Mundane. What a perfect word to describe me. Mundane and staring into the uncommon brown eyes of the woman who made me want to be brave.
“You’re not chickening out, are you?” Lindsey asked, lacing her fingers behind my neck. Her thumbs pushed soft circles through the hair at the back of my head.
I thought about her question, and honestly, I actually could’ve. I could’ve pushed myself from her and told her to leave. Resigned myself to another night of lonely masturbation and even more lonely sleep. Just to avoid the dreaded possibility of being a mistake, or worse, a regret.
But, even louder than the anxious voice, was the voice of reason. The voice that was telling me I would regret not knowing what it was like to stare into her rare brown eyes, and count just how many flecks of gold glittered within them, as our bodies tied together on my bed.
“Nah, we made it this far. No turnin’ back now,” I said with a chuckle and leaned down to kiss her.
“Good,” she said against my lips.
Nimble fingers gripped my shoulders, memorized my chest and our tongues danced, probing deeper. Those hands moved along my sides, over my stomach, and I erupted in a laugh, pulling away in an attempt at rolling from her.
“You’re ticklish?” Lindsey asked rhetorically, amused, and then leaned over to bite my lip as her hands slipped under my shirt. Underneath my protective arms, she tickled against the sensitive skin of my sides. I wheezed, laughing until my stomach hurt, until she finally stopped and leaned on her elbow beside my head. “God I love your laugh, Sean Kinney.”
My lungs struggled with labored breaths and I glared at her. “So glad I could amuse ya while you tried to kill me. Christ, I need my inhaler.” I reached over to my nightstand and went through the motions: Shake, exhale, puff, inhale, hold. “Now I’m really the hottest guy you’ve ever attempted to sleep with, huh?” I asked with a strangled voice, and exhaled.
Lindsey took the inhaler from my hand and dropped it to the floor beside the bed. She edged toward me, and to my surprise, she nodded slowly.
Lips against mine, she whispered, “Yes.”
The brief tickle break was set aside, and the fire had been stoked, with sparks flying to scatter throughout the room. Her lips molded to mine, moving seamlessly as I sat up to pull my shirt over my head. Her hands and their magnetic pull to my skin went straight to my chest, scraping through the blonde hair. She pulled back, eyes fluttering over the slim cut of my muscles, as they landed on the tattoo on my right shoulder.
“You have a tattoo?”
I laughed, nodding. “Surprised?”
“Yes, and I’m impressed!” she said, fingers brushing over the Celtic-knotted tree. “Is this your only one?” I nodded again, and she smiled. “Too painful?”
“I’m not afraid of pain,” I told her, and it felt like a confession. “But … the permanency of tattoos scares me. I don’t like the thought of marking myself with something I might regret one day.”
“Scared of commitment?” she asked. Her voice was quiet, afraid of asking. Afraid of the answer.
“Only afraid of committing to things that mean nothing to me.” My voice was tight, choked by the almost-slip of another confession: You might mean something to me, and I wouldn’t be scared of committing to you.
Maybe.
“Well then, what does this tattoo mean?” Her long, delicate fingers traced the knotwork. The hairs on my arm stood on end, and I ached against the restriction of those feckin’ jeans.
“Family,” I said, eyes on those dancing fingers, and wishing I had more tattoos for her to memorize. More for her to run her fingers over just like that. Every stroke, every brush … Another shock to my nerves, another jolt to my dick. “My brothers have the same one.”
She blinked, her lips parting with a whispered gasp. “You share a tattoo with your brothers?”
“Yeah,” I said, remembering that day Ryan had convinced Paddy and me to go through with it.
Her fingers stopped, and I couldn’t help feeling a bite of disappointment. I looked to her face, and she said, “I’m jealous of that. I have my parents, and that’s it, and sometimes it feels like I don’t have anybody.”
“You had Jack,” I offered, and then wondered why the hell would I even bring up the ex-boyfriend when I was finally making an attempt at getting laid?
“Jack meant nothing.”
And that moment should have been the mood killer. If it were following the train of anxious skepticism making its rounds in my head, it should have been the moment she climbed off the bed and called it a night. Making the decision not to go through with something she would undoubtedly live to regret, and would need to banish from her daily thoughts.
But instead, she touched my face, feathering those fingers over my cheek and over my jaw. She saw my thoughts in my eyes, saw that train on its infinite track, and said, “This means something, Sean. I don’t know what it means, or if it’ll last beyond this week, but right now … It does.”
“Good,” I said. I smiled at the reassurance and grabbed the edge of her shirt. Needing to move on before I’d require another boost to my confidence. “How about we see what you have goin’ on under here, huh?”
But she pushed my hands away, shaking her head with a coy bite of her lower lip, and she backed off the bed. “Not so fast. We’re living, right? That’s what this week is all about? Not thinking twice, and just going for it.”
“Ehm, yeah, but …”
“Stop, Sean. Stop thinking.”
So, I did.
And although the apartment was silent, save for the faint melodic ticking of the clock on the kitchen wall, Lindsey stood at the foot of the bed and began a slow-motion striptease. Removing the memory of the stripper with her cuties and mocha skin, replacing it with that braid and thin flowered top.
Hips rocking and swirling, fingers moving slowly over her breasts, over her stomach. Down, down, down to the hem of her top. She lifted it off, revealing inch by inch of smooth, tight skin until her breasts were revealed, hidden underneath a red lacy bra. A bra that said she expected this, planned it out in her mind until she’d had the courage to make it happen. Her arms raised, she pulled the top up and over her head, so it dangled from her hands. She giggled playfully, as she lassoed the shirt above her head, tossing it at me, and I smiled. Because, as sexy as it was to watch her sashay and bend, roll her hips and undo her skirt, she was adorable.
And I was in so much trouble.
The skirt dropped, and she stepped out of it as she lowered to her hands and knees, crawling toward the bed. Slowly. Prowling. Her eyes never leaving mine.
“Sit at the edge of the bed,” she demanded in a voice overtaken by desire. I complied, not wanting to argue with a woman, in the middle of a free performance, I would never have dreamed of experiencing in a million years.
Keeping our eyes locked, she knelt at my feet, her hands sliding up my calves and over my thighs to the zipper of my jeans. One featherlight teasing hand ran the length of my erection, and I swallowed. She unbuttoned my jeans, unzipped my fly. Her fingers hooked under the waistband, and she pulled down.
Lindsey bit her lip, looking from my boxers back to my face. “Wolverine? Really? You’re an X-Men guy?”
“You have a problem with Wolverine?” I asked, cocking a brow. “I thought women loved him.”
“Oh no, he’s hot. I just … I just wouldn’t have expected you to be so into someone so assertive.”
My lips curled into a half-smile. “Ah, you take me for a Peter Parker.”
“Who?” She looked so innocent on her knees. Biting her lip with confusion at the mention of my favorite web-slinging superhero, and my fingers itched to grab her hair, to show her what I wanted from that mouth of hers.
“Spider-man,” I offered with a wider smile, those dirty thoughts rampaging through my mind, and she nodded her head at the familiar name. “Anyway, maybe I get tired of being Peter Parker. Maybe Wolverine is who I wish I could be,” I said, as she st
ood up and wrapped her arms around my neck, lowering herself to my lap. My hard-on pressed against her, homing in on the only place it wanted to be, and she hummed with a soft moan that had me gripping her hips between my hands. So impatient, and so, so very nervous I’d screw the whole thing up.
“As long as you’re alive, you can be whatever the hell you want to be, Sean Kinney. Nobody is stopping you, except you,” she said softly, her breath against my lips, and she kissed me gently as one of her hands undid the hair tie holding her braid together. The long blonde hair came undone, spilling along her back and over her shoulders. Wavy and so mermaid-esque, majestic and wild.
Cupping one covered breast in my palm, I slid my other hand between us. I released myself, freely pressing against her matching red thong, and she gasped against my lips. The excitement of being so close deepened the color of her cheeks, and she moved her hips against me with urgent need.
“Tell me you have condoms,” she groaned, resting her forehead against my shoulder, and without a word, I reached for my nightstand drawer. I pulled it open, blindly felt for the box I kept there for hopeful reasons—reasons like this, and I pulled one out.
“God,” she whispered, lifting up to allow me room as I ripped it open. “God, Sean … I want this so bad. I want you so bad. Please …”
I loved hearing her beg. Loved hearing her beg me. The feeling of control coiled around me in a vibrant embrace, and I kissed her hard on the mouth, my tongue probing every corner. I memorized her touch, her taste. She whimpered against my lips, tipped her head back, and I used my tongue to familiarize myself with the length of neck exposed to me.
“God Sean, you’re killing me.” But the thrusting of her precious heart against the walls of her chest told me that was a lie. No, she was very, very much alive, and if even just for a few moments, I knew I was her lifesource.
There was nothing left to say, so fully protected and prepared, I pulled the thong aside, greeted instantly with the slick heat between her legs, and with one thrust, I was enveloped in the most delicious warmth I could fathom. Stars speckled against my eyelids as I shut them to the world, oblivious to that goddamn William Fuller statue watching from below—that feckin’ voyeur—and she and I moved together. Chest against chest, mouth against mouth. She sucked my tongue, pushed me down into the mattress, rode me with the ferocity of someone who was afraid they’d never be fucked again, and when she spilled over, her fingers dug into my shoulders.
Her hips slowed, her hands slid lazily over my chest, and she smiled. “Oh my God,” she groaned, barely allowing the words to escape. “That was, um … Better.”
Better. An elaboration was unnecessary as my mind filled in the blanks.
Better than the ex.
Better than before.
Better than expected.
And to keep my ego inflated for just a few more delicious minutes, I moved my hand between her legs to where we remained joined, and my fingers stroked. “Come again for me.”
Slowly she moved, rocking, but she bit her lip. Doubtful. “I don’t know if—”
Adrenaline rushed through me, and I sat up, pressing against her. Fingers circling, rubbing. “What if this is your last chance?” I asked, playing her at her own mind-fucking, soul-upsetting game. “What if this is your last chance to feel good, to be with me?”
Her mouth fell open, enchanting brown eyes losing vision. “Oh God,” she gasped. “Don’t say that … God, don’t stop.”
“But what if it is, Lindsey?” Fingers moving faster, fingers nudging her toward the edge. “What if this is your last chance of havin’ me inside you? What if this is the one and only time we’ll ever get to come together? What if your entire feckin’ life has built up to this moment, and what if—” My mouth hung open, frozen around the words that poured from my brain, from my heart, from the relentless upward thrusts into her body.
And I watched her.
Watched her squeeze her eyes shut, watched her drift away from me. Away into a world where I could be anybody with a hard cock and twitching fingers. I could have taken it as an insult—the closing of her eyes—but no, I took it as an opportunity to watch the changing of her features. The parting of her lips, the swipe of her tongue over her full upper lip. The elongation of her neck as she tipped her head back, her hair pouring over her spine. Arching, pressing her heaving chest to mine.
And then, just as I was watching the sparkling dew collect over the curve of her collar, she opened her eyes. Came back to me.
“What if, what? Tell me,” she whispered, choked for breath, and I broke my gaze from her face, to rest my temple to hers, my lips to her ear.
I swallowed, wishing my throat didn’t feel so feckin’ dry, and with more confidence than I could have imagined myself feeling, I began again, with the intention of finishing my thought. This time, without the distraction of her parted lips and mermaid hair.
“What if your whole feckin’ life has built up to this moment, and what if this is your last chance to truly be alive?”
Her temple pressed to mine, quivering breath whistling against my ear. Her nails gripped my shoulders, digging and holding. Holding on so feckin’ tight. I felt them pierce my skin. Felt the warm, stinging rush of blood spot along those crescent moon marks.
“Sean …”
How many times have I heard my name in my thirty-one years of life? How many times has it been said casually, as nothing more than a way to address me? How many times has it been said with annoyance, to scold?
Too many times. Too many times to remember them all.
But how many times had it passed through the pouty lips of a woman who could have been a mythical figment of my overactive imagination? How many times had I heard it as the prelude to orgasm, hanging on a lower lip, swaying with deep, jagged gasps?
Once.
My hands circled her hips, holding her to me as we fell over the edge together. Dropping into the abyss where nobody could hear us shouting each other’s names. Falling, falling, and riding those earthquake tremors as one with the sinking of teeth into a shoulder. The touch of lips to a neck. Her tears against my chest as we collapsed onto that bed, thoroughly sated and wasted.
“Don’t do that,” I said, brushing her hair from her cheek. “Please, don’t cry.”
“I just …” She swatted at the tears wetting her face. “I’m sorry. I’ve just had a really good day.”
Something told me she hadn’t had a really good day in a long time.
“So did I,” I replied in a choked voice, as I ran through all of those hours spent with her and my family. Together. So comfortable, like it was always meant to be that way. I continued stroking her hair and asked, “What would you do, if you weren’t afraid?”
She swallowed, nuzzling her cheek into my chest, and she said, “I’d ask if I could stay here for the next five days, until I go home.”
My mouth dried up. Panic. Fear. “Home? I thought ya weren’t sure what you were doing?”
“I had known you for a couple of hours when I said that, and … I don’t know. I didn’t feel like telling the truth, I guess. But I’ve already made arrangements with my parents to move back in with them,” she said in the smallest of voices, as though she didn’t want to tell me. As though I meant anything more than the guy she just had casual sex with.
But why didn’t it feel all that casual?
“Where’s that?”
“North Carolina.”
Lord, if my heart could have exploded from the impact of words, that moment would’ve been it.
I stared into the dark room with this beautiful, temporary woman laying against my chest, her tears soaking into my skin, nurturing my life with water and sunshine, and I surprised myself by shuddering a sigh. I felt on the verge of finally succumbing to those damned emotions, at the thought of her being nothing more than a memory, at the thought of every moment that week being one step closer to the very last chance I’d have at being with her.
I hated it.
“That’s far away,” I noted, stating the obvious, and she nodded against my chest.
“It is,” she agreed. “But I had never planned on staying if Jack and I ever broke up. This isn’t my home.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said, but I wondered if we could be in love, if I could eventually be her home, because in that moment, I knew there was nowhere else I wanted to be than right there, with her. What reason did I have to believe that couldn’t last forever?
CHAPTER SIX |
Morning Breath & Roommates
Tuesday
It was her heart that woke me.
Her peppered kisses along my jaw, the fluttering of her fingers over my chest and neck and shoulders. Her breathy whispers and the nuzzling of her nose against my ear … None of that could pull me far enough out of sleep to open my eyes.
But when she had given up her attempts, her arm draped over my chest as she laid her head back down. With my mind still hushed with slumber, I imagined the rhythmic pulses from her wrist, traveling through that arm and to her heart. The thrumming that had hammered in my ear in the dark after sex. The steady beat that had settled against my side as we both fell asleep.
I wondered if that heart could beat solely for me, and knowing if I were to ever make that happen, I’d have to open my feckin’ eyes and begin my day. So, my eyelids blinked to a new sun, a new day, and I moved my head on the pillow, glancing down to her, and smiling into her open eyes.
“Good morning, Sean Kinney,” she said, her voice light and happy from the good night’s sleep. “I haven’t slept like that in a long time.”
“Me neither.” I covered my mouth, yawning into my palm. “God,” I muttered. “I need to brush my teeth.”
Lindsey giggled against my shoulder. “Nobody ever talks about the less-than-glamorous aspects of spontaneous sleepovers.”
I nodded thoughtfully. “No … I don’t suppose they do, and the movies certainly don’t help either. Does anybody ever have morning breath in the movies?”
Last Chance to Fall Page 7