Perching on the seat of my bed, I hold my phone, staring at his name, drawing in deep, slow breaths. Pressing my lips together, I debate whether or not to call him back, only the decision seems to be made for me the second my screen lights.
My heart kick starts, my mouth dries.
He’s calling.
Clearing my throat, I sit up tall and press the green button after the fourth ring. “Hello?”
“Maritza.” His voice is smooth, unrushed.
I pause before saying, “Yes?”
“Been trying to get a hold of you the past hour. Wanted to see if you’re still going to be around today?”
I catch my reflection in my dresser mirror on the other side of the room, and it isn’t pretty. My face is twisted, brows furrowed and lips turned down at the sides. Disappointment is never a good look on anyone.
“I thought something came up?” I ask, trying to keep my inflection normal so he doesn’t see how annoyed I am that he cancelled on me earlier and all of a sudden expects me to pick right back up where we left off.
“Something did come up,” he says. “But everything’s okay now.”
“I don’t know.” I exhale. I could tell him I made other plans and it wouldn’t be lying … I made plans to do laundry. But I’ve never been one to play games.
“Ah. All right. I see.” Isaiah exhales into the receiver. He doesn’t hide his displeasure.
For a minute, we both linger on the phone, neither one of us speaking, neither one of us saying goodbye.
“If you didn’t want to hang out before, all you had to do was say something.” I’m pacing my room now. If this were the nineties, I’d have a phone cord wrapped around my finger and the receiver in my other hand. “I was looking forward to seeing you today. I had this whole, big day planned for us, reservations and everything. And you just texted me this morning with the most generic excuse and now that you’ve changed your mind, you expect me to drop everything again and act like it didn’t bother me?”
He’s quiet.
Which is good.
I hope he’s letting this sink in.
“You don’t get to treat people like this. You don’t get to treat them like a toy and put them back on a shelf the second you decide you’re done playing,” I lecture him, still making my way around my room. Stopping by the window, I peer outside where Melrose is still soaking up the sun.
That’s what I should be doing right now, catching some rays, listening to some trashy pop music, and reading the latest issue of Us Weekly without a single care in the world.
No, actually, what I should be doing is working.
I took today off to spend it with him. I forfeited a day of earnings so he wouldn’t have to be alone on his last day in LA. I’ve sacrificed hundreds if not thousands of dollars in tips this week and for what?
But it probably doesn’t matter to him. He probably assumes that since I’m the granddaughter of Gloria Claiborne, everything I could ever want is just gifted to me without a second thought. If he would’ve actually taken the time to get to know me this past week, he’d have realized it couldn’t be further from the truth.
My grandmother has always been tight with her pocketbook, but only because her intentions are good. She saw far too many of her rich and famous friends give birth to beautiful babies who grew up not knowing how to function in the real world because they’d never had to get real jobs or manage money or do anything for themselves.
Money ruins people, she always said. And she spoke from experience. Money almost ruined her marriage to my grandfather back in the sixties when they were some “it” power couple in Hollywood.
But I digress. To this day, the fact that her two sons are successful professionals is her greatest accomplishment. It means more to her than any Oscar or Academy Award she’s ever received.
Anyway, I threw away hundreds of dollars, like a damn idiot, just to spend a week with a handsome stranger with warm eyes and a dimpled smile that made my stomach hit the floor.
“My mom wasn’t feeling well,” he says. “She … has some medical issues. When I left your place last night, I had some missed calls from my sister. She’d gone to check on Mom while I was with you and when she arrived, I guess Mom was barely responsive. She had a fever of one hundred and five. Anyway, Calista took her to the ER and I spent the night at the hospital with them.”
My heart burrows deep in my chest. I’m at a loss for words, the air sucked from my lungs.
All I did was think about myself this morning, assuming the worst and letting my bruised ego assure me that Isaiah was just like the rest of them.
“Oh, God. I’m so sorry,” I manage to say a moment later. Sinking into my bed, I draw my knees against my chest. I catch my reflection in the mirror, only this time I look like a girl who’s just eaten a heaping serving of crow. “I … I just assumed you didn’t want to hang out and you were just giving me some generic excuse because that’s what guys do when they get bored. I … I thought you were bored with me. Isaiah … I’m sorry.”
I could apologize a hundred times and it’d still barely put a dent in just how remorseful I am in this moment
Exhaling, I admit, “I spent all morning writing you off.”
“I didn’t mean to be so vague,” he says. “It’s just, we hadn’t talked about my mom and I didn’t know what was going on. Also, I hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours. I just wanted to go home and get some sleep. The last thing I want is for you to assume I was blowing you off. I’m not that callous. And I didn’t get bored with you.”
Maybe a part of me wanted to believe he was some jerk—if only because it’d make saying goodbye and letting him go and knowing that I’m never going to see him again … that much easier.
Fuck.
I bury my head in my hands when I realize the worst part about this entire situation.
I’m falling for him.
And I know this because I wouldn’t have gotten so worked up today if I wasn’t.
“You still want to hang out?” he asks. His words blanket my hard feelings.
I can’t say no.
So I don’t.
Chapter Twelve
Isaiah
Saturday #7
I’m so tired I can hardly function, but I didn’t want to miss our last Saturday together. I’m nothing if not a man of my word, a man who respects obligations.
“Hey.” She answers her door in sweats and a cut-off t-shirt, her dark hair piled on top of her head and her full lips glistening with a fresh coat of chapstick.
On the phone earlier, I told her I needed to go back to sleep for a few hours, and that I’d be fine with staying in tonight. With her. She volunteered her place and I promised I’d be there no later than seven.
“I’m so sorry about earlier,” she says, apologizing yet again.
“I told you it’s fine.” I close her door behind me, glancing at the TV screen in her living room, which is paused on the opening credits of Stranger Things.
I want to kiss her. I want to press her against the wall, peel her clothes off of that taut body, and devour every inch of her.
“Melrose is gone tonight,” she says, biting back a smile that can only mean one thing.
“And your point?” I tease, feigning ignorance. I can beat around the bush with the best of them.
She shrugs. “I’m not trying to make a point, Corporal. Just stating a fact.”
“If you want me, just say so.” My cock strains in my jeans. I wasn’t expecting to walk into this straightaway tonight. I thought maybe it’d take a little flirting, a little liquid courage.
“All I want is to have a little fun.” She winks before slipping her hand into mine and leads me to the sofa, pulling me down beside her. A second later, she’s reaching for a bottle of red wine and two stemless wine glasses.
“I don’t know if you drink wine,” she says. “But you’re drinking it tonight.”
She hands me a glass before clinking hers against mine and
taking a sip.
Twenty-four hours from now, I’m going to be halfway across the world. Forty-eight hours from now I’ll be a world away from this … from her. But I try not to think about those things. Nothing good can come on fixating on shit you can’t control, and I’m actually looking forward to getting out of the States for a while.
I kind of like being a world away sometimes. I wouldn’t have reenlisted if I didn’t.
“I had fun this week,” she says, head tilted as her pretty eyes rest on mine.
“Same.” I take a sip of the wine, which is sweet and goes down with a smooth, easy finish.
“Do you ever write letters when you’re gone?” she asks. “Like letters back home? To friends or family?”
I shake my head. “Nah.”
“Why not?”
“Not much of a letter writer,” I say. “Some of the guys sign up for these pen pal services, but that’s not something that’s ever appealed to me.”
“Can I send you letters?” she asks. Her question catches me off guard and I need a minute.
“Why would you want to do that?”
She shrugs. “Doesn’t it get lonely over there? Don’t you want to know someone’s thinking about you?”
Laughing, I say, “I’ve served almost ten years now. Haven’t been lonely but maybe once.”
“You act like that’s some badge of honor or something.”
“Where I’m from, it is,” I say. “You see guys who miss funerals or the births of their children. You see guys missing birthdays and holidays and shit like The Super Bowl and things that civilians take for granted. It’s just easier if I keep those things out of mind.”
Her gaze lowers and her lower lip juts forward before she takes a drink. “Makes sense, I guess.”
“It’s nice that you want to do that though.”
“It’s going to be so weird saying goodbye to you.” Her voice is breathy and wistful and she flashes a pained smile.
“Yeah, but this is what we signed up for.”
Maritza nods, drawing her legs onto the couch. “No, I know.”
“Come on.” I reach for her face, cupping her chin and angling her face until our eyes meet again. “Let’s have fun tonight. If you get all sad and mopey it’s going to completely defeat the entire purpose of this week.”
She pulls in a hard breath, lets it go, and softens her expression. “All right. Sad and mopey Maritza is gone in three … two …”
Snapping her fingers, she plasters the most ridiculous grin I’ve ever seen in my life across that pretty face of hers.
I can’t help but laugh at her.
“You’re such a fucking dork,” I say, pulling her into my lap. My palms graze her outer thighs, working their way to her hips as our stares hold steady. She smells like sweet almonds and feels like cashmere and right here, right now is the only place I want to be.
Her hands caress my face, her mouth sinking onto mine. A moment later, her lips part and our tongues meet and her hips grind against the rock-hard throb forming in my jeans.
Grabbing the hem of her shirt, I lift it over her head only to reveal she wasn’t wearing a bra to begin with.
“You came prepared,” I say, breathing her in.
Her lips curl against mine. “You have no idea how badly I wanted this to happen again.”
Pushing her sweats down her hips, I slide them down her long legs, followed by her lacy black thong. The sweet scent of her arousal fills the tight space between us. When I stand, she reaches for my zipper, freeing me.
Her dark eyes are wide as she stares up at me, pumping my hardened length in her hand with a devious smirk. A second later, she takes me into her mouth, her full lips velvet soft against my shaft as her tongue circles the tip.
Groaning, I bury my fist in her dark hair, her messy bun coming undone as she swallows my length over and over.
Yanking my shirt over my head, my heart pounds in my chest. I want her skin on mine. I want her warmth, her heat, her breathless sighs in my ear. I want her biting her lip and screaming my name and riding my cock so hard she won’t be able to walk straight for a week.
But first things first.
Pulling myself away, I guide her to the sofa, positioning myself between her thighs as she leans back against a throw pillow.
Maritza exhales when my tongue drags the length of her seam and she moans when I slip a finger inside. Aided by her arousal, I add another until the tension between us aches with an impatient fervor.
My hands are greedy, my touch generous as I explore every peak and valley of her nubile body as she writhes beneath me, her breath growing quicker the closer she gets to the edge.
I can’t take it anymore.
I’ve waited long enough. I have to have her.
Reaching for my jeans on the floor, I grab my wallet and retrieve a rubber, ripping the foil packet between my teeth before sheathing my girth. Maritza watches, her full tits rising and falling as she waits, and the second I’m ready, I take her hand, pulling her up and telling her to get on her hands and knees.
Her cherry ass beneath my palm is pure fucking gold, and I slide my fingers between her thighs until I reach her swollen pussy. Guiding my cock inside, pushing it as deep as I can go, she releases the softest sigh before gripping the pillow in her tight fists.
My hands steady her hips, pulling them back to meet my every thrust. Her pussy forms to my cock, each plunge tight and slick, charging the two of us with insatiable energy. Bringing her body against mine harder, faster, I squeeze my eyes and lose myself in the distracting euphoria of this moment.
Running my hands down her hips, toward her belly, and then between her breasts, I bring her closer to me, pressing my body against her back as I drive into her. My palm wraps softly around her neck, my fingers just beneath her jaw as I bury my face in her hair.
My focus is her.
Her surrender is mine.
There’s a frenzied race to the finish as her body melds against mine, but I won’t let her go until we’re both spent, collapsed, and barely able to utter a single coherent phrase.
Her left hand lifts, her fingers reaching for my hair as I caress her breasts, pumping my length into her again and again. The rapid, shallow breaths are a sign she’s getting closer and the moment she presses back against me, taking me to the hilt, I fucking lose it.
She rides the wave, her body warm and pliant, mine wild and reckless, and when we’re done, I sink back, gathering her in my arms, her back pressed against my chest. We’re a sticky, breathless mess of unrestrained exhaustion, but already I could do this again.
I could do this all fucking night long.
Maritza turns to face me, a smile claiming her full lips, and she cups my face in her hands, saying nothing.
“Let me write you letters,” she asks a moment later. “Let me see you again, when you come home.”
“Maritza …” I need to shut this down.
The idea of having someone to come home to has never appealed to me before, but I could see myself coming home to her.
But I force that away.
This is how it has to be.
It’ll be better this way.
For me.
For her.
“I know what I said a week ago,” she says. “And I meant it. I don’t want a relationship. And the last thing I should be doing is falling for some guy who’s going away for … how long are you going away?”
“Six months this time,” I say. “If I don’t volunteer to stay longer.”
“Let me write to you,” she says, head tilted. Her fingers trace my mouth and she kisses me hard. “I don’t want to fall in love with you over letters. I don’t want some cheesy pen pal arrangement. I’m just not ready to watch you walk out that door when there’s still so much about you I want to know.”
Exhaling, I drag my hand along my jaw. “Listen, I’m a shitty boyfriend. I’m the last person you should be pining away for.”
“Who said anything about p
ining?” she asks. “I guess … I guess I just want to keep you in my life. One way or another. In whatever capacity you desire. We’re friends, you and me. Right? You’d call me a friend?”
Pulling in a lungful of sex and perfume-scented air, I hold her stare, finding it nearly impossible to say no to her sweet request.
“I’m not trying to fall in love with you, Corporal,” she says. “I’m not trying to be your girlfriend. I just want to be … something … to you. I don’t even know what.”
Pressing my lips together, I mull over my options. “I don’t understand what you want, Maritza.”
“You fascinate me. You’re complicated and quiet and strong and determined and intelligent and—”
“How can you know all those things when you’ve known me a week?”
Her eyes roll and her head tilts back. “I don’t know. I just … I feel them. I can’t explain it. I just know that if you walk out of here tonight and I never hear from you or see you again … I’m not going to like that. And if you don’t feel the same? Fine. I’ll accept that. But I had to put it out there while I had the chance.”
We’re still very much naked and I’m still very much ready to devour her again, but this changes things.
Lifting my hand to her pointed chin, I run my thumb along her lower lip. “I don’t want you to get your hopes up.”
And I don’t want to hurt her.
I respect her too much to do that.
“I’m not going to fall in love with you,” she says, though I don’t entirely believe her. “I told you that. I just want to hear from you, that’s all. And when you come home, if you want to see me, we can make that happen.”
I exhale. It’s so fucking hard to say no to her when she’s looking at me like this—like she thinks I’m some kind of wonderful.
“How about this,” she says, “so that you know I’m not trying to fall in love with you, I’ll write ‘P.S. I hate you’ at the end of each and every letter.”
I make a face. “A little extreme, don’t you think?”
“Come on. Just go with it. It can be our thing,” she says, with a chuckle before booping my nose.
P.S. I Hate You Page 12