by P. Dangelico
“Can I ask you something?” I say looking up at him.
“You know you can.”
“What’s up with the cow comment?” I have been dyyyyiiing to ask this for months. I have got to know. His lips curl between his teeth. Then he blows out a deep breath. “You don’t have to be embarrassed. We’re way past that, don’t you think?” I chuckle, glancing down at our entwined bodies, sweaty and sticky from a marathon of fucking, ‘scuse me, making love.
Placing a hand behind his head, he stares up at the ceiling. “I already told you.” His answer only confuses me more. I scan his face to get a better read on him. “When I saw you that day, staring back at me with those big brown eyes––you hit me like a wrecking ball…I panicked.”
What code are we speaking in? “I don’t get it.”
“I’ve felt that way only one other time in my life,” he confesses. Those expressive gray eyes meet mine and it dawns on me.
“With your ex,” I finish for him. He answers with a small nod. His admission feels about as good as someone scratching my corneas. “I’m not Kim,” I groan. Is this not clear enough? I roll over, off of him, and his body follows mine. He wraps his arms around me and presses closer. His chest blankets my back, my rear end wedged against his groin. Not a breath of air separates us.
“I know you’re not,” he murmurs in my ear, seducing me out of my now sour mood with his skilled fingers between my legs. Rolling his hips, he makes me feel how hard he is for me, how much he wants me again. “You wouldn’t force me to accept something I don’t want any part of,” he murmurs with this mouth latched onto the sensitive skin of my throat.
Yup, there it is––the insurmountable wall that’s standing in our way. I knew this about him. Of course, I knew this. But it was a nonissue until this very moment. He was my friend, the man I was reluctantly in love with. Not my lover. Not my lover. I sit up abruptly and cover my breasts with the edge of the sheet like I’m a virgin in a Victorian melodrama.
“What’s wrong?” the caveman next to me asks while he rips the sheet off. His big hand strokes up and down my spine. Feeels sooo good. I almost forget why I’m upset. What do I say? ‘Thanks for the best sex of my life. I love you beyond measure, but you don’t want kids so sayonara.’
“Cam?”
I know what I have to do and it kills me, it absolutely kills me. Because while I’m explaining, I know he’ll be thinking about his ex-wife.
“This was a mistake.” Those words are razor blades leaving my mouth. Over my shoulder, I chance a glance at his face. It’s like a sheet of ice has crystalized over him. He just stares at me like he’s seen a ghost.
“Why?” he says an eternity later. I’m dying inside by slow inches. He’s the last person on the planet I want to hurt, and yet I know this is going to hurt both of us.
“I don’t do casual sex. You know that.”
“Who said anything about casual?”
I need to be dressed for this. I’m out of bed and walking down the hall to my room a second later. He’s on me before I reach my door, hugging me from behind and kissing my neck. I don’t fight him. I let him hold me until he relaxes his grip because I don’t want him to think I’m doing this out of anger, or regret. That’s the thing––I don’t regret it. I just can’t continue any further. If I stop this now, I may be able to salvage our friendship. That’s the best I can hope for now.
“Let me throw on some clothes and we can talk.”
Releasing me, he follows me into my bedroom. Mr. Modesty lounges naked on my bed like he doesn’t have a care in the world while I throw on a tank top and leggings. He’s propped up on an elbow, his long legs crossed at the ankles. My eyes do a slow glide from his perfect dick, thick and soft and long, asleep on his thigh, to his heavy lidded gray gaze. He’s unequivocally the sexiest man on the planet. Period. Full stop.
His expression is warm and affectionate again, a naughty smirk playing on his lips. I know what it means; he thinks he can change my mind. Not this time, though. This time I won’t fold and I can’t compromise. It wouldn’t be fair to either one of us.
“This isn’t casual, Cam. You know me better than that.”
I do. I definitely do.
“I know…but the thing is––” By the look on his face, I know he’s getting ready to argue. “The thing is…I want kids. I can’t be with you if there isn’t even the slightest chance of you not changing your mind. And I know you won’t. You’ve said so often enough.” The silence drags on. I can’t look at him. I’m afraid of what I’ll find. Anger. Contempt. Or worse, his indifference.
He exhales a deep breath and sits up, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. With his back to me, he says, “You’re right, I won’t change my mind.”
“Would it be so bad?” I dare to ask. The muscles of his back turn to stone. He tips his head back and chuckles without humor. It’s the saddest, most hopeless laugh I’ve ever heard.
“Yeah,” he says harshly. “It would be. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be a fourteen year old boy and have to strap a baby to your chest in a carrier––a carrier I had to rig up because we couldn’t afford the store bought kind, and go to the supermarket to get formula because the woman that’s supposed to be taking care of us hadn’t been home in three days?” Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Tears glaze my eyes. “A baby that I had to bathe and change and stay up all night with because he had an upset stomach. And then go to school the next day.” As his voice grows more weary, my chest caves at the weight pressing down on it. “Do you?”
“No, I don’t,” I answer timidly. I can feel his pain and frustration in the marrow of my bones. I can’t even begin to fathom what it must’ve been like for him. Me, an only child spoiled and suffocated with love and support. What would I know about that kind of sacrifice? Nada. And I love him even more for being strong and responsible when all the adults around him weren’t. For carrying the burdens of an entire family on his shoulders––and he’s still doing it.
“I’ve raised kids already. I’ve raised kids, but I’ve never been one. This isn’t something I’ve thought about lightly.”
I’m fully crying now. He’s right. I know how much thought he’s put into this. And I’m so mad for him. So mad for the childhood he was robbed of, of the joy he never had growing up, of the feeling of safety he never experienced. It’s also robbed him of the chance to experience his own children––because he will never have them.
“I love you very much…you should know that,” I say through a blur of tears. He turns swiftly to face me, his expression one of utter shock. “I’m not saying that to coerce you. I’m saying it because I want you to know that if I felt only a small fraction of what I feel for you then maybe I could carry on. But I can’t, not with you. I love you too much to pretend that I would be happy with your terms. And leaving you later would only hurt more…I’m going back to my parents tomorrow morning. I hope we can remain friends, you mean the world to me, but I’ll understand if you can’t.”
I can feel him pulling away from me already. I can see the distance in his eyes. And I know it’s self-preservation, though it hurts all the same.
“You don’t have to leave,” he says quietly, so quietly.
“Yes, I do.” Without another word, he walks out of the room––taking my heart with him.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I’m pretty sure there are only a certain number of tears each person is allotted in a lifetime and I have hit my quota. The next day, I moved back into my parents’ house, got under the covers, and cried for three days straight. That was a week ago. I haven’t shed a tear since.
I miss him. I miss him like I miss the heart I left behind. In its place there’s a vacuum now, a frigging supernova that sucks up everything good in the world and devours it. I feel nothing other than this gnawing hunger for him. And I know it’ll be with me for far longer than the shame and guilt I felt for Matt because this time there’s no anger to direct at the agent of my misery. Ther
e are no villains in this piece. We’re both justified in what we want.
I check my phone in case I missed a text. Pathetic––I know.
Mercedes wants to know what you marinate the pork chops with.
That’s from earlier today. Texts from him started coming in the day after I left. Usually inane questions, or random information. As transparent as his intentions for sending them are, I don’t tell him to stop. I can’t bring myself to sever that last thread of hope.
Sam asked about you today. Mandy is doing great.
Ughhh, it’s horrible. Every time I think I’m turning a corner, thinking of him less, I get a text from him and it sends me straight back into the bowels of emotional hell.
I haven’t slept through the night once since I left his house and tonight is more of the same. It’s two a.m., and after tossing and turning for two hours, I’ve given up hope. Not even a new novel from one of my favorite dark romance authors can hold my attention.
My IPhone vibrates with a text and my head jerks off the pillow. My heart drums fast and hard inside my chest in anticipation of who might be texting me at this late hour. If it’s Amber, I’ll kill her for giving me false hope.
Are you awake? I’m outside.
Am I awake? I may never sleep ever again. I text back immediately.
I’ll be down in a sec.
After throwing on a tank top and lounge pants, I grab my flip-flops and creep downstairs. I have no idea what to expect or what I’ll say, but at the moment a driving need to see him lays waste to everything else. Through the glass of the front door, I spot him. Hair disheveled, a week’s worth of stubble covering the bottom half of his face––and still the most gorgeous creature on the face of this planet. The dark circles hanging under his eyes are the mirror image of mine.
When I open the front door, the look of relief that comes over him makes my heart swell to the point of pain. I love this man. It’s just an endless supply of love on tap. There’s absolutely no danger of me ever running out of it.
He takes his hands out of the pockets of his track pants and grabs me like I have no choice. Wrapping those long, skilled fingers around my biceps, he pulls me into his body. Top to bottom, there isn’t any part of us that isn’t touching. I encircle my arms around his waist and bury my face in his chest. He holds me so tightly for a minute I fear it may be my last breath.
Exhaling heavily, he murmurs, “Goddamn this feels good.”
I’m not going to cry. I’m not going to cry. Breathe in, breathe out.
His fingers sift through my loose hair, his lips rest on the top of my head. He grips the roots possessively and tugs. I’m forced to look up at him, and holy hell if I don’t get instantly turned on. His expression is a fairly even mix of devastation and determination.
“You’re killin’ me.”
“I don’t mean to. If it makes you feel any better, I haven’t slept a single night since I moved out.”
“I don’t want you not sleeping. I want you sleeping next to me.”
Fuck, I’m going to cry. Eyes brimming with yet unshed tears, I go for honesty––it’s all I have left. “Do you think this is easy for me? It’s frigging impossible.” I try and put some space between us but he won’t allow it, tightening his grip on me even more. “Why are you here, Cal?”
“Brought you something.”
“You brought me something?” Okay, now I’m confused. I don’t have time to mull this over, though. Taking my hand hostage, he drags me over to the Range Rover. Once he’s got the passenger side door open, he picks me up by the waist and places me in the seat––literally picks me up. Then he leans in, pushing his hips in between my bent legs, grabs my face, and kisses me.
We’re all lips and tongues, licking, sucking, devouring each other as if it may be the last time and all I keep thinking is, ‘Please don’t let this be the last time. I’ll be good, God, I swear, just don’t take him away from me.’
We break apart panting and he closes the door. Then he gets in on the driver’s side. The atmosphere is crackling with pent up sexual tension. Neither one of us moves a hair. And then I turn to look at him. Smokey gray locks onto simple brown and not even the army of the devil himself can stop us.
We dive at each other. I grab his t-shirt, yank and yank until he helps me peel it off of him. He takes my tank top and has it over my head before I even know what’s what. Not for a second have we stopped kissing. I’m eating his face. Seriously, he may not have a face once we’re done; I’m going Hannibal Lector on his ass. As a matter of fact, I may not have one either because his scruff feels like I’m cleaning my cheeks with steel wool. Until his big warm hand covers my breast and pinches my nipple. Then all thought ceases and only sensation exists.
God almighty this man knows how to push all the right buttons. When the warmth of his palm leaves my breast, I whimper. Not for long. Not for long, thank heavens, because he grabs me around the waist and pulls me onto his lap. Without objection, I swing my leg over and straddle him, our groins coming together suddenly. His dick, so hard I’m afraid it may cause him permanent injury, pushes up against me and I have to scream from the wanting, from the overwhelming hunger I have for him. I swear I’m ten seconds from going mental from it. Reaching down between us, I stroke him over his pants and feel a wet stain. I dig my short nails into the swollen head of his erection, scratch lightly over the slippery fabric, and he sucks in a sharp breath.
“I have pants on,” I say in a huff.
“No problem,” the sexy bastard murmurs. He takes the crotch of my lounge pants between his fingers and rips the seam open as easily as if he were opening a bag of chips. I’ve never been grateful for tinted windows before, however, at the moment they’re the best thing mankind has ever invented. At my astonishment, he smiles…smiles like he never has before. It’s big and white and stretches from ear to ear and all I can think is that I want to make him smile like that at least once a day for the rest of our lives. Lifting his hips, he pushes his pants down his thighs and his gorgeous dick springs free. I sigh…I sigh because I know what he can do with that gorgeous dick and a stupid smile grows on my face too.
His hand reached between us while his gaze, burning brightly even in the dark, holds mine. He pets me slow and steady, his touch determined, like his whole purpose in life is to get me off. God, how I wish that were true. It feels like every ounce of blood in my body has traveled south. The man’s got some mad skills. He knows exactly how to get what he wants. He wasn’t exaggerating in the least. He spreads the slickness he finds between my legs over me and himself. Then, canting his hips, he pushes inside of me, never once breaking eye contact. The air in my lungs rushes out of me. We sit there, wedged together, without moving for a minute. I’m so filled up I have no leverage.
“I love you.” The words are pushed out of me as easily as he pushed in, with zero resistance. Because what’s the point of holding back? He either feels the same, or he doesn’t––either way, no regrets.
Grabbing my face again, he kisses me as if kisses are words and everything he wants to say is on his lips. And then I can’t wait another second, I hook my arms around his neck and bury my face on the side of his throat. He digs his fingers into the soft curve of my butt and begins to jack his hips up and down powerfully. It doesn’t take long for me to come. He follows immediately afterward. We stay wrapped up in each other for a long time, joined in every way we can possibly be. Now that I think of it, even when we’re not touching it feels like we’re joined. Maybe that’s why it hurts so much when we’re apart.
The film of sweat between us cools, leaving me cold and vulnerable. Without a word, he grabs his t-shirt and slips it over my head. The feather on the Seminole logo falls over my nipple and he runs the pad of his thumb over it, my entire body shuddering in response. He cups my face and tilts my chin up, our eyes tangling.
I’m not a fan of words. Not since the man I thought I would spend my life with used them to deceive me the last five years of our
marriage. In my experience, words are cheap and disposable. Give me action instead. I’ll even take silence over promises that risk being broken. The fact that Cal hasn’t yet told me how he feels doesn’t bother me. He can keep those words tucked inside all he wants because his eyes are screaming his love for me.
“What was it that you had to give me?”
Surprise flashes across his face, followed closely by a lazy grin. He reaches into the back seat and grabs…
A sports bra. A sports bra?
“You came here…at two thirty in the morning…to return a sports bra?”
“I thought you might need it.”
“I thought you said––” I brush my lips on his. “You were going to burn all my bras because it was a crime to hide these,” I say, pointing to my boobs. And then I positively melt at the goofy grin he gives me. Mooning over a gorgeous man? Hmm, sounds familiar. Maybe I am my mother’s daughter after all.
“Come home with me,” he murmurs. The smile slides off his face and his expression turns seriously intense. It’s my turn to cup his face, to brush my thumbs gently across his cheeks.
“You know why I can’t.” He looks so torn it breaks my heart. “I’m not trying to punish you. But I can’t compromise on this. I won’t let someone else’s needs kill mine––not anymore. I’m different now, and you have something to do with that.”
He exhales harshly and brushes his face with his palm. Then he pats my hip in a signal to scoot over. I slide off his lap, back onto the passenger seat, while his body slips out of mine; the messy evidence of our lovemaking everywhere.
Inadvertently, I catch a glimpse of myself in the rear view mirror and gasp. My hair looks like it’s been dry humped by a squirrel while my face looks like it’s undergone a chemical peel. Real nice. I make a half-assed attempt to tame my hair, my fingers snagging on multiple knots, as I gather strength for what I’m about to say.