by Sara Ney
His fingers resume their circular motions.
“W-what are you doing to my hair?” I sigh, voice wistful.
“Comforting you? I think. Obviously I’m drunk.”
He doesn’t seem drunk to me, not in the slightest, and if I’d thought for one second he was, I wouldn’t have gotten in his truck.
“You are?”
“No. But I wish I was shitfaced. Hammered.” He doesn’t crack a smile. Not even the hint of one as his lips hover near my ear. “You always smell so good, Vi. Like sunshine and shampoo and flowers. Violets.”
I take my own whiff of him, inhaling his masculinity. Inhaling the strength he exudes. It permeates, rolling off of him when he walks.
“Are you sure you’re okay, Violet?”
I nod into his chest. “I am now.”
Zeke pushes the hair out of my eyes, fingers the coronet braid cascading over my right shoulder. Rubbing the ends of it between the pads of his fingertips, he leans in and lifts it to his nose. Inhales.
“Violets,” he says, repeating his earlier sentiment.
He’s wrong though; it’s cardamom and mimosa.
I don’t correct him.
“Violet.”
I stand feebly, awkwardly in the shadows of my front porch, letting this behemoth of a man sniff my hair for the second time tonight, the tip of his nose warm when it brushes my cheek. It trails its way to the crux just below my ear. His lips press on the tender skin of my temple.
One heartbeat.
Two.
I don’t trust myself to speak.
To move.
To breathe.
I stand paralyzed, still as stone, rooted to the rough-hewn porch boards that should have been replaced years ago. Zeke’s solid hands cup my elbows then glide up my arms. Land on my shoulders. Down again.
He’s going to kiss me.
I’m going to let him.
My fingers rake through his hair, drawing his head down, meeting his eager, pliant mouth.
It settles on mine, lips pressing so tenderly there are no words to describe it—no one has ever kissed me this way. We kiss and kiss and kiss with no tongue, a union of lips and breath and skin. Tiny tastes of each other. Nips.
His mouth pulls at my bottom lip, gently sucking, before it opens, his tongue finally—finally, thank GOD—touching mine, almost timidly. Just enough to make my nerves quiver throughout my entire body.
We stand like this, kissing on my front porch in the cold, until my mouth is swollen—until he backs away, leaving my body instantly cold from the loss of his heat, regarding me in the porch light.
Acts like a gentleman.
“Goodnight, Violet.” He swallows.
I have to force myself to speak. “Goodnight.”
I won’t lie, I’m disappointed when he steps away, backs himself down off the porch, and walks across my lawn, raking a hand through his hair. Yanks open the driver’s side door with a grunt. Guns the engine and backs down out of my driveway, starts down the street.
I wanted him to stay with me.
Instead, I stand here alone, watching as his truck slows, pulls to the shoulder of the road. Flips on his hazards and…sits there, idling.
Very weird.
Curiously, I hold sentry as he does nothing but sit in that big black truck, folding my arms across my chest to ward off the chill, a thick billow of steam rising from my lips with every cold breath.
Inside the pocket of my thick winter jacket, my phone notification chimes.
I reach into my pocket. Slide open the lock screen.
Zeke: Hey.
I look up into the night. His bright red tail lights still glow eerily at the end of my street.
Violet: Hey.
Zeke: How’s it going?
I laugh—what on earth is he doing?
Violet: Good? You?
Zeke: I guess I just wanted to check in to see if you were okay after tonight. Because that’s what friends do, right?
I can’t stop the smiling, and I bite down on my bottom lip.
Violet: That’s exactly what friends do. Thanks
Zeke: Hey Vi?
Violet: Hmm?
Zeke: So this is going to sound creepy, but I’m sitting at the end of your street like a damn stalker…if I come back and get you, what are the odds you’ll come to my place?
I stare at that line, reread it twice, fingers hovering above the keypad of my cell. What are the odds you’ll come to my place?
Would I go to his place?
Yes!
I want to do more than taste his lips.
I want to feel the heat from his body over mine. Feel him inside me. Know what his body feels like without the shirt, pants, and clothes.
Zeke: Violet? You still there?
Violet: Yes.
I suck in a deep breath, curls of excitement twisting my stomach into knots, and tap out a reply.
Violet: Yes. If you come back and get me, I’ll go to your place.
Zeke shuts the front door behind him and suddenly, we’re alone in the confines of his house. Standing together at the door, he crams his hands in the pockets of his coat, uneasily shifting his weight on the heels of his black boots. Removes his hands. Shrugs off his coat and hangs it on a hook before reaching to help me with mine.
Together, we slide it down my shoulders and he takes it. Hangs it. We both glance at our jackets, now hanging side by side.
It’s an odd sensation, that. A new one I’ve never felt before, anticipation quaking in the pit of my stomach, sending butterflies flying. Fluttering.
Making me want to toss my cookies all over the leather boots he’s bending to untie.
My knees feel wobbly. Weak. I can barely focus, bending to unbuckle the pretty little half boots I borrowed from Winnie and sliding them off my feet. Legs bare. Too exposed and open to his roaming, expressionless, pale eyes.
I know why I agreed to come here.
I like him; I’m probably half in love with him already. Enamored. Charmed by his rough edges and jagged lines. How we’re opposites in every way that counts.
I know that’s not a reason to fall into bed with someone, but I fell into my last boyfriend’s bed for lesser reasons: loneliness. Out of curiosity. For the connection. Wanting to get the whole virgin thing over with.
I might not be completely in love with Zeke yet, but the stirrings are there, and that’s enough.
I’m not asking for a commitment—not yet anyway.
As I stare at Zeke, filling the doorway of his quaint college house—he’s huge and takes up the entire space—all my instincts tell me to trust myself on this decision.
Trust my heart for once, and not my head.
Trust that he has my best interests at heart, even if the words coming out of his mouth aren’t eloquent. Far from it.
He swears too much.
He isn’t nice.
He isn’t sweet.
He isn’t kind.
Or generous with words. Or affection.
But he’s reliable. Dependable. And he was there for me tonight. I know he was watching out for me, or he wouldn’t have seen that guy back me into a dark, back corner of the bar.
And thank god he was.
I don’t know what I would have done.
Screamed bloody murder, maybe? Would anyone have heard me over the noise? The music? The packed crowd?
Winnie says Zeke is “a project”, one that’s probably more work than he’s worth, with no guaranteeing the outcome. The thing is, I can’t fool my heart into thinking he’s not worth it, even when my head is telling me he isn’t.
I know Zeke is an asshole.
I know he’s crude and unsuitable.
Zeke might be brutal, but at least he’s brutally honest, and the next thing I know, he’s taking my hand, leading me down the hallway.
I let him lead me.
Floating down the hall to the bedroom, I’m light, a million worries lifting off my shoulders: self-doubt. Self-consciousness.
The fear that he doesn’t like me back. The desperation to be loveable that took root the day my parents died and further overtook me when my aunt and uncle moved away.
The fear that I’m not sexy because I stutter.
Zeke Daniels doesn’t just want sex; he wants something more—I feel it in my heart. He’s seeking something—the same thing I am.
Something permanent.
Constant and stable, and no one will convince me otherwise.
“Violet, I wouldn’t—I don’t want you to think I have any clue what I’m doing. Because I don’t. I have no idea why the hell I stopped that car in the middle of the damn road, I just…” He releases my hand, closing the door to his bedroom.
Runs his fingers through his black hair.
“Do you know what I’m trying to tell you?”
“No.” I give my head a little shake. “I have no idea what you’re trying to tell me.”
Zeke walks to the far side of the room, pacing back. And forth. Back. And forth. “Shit, I know I’m going to fuck this up.”
“What are you going to fuck up?”
He laughs then, a loud, rumbling laugh. “It cracks me up when you say a swear word. It sounds so weird.”
He stops pacing, stands in front of me. Reaches up and captures my face in the palms of his hands. Strokes my cheekbones with his thumbs. “God you’re fucking adorable.”
My lashes flutter. “Thank you.”
“You’re beautiful, Violet. I think you’re beautiful.” His head is lowered, our lips inches apart. “You’re too sweet for me, you know that right? I’m such an asshole.”
“I know.” The whisper is more of a sigh.
His steely gaze studies me a few heartbeats, warm hands still caressing my face. “What are we doing?”
I can’t answer; he’s being way too nice. So unexpectedly tender.
“Do you respect me?” I ask quietly.
He nods, our foreheads touching. “More than anyone.”
I believe him.
“Are we friends?” I ask, lifting my hands to grasp his wrists.
“Yes. You’re one of my best friends.”
I believe that, too.
“I am?”
“Yes,” he whispers, voice gravely. “Even though I don’t deserve it, you’re one of the good ones, Violet DeLuca, and I don’t have a clue what you’re doing here in this room with me.”
I swallow the lump forming in my throat, nose tingling from his words. His words.
His words, simple as they are, are beautiful words.
A tear escapes the corner of my eyes, but he catches it with his thumb. “Don’t cry, Pix.”
“I-I can’t help it, you’re being so sweet. It’s so weird.”
“You know I wouldn’t be saying any of this to you if it wasn’t true.” His voice is raw with emotion, too, his lips brushing mine in a shocking jolt of heat. His breath is hot. He tastes like beer and peppermint gum. “Violet.”
Zeke’s hands don’t leave my face, not until I release the hold I have on his wrists and touch his firm chest. His hard pecs. Drag my flattened palms along the planes of his shirt, letting the pads of my fingers memorize the lines.
His body is so strong. So impossibly unrelenting, in top physical form.
I release the top button of his shirt. Then another, and another, until his lips pull back, brows raised. “Are you undressing me?”
“Yes, I think so. Please stop talking—I don’t want to l-lose my courage.”
A chuckle. “Yes ma’am.”
Closes in for another kiss.
Tongue.
My hands.
His body.
I just want to touch it.
See it.
All of it.
Insatiably curious, I part the collar of his shirt, sliding my hands inside, over his warm skin with a moan—is that his moan or mine? Zeke has hair on his chest, a light smattering on his pectoral muscles and sternum. Black and soft, I explore it, gently running my fingers across the sparse hair.
Finish unbuttoning the shirt. Spread it wide. Push it down over his broad shoulders. He shrugs out of it, watching it land on the hardwood floor at our feet in a heap.
His heated, liquid gaze is positively on fire, and it’s directed at me.
I want to see every part of him, so I break our kiss, doing a short walk around him, eyes consuming the sight of his naked upper torso. Devour his graceful collarbone. His sinewy physique.
He has ink on his back.
I’ve never seen such a large tattoo in person; it’s big and black, engulfing his entire muscular back, beginning at each shoulder blade, spanning down his deltoids and dipping low, disappearing down into the waistband of his dark denim jeans.
My fingers ache to touch it.
When I do, hesitantly at first, he shivers. A long tremor that ripples through his entire body when I caress the fine lines inked onto this beautiful, smooth skin. He’s tense, but lets me trail my fingers across his ridged shoulder blades, along the intricate lines etched into his flesh.
I love this tattoo.
It’s so perfect, angry and menacing and somewhat ominous in its design.
So him.
“Is this a phoenix?” Rising from the ashes, overcoming obstacles, wrapped in a map of the world rather than flames, its talons clutching a compass. Moving forward? Traveling the world?
His head dips. His skin breaks out in gooseflesh. “Yes.”
I kiss his back, trailing my lips along his skin. His shoulder blades. The contours of his spine. “What does it mean?”
“I had it done when I was pissed at my parents.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re always gone. Traveling.”
“Always leaving?”
“Yes.”
“It’s beautiful.”
He watches me silently over his shoulder, eyes blazing, before deciding he’s had enough of my feathery touches. Twisting his body around, Zeke pulls my hands to his chest, resting them on his firm pecs.
I’ve never touched someone with a body like this before; I can’t believe I’m touching one now. He is tan, strong, well-defined—all rippling contours and bulging muscles.
Taut, tight perfection.
His low baritone interrupts my gawking. “My turn. Let’s get you out of that dress.”
I try to nod when he moves to stand behind me.
Zeke’s fingers are clumsy, fiddling with the button at the back of my dress. “I have no idea how to be gentle with someone so delicate.” His lips hover near my ear, warm breath caressing my neck. “Bear with me.”
“Y-Yes you do. You’ve been doing it with me for weeks.”
“I have?” He nuzzles my nape as he parts the zipper.
“Yes.”
Now he’s lowering the zipper, fingers skimming the newly exposed skin along the way. My eyelids slide closed when he pushes my hair aside, mouth brushing the skin under my ear. His lips are warm, gentle. Teasing.
I tip my head.
His lips find the pulse at the side of my throat.
I hum.
He groans.
Arms around my waist, his giant paws hug my hips, drawing me closer and pulling my butt snugly into his erection. Hands move lower. Fingers toy with the hemline of my pretty blue dress. Raise the fabric and skim my stomach, just above the elastic band of my white underwear.
His hands glide higher, dragging the dress along with them, skimming up my abs. Ribcage. The underside of my breasts.
The cool air hits my body at the same time his erection presses into my backside, straining against me. Zeke continues kissing my neck. Sucking. Licking.
Cups both my breasts in his giant hands, sliding them one at a time into the cups of my lacey white demi-bra. There are no wires and no padding; I don’t need them.
“You feel so good, Vi. Better than I thought you would.”
My head tips back, hitting his shoulder and resting there. “You’ve thought about how I’d feel?�
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“Practically every night since the day we met.”
Oh…
Oh.
Oh! His fingers graze my hard nipples, back and forth, and I tip my head back, to the side so he can kiss me. Our tongues roll as he gently strokes my chest.
His calloused palms feel amazing against my smooth flesh.
Those huge hands travel back down my figure, gripping the material of my dress. I raise my arms when he raises the dress up, over my head, relieving me of it altogether, discarding it on his desk chair.
Turns me by the shoulders to face him.
Steely gaze raking me up and down, I stand before him, self-conscious in only my sheer, lacey bra and matching panties, half tempted to cover my small breasts with my hands.
But I don’t.
I don’t because if I can’t stand naked in front of him without covering myself up, then I shouldn’t be standing naked in front of him at all.
But I know the kind of women this guy has been with. Beautiful girls with incredible bodies. Great boobs. Big boobs. Fake boobs. Perfectly coifed hair. Sexy girls with hips and lips and bikini waxes.
I have none of those things.
I don’t even shave down there. Not really. Sometimes I do a little trimming, but that’s about as good as it gets—because really, who is going to be taking any peeks downtown?
I clear my throat to redirect his gaze, off my chest and back to my eyes.
It does.
Slowly.
Up over my lower abs. Flat stomach, ribcage, and breasts. Grazes over my collarbone.
Something in his look though…
It’s tender and…
Kind of stupidly goofy.
Smitten.
His mouth is crooked, white teeth peeking out from between his lips before he bites down on his lower lip. Sucks on it.
Uh…
I take a step backward, legs hitting the back of the bed.
Crawling across the bedspread, I find my way under the covers.
Work the straps of my bra down and off my shoulders. Pull it up over my head and fold it into a square, resting it on his nightstand. Reaching under the covers, I peel my underwear down my legs.