to him to hold, since it had been so nice earlier. His chuckle filtered through the air as he enclosed my hand in his for a short moment, turning it so my palm faced up and he could drop two white pills in it.
“Take those,” he instructed.
I frowned at the pills. “You don’t need to roofie me, you know. I’m a sure thing. Pair that walk with the jeans and the….” I focused on the belt buckle and what was below it. “Sure thing,” I repeated on a whisper.
Keltan stepped back, his breath hissing through his teeth as he rounded the coffee table so it lay between us.
His eyes were hard, jaw tight. “It’s painkillers, babe. Proactive treatment for the hangover you’ll no doubt have in the morning.”
I glanced back down. They did look familiar. “I don’t get hungover. I’m an adult. I’ve learned to drink in moderation.”
His brow rose.
I thought back on the number of cocktails I’d ingested. And then on how much the room was spinning.
I took the pills.
He grinned. “Good girl.”
I frowned at the di
stance between us. “Now you can come sit on the sofa,” I told him, my voice thick with the reminder of the kiss. And the promise behind it.
I squirmed with the thought.
His face tightened once more, noting the squirm. “No, I can’t,” he clipped.
I tilted my head, frowning. “And why is that?”
“Because, Snow, if I get anywhere near a surface where I can get you horizontal, I’m likely to fuck you so hard we forget our own names,” he informed me, voice heavy, almost unrecognizable it was so saturated with desire. His accent had become more pronounced and irresistible.
My thighs pulsed. “I don’t need to know my name,” I told him, blinking rapidly. “Names are completely and utterly overrated. Not needed in this society. That’s what selfies are for.”
His mouth was a tight line, and I didn’t miss the way he held his body, taut like he was restraining himself. “You’re drunk. And I’ve thought about sinkin’ into you since the moment I saw you with that martini glass at that party. And every night since. In none of those fantasies did you almost fall off your shoes and inform me of how nice my walk is.” The desire in his eyes parted to give way to a glimmer of amusement. “But that little detail was nonetheless perfect.” He paused, swallowing. “When I fuck you, Snow, I don’t want it to be blurry around the edges, swaying like it is now. I want you there. All there. Remembering the feel of me inside you with crisp fuckin’ detail so I can brand you on my skin. And so I don’t feel like I’m takin’ advantage. ‘Cause I know you’d have more fight in you sober.”
“You’re not taking advantage,” I said immediately. “Or if you are, I want you to.”
He let out a frustrated groan. “Hangin’ on by a thread here, baby. I’m trying to be the gentleman my mum raised me to be, so I’m gonna go against every instinct I have and leave. You are going to finish your water, get yourself to bed and remember what I said in the morning.” His eyes burned into mine. “This is far from done, Snow.”
On that promise, he turned on his heel and walked out the door.
“Go away,” I shouted. “I’m not humaning today.”
The insistent knocking stopped, thank the Lord. It was like it was pounding on my skull.
“I’ve got coffee,” Rosie called through the door.
I immediately shot up from the sofa and moved as quickly as my body would let me to the door.
When I opened it, I snatched the coffee from Rosie’s outstretched hand and turned my back to stalk back to my place on the sofa.
I closed my laptop and moved it to the coffee table as the clicking of heels on my hardwood floors signaled Rosie following me.
I sipped the delicious brew and gave her a once-over. Her chocolate hair was no longer a tumble of curls; it was dead straight, reaching past her shoulders and shining in that horrific sunlight streaming from the windows.
Her makeup was perfect, and she had on a vivid red lip to match her red off-the-shoulder playsuit that draped in all the right places.
My hair was piled atop my head and hadn’t been washed, let alone styled. I was wearing a black crop top with no bra and silk sleep shorts, and the only makeup I had on was stubborn remainders of the night before.
“How exactly are you like that?” I moaned, waving my hand at her.
She grinned. “Well that’s easy. I’m extraordinary.”
I scowled at her. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t. Like everyone else, you adore me,” she said, flopping down in my leather armchair.
I glowered at her, sipping my coffee. “I move my emotions up to tolerate you with the delivery of this coffee,” I rectified.
She grinned, sipping her own. “Now that you have the java in you, you are compelled by law to tell me what the hell went on last night.”
“Law?” I repeated, my stomach rolling slightly at the thought of the previous night. As if I hadn’t been playing it over and over again in my mind since the second I woke up.
She nodded. “Rosie law. Punishment is death by florals.”
I rolled my eyes.
She sat forward. “Oh my God. It’s the Lucy tell. You always roll your eyes when you’re hiding something big,” she exclaimed.
“I do not.”
“Do too. When you lost your virginity, and didn’t want to tell me it was to someone as cliché as a quarterback, you did that exact same thing.”
I gaped at her. “That’s how you knew something was up?”
She gave me a look. “Dude, I’ve known you since we were in diapers. I got the skinny on you.” Her brows furrowed. “But not on this. So, tell me or I’ll inform Polly that Stefan didn’t, in fact, have an unfortunate hiking accident and that you’re the reason for his permanent limp.”
I sipped my coffee. “You’d just be implicating yourself in the crime.”
“Lucy,” she warned.
I sighed. Maybe it was the look, or the threat or the fact that I was very delicate and didn’t have the energy to try to evade this while hungover and shell-shocked from Keltan’s abrupt arrival, I told her.
Everything.
Which wasn’t exactly much considering it wasn’t some kind of epic love story. It was exactly three conversations and two kisses.
Yes, I’d been counting.
When I laid it out like that, months of obsessing over him made me feel like a dense schoolgirl in lust.
“It’s not like it’s a big deal,” I said sheepishly once I was done. “He’s hot. We kissed. And now he’s most likely going to fuck me until his touch is tattooed on me. Whatever that means.”
Rosie’s eyes were wide. She was silent for an uncomfortably long time, like she was choosing her words. In other words, like someone who looked like my best friend, but who certainly wasn’t acting like her. “It means you’re totally fucked, that’s what that means.” She glanced to the side table beside my armchair, searching for something. Before I knew it, she had grasped the small lighter beside my scented candle and threw it at me.
It hit my shoulder with a dizzying force for such a little person.
“Ouch,” I hissed, rubbing my arm. “What was that for?”
She leaned back like Vito Corleone, content after he killed someone, sipping her coffee. “That,” she informed me, “was for not telling me this sooner.”
I rubbed my shoulder, glowering. “There wasn’t much to tell. It was just a kiss. Two if we’re counting.”
I was counting.
She rose her brow. “And the Nile is just a river in Egypt.”
I frowned at her. “What is that supposed to mean?”
She grinned. “It means, my ice-cold friend, that that smoking-hot New Zealand soldier is going to mean trouble. The good kind.”
She waggled her brows.
“No. He most certainly is not,” I said firmly.
She grinned. “Oh, famous last words.”
I hoped not.
And the little drunk me that still remained, the one who actually wasn’t afraid of admitting the truth, hoped for the opposite.
The opening credits of Breakfast at Tiffany’s were playing when a knock sounded on the door.
Could a simple rack on timber be so ominous?
Yes. It could. Especially when the sound was most likely made by well-formed hands with calluses on the palms and tattoos snaking up from the wrist.
I didn’t actually know it was him.
Though, I did.
I could tell.
From the knock. It was like his walk. Strong, self-assured, masculine. Attractive.
Yes, I was aware of how utterly insane it was, considering a knock attractive. But that didn’t stop it from being so.
I frowned at the screen, watching Audrey get out of her cab with her elegant updo and chic black glasses. Considered hiding.
“Know you’re in there, Snow. I can hear the TV,” a deep voice carried through the hall. “And I’ve got all the time in the world to keep knocking,” he added. “I’m a very patient man.” T
he statement was a threat.
I took out my frustration on the television remote, pressing the buttons with much more force than necessary.
Then I stomped to the door and flung it open to reveal a smiling and far-too-handsome-looking man whom I should not have been thinking about all morning.
Yet, I had been. Even through the haze of a hangover and writing another column for Covet. It should have been an exciting day, the response to my first one and the continued requests for more. Dream coming true and all that.
But I could only think of one thing. Which meant the column had a rather distinct read to it.
The morning after.
Men and alcohol are similar.
Both of them come in all different shapes and sizes: beer, wine, spirits, and my personal favorite, cocktails.
Sweet and tasty. Dark and bitter. Tall and dangerous. Seemingly harmless until you’re dancing on a table with your top off in front of a retired men’s bowling league. Or thinking of a man every second, him taking up valuable real estate in your heart that previously belonged to shoes and the creative director of Chanel.
Like cocktails, you don’t know just the effect they’re having on you until you’ve imbibed too much and it’s already too late.
You’re drunk.
And fucked.
Not in the good way.
Well, maybe in the good way, if you’re lucky.
Sometimes, most of the time, they go hand in hand. Too many cocktails can find you waking up next to a man whose name you don’t know, in his basement bedroom of his parents’ house, willing to chomp your own arm off rather than wake him up while you try and escape.
It’s called a Coyote Ugly for those who haven’t had the pleasure.
I have. And since I’ve done it so you don’t have to, it’s not a pleasure. Nor as entertaining as the movie.
You can drown yourself in a bottle of wine to try and soothe the pain of a broken heart.
Men and margaritas.
You can use them, abuse them, and get hangovers from them.
Arguably the hangover from a broken heart is more lingering and painful than any red wine can offer, though my head may disagree with you on that.