by Lena Maye
I’ve stepped into Country Living magazine.
Next I’m going to discover an Apache rug and calf-skin pillows. There’s nothing about the style that matches up with Kepler. I don’t get it—what is he hiding? “Other than embarrassment about the mountain-man design scheme, why didn’t you want me to see where you live?”
He takes off his glasses and deposits them in his front pocket. “I don’t do all that much living in here.” Kepler’s steady gaze follows me as I walk between the leather couches and place my palm against the cold stones that form the fireplace. “Well, I do live here, I suppose. But I haven’t changed anything in these rooms since my grandfather died.”
The windows behind him are black except for the reflection of his gray t-shirt stretched across his shoulders.
I blink at him. “Then show me where you do live.”
He tilts his head away. I won’t let him keep hiding. Even if I have to storm past him to discover why it took so long for me to stand there. I step towards the back of the room.
“Lo.” In two long strides, he’s next to me. He takes my hand. “I’ll show you.”
I follow him down a hallway—past the kitchen and down another hallway. Just when I’m about to ask where the hell we’re going, he leads me to a room heavy with humidity and heat. Moonlight streams down through an arched glass ceiling and plays over the plants.
Weed.
Other plants too—orchids and a tree that dips over us with limes and white flowers. But mostly a whole lot of weed. My fingers brush over the pointed edges of the leaves. “You didn’t want me to see this.”
“I never wanted you to see this.” His eyes are so dark in the moonlight that I can’t read his expression. But the tension that runs across his shoulders and into his arms is enough to make me uncomfortable.
I don’t know what to say. “I thought it would be stinkier.”
He points up at tubing crossing the room. “I built a carbon filtration system.”
Tubes and wires crisscross above us. Of course Kepler with his scientific brain and quick fingers would have built all this stuff. He wasn’t lying when he said he’d have an advanced filtration system.
“This can’t be all for you.” I let my fingers skip to the next plant. “How many plants are in here? Fifty?”
“One hundred and two and, no, I’m more of a caretaker.”
“A caretaker for whom?”
He shakes his head. The lighter comes out of his pocket and flicks on and off. He won’t tell me easily. It’ll be another discussion. Another round of pulling information out of him.
“You want me to be honest with you. Why don’t I get the same?” I stalk through the rows of plants that are taller than me, down the aisles of leaves and meticulous labels with dated notes and everything in perfect rows. How long does it take a pot plant to grow that tall? “How many plants can you have? Legally?”
He stands close to the door, his hands deep in his pockets. “Six.”
Fuck. This is the secret. Sloane couldn’t turn away from something like this. Can I? Is this a secret I can keep? That I should keep?
He watches me—waiting for my reaction, maybe. But I don’t even know what that is. Confusion. Anger. It’s all twined together like a rope. And something else is there too. Hurt.
Heat builds behind my eyes. “I want to see it all. Every fucking corner.”
He takes my hand, and I blink away the tears when he turns. We head back through the Country Living entrance, bypassing the stupid fireplace to some metal stairs that wind up in a tight coil.
At the top of the stairs, the room is cool with the night air, the stars so bright I think they might be trying to spotlight us. It’s dark except for a sweep of night sky that cuts down the center of the ceiling in a line. There’s nothing between them and us, the roof wide open. Rolled back, I guess. And in the center of the room is a telescope. A far more complex one than I’ve ever seen.
“It’s open because I was here when you pulled up.” Kepler steps past me into the room. “The security lights interrupt the viewing. That’s how I knew you were here.”
I touch the cold metal of the telescope with my fingertips. “This is incredible, Kepler.”
“Take a seat.” He nods towards the chair under the telescope.
I shake my head. “I want you to explain how you own all this.”
“I will.” He nods towards the chair again. “If you take a seat.”
I grumble but slide into the reclined seat—set up close to the eyepiece. His hand falls on my shoulder as he leans in next to me, his fingers doing some adjusting on the thing.
“Look,” he says.
I lean forward, pressing my eye up to the viewfinder, and am greeted with nothing but blackness.
“How’s that?” His low voice curls around me.
“All I see is blur.”
More adjusting. “How about now?”
I squint through the eyepiece. And then I see it. Tiny and hanging like a pendant against black velvet. It looks so delicate—arcing rings around a yellow-brown marble. “Is that… Saturn?”
“Do you see the shadow of her rings on the planet?” His low voice fills my head.
“I…” The planet looks so real. I mean, I know it’s real. But to see it like that—shadows and merging colors and the flat disk of the rings. “Yes, I see it.”
“You can only see the shadows sometimes. A little glimpse, and then it’s gone.”
I lean back and turn to find Kepler close. He steps back as I slide out of the seat, careful not to touch the telescope. It must be worth… God, I don’t even want to think about it.
It’s all so real. Not just the planet. But this house. It’s been here this whole time, and he didn’t…
“So, a little glimpse is all I get?” I cross my arms over my chest. “Is that what you are trying to say with your stupid Saturn metaphor?” I swallow back the tears. I’m not going to cry. No matter what the fuck happens.
He stands so still in front of me—almost frozen. “I do have limits, Lo. As much as I would like to pretend otherwise, I’m not indestructible. Am I just supposed to open up my life to you? Let you play around in it for a little while before you decide to go back to one of those non-townies you always seem so intent upon?”
“You think I’m going to break up with you?”
“I can handle that, Lo. I've told you that you can break up with me as much as you want.” He sighs, his hand running over the back of his neck. “But I can’t watch you go back to one of them. I can't watch you kiss another guy knowing that it’s not what you want. Especially not after…” He shrugs, but there’s nothing casual about it. “The Saturn metaphor was about you. You’re Saturn, Lo. And I’m just trying to get a glimpse.”
I blink up at him, my heart growing like three sizes in two seconds. The house, the door knockers, the weed—they’re all so far away right now.
His hand drops from his neck. “So if you’re going to leave, then do it now.”
I grab his t-shirt. “I’m not going to leave.”
He starts to talk, but I find his lips. I’m done with words. All the words between us—they’re just getting in the way.
“Lo,” he murmurs between kisses. Then his tongue fills me. I tip up into his kiss, letting him consume me. His growl is low and demanding, and his hands slide around my hips and down to the hem of my dress, tickling my thighs and tugging up the fabric. He sucks in a sharp breath as he grips my bare ass—my little thong apparently doing its job—before his fingers loop one side of the thin string over my hips, pulling it partway down. The string rubs against me, and fuck, rolls against my clit.
My head drops back, stupidly releasing the kiss, as my legs turn to liquid. He tugs on the strap again, a mischievous glint in those charcoal eyes. Something way past playful.
He starts to pick me up, but I shake my head and look up. I want the stars. Like the ones that were stacked above us that night on the roof. Like the ones that we
re there a few hours ago when he left me chastely on my doorstep. I lean away, shifting my weight so it pulls us backward. It’s all he can do to catch us just before we crash back against the floor, his weight pushing the air from my lungs.
My breath hangs. I suck in harder, panic tickling at the back of my mind, but then I get a full inhalation. Just one—before he kisses me again. Steamrolling me into the floor, his thumb smooths over the triangle of my teeny thong, and I arch up into him so hard that pains dart from my nipples deep into my chest, a long sigh winding out of me.
And he’s hardly even touching me. In fact, he’s not touching me at all. Just that little triangle of fabric. He’s propped above me—devouring me. Not just with his eyes, but with his whole fucking presence. His thumb traces a circle on the fabric, and then it slips under. I squirm against the hard floor, those soft moans waterfalling from me and pooling around the liquid that is my legs. That is me beneath his hands. And just when I think I can’t puddle anymore, he slips a finger inside of me.
“Kep—” I grip his arm as he rocks into me.
My body answers the questions my mind can’t. I can do this—I want to do this. He leans down to kiss me, softer this time with uncharacteristic tenderness.
I push him away for long enough to yank up on his t-shirt. He tosses it aside, and his glasses clatter against the floor. My hands slide across the plane of his shoulders and down his biceps. His muscles are tense with a quiet strength that extends deeper than tissue and skin. As if all of him is built of this strength that hides behind t-shirts and glasses. A surprise, like the swell of shadows against a faraway planet.
My eyes fall to the top edge of his jeans. “There’s something wrong with your stomach.” My voice is quiet—teasing, but quiet.
He glances down and then looks up to raise an eyebrow at me.
“You’re all lumpy.” I trace the lean muscles of his stomach, hard to see in the dim light. But, oh, the feel.
His laugh is low and moves his stomach against my fingers. “They’re called abs. I’m sure you’ve encountered them before.”
“And how does a pothead get abs like that?”
“Well…” One of his hands tangles in my hair, and the other smooths down my thigh. “I do have a gym downstairs.”
I laugh, my head pushing back into the tile. “Of course you do.” The silver button at the top of his jeans is cold. I tug it open. “Let’s see what else is wrong with you.” But the teasing in my voice dissipates.
“Lo.” His voice is gruff. And almost hesitant. “Are you sure?”
I nod, and he intensifies into that smolder—eyes darkening, jaw sharpening. I slide down his zipper, grazing against the hardness of his cock. Holy fuck—he fills my hand. More than fills it.
“What the hell is that…” I fight for the right word. “…that… beast?”
His laugh is rough and dark. “Did you just call my dick a beast?”
“No,” I snap. I smooth my hand down, loving the way it seems to make him darken even more—his intensity ratcheting. “That would just be stupid.”
“I think you called it a beast.” His lips skim across my neck. “And I think I want to hear it again.”
“Shut up, Kepler.” I twist my head into his kiss. He takes my mouth and pushes up against me, hard and solid and so, so fucking good that it lights that want I have for him. Lights it like a fucking thousand-watt bulb, even though we are swimming in shadows and the glow of stars. My legs spread for him, his jeans scraping against the inside of my thighs. I run my hands over the curve of his back along his spinal cord—a valley that shoots down his back to the stupid fabric between us. Over his ass to… wait… what the hell is that?
I stop, my hand over his back pocket, feeling something inside. Square. Sharp-edged.
“Do you have a condom in your back pocket?” I blurt.
“Yes, Lo.” He doesn’t pause the open-mouthed kisses that curl up under my jaw, and it’s all I can do to keep my brain focused on the question at hand.
“When did you put a condom in your pocket?”
“Earlier tonight.” He pushes thick hardness between my legs, tempting me. But I have to know the answer to my question.
“Before or after our date?” I can barely get the words out, my breath coming fast with how freaking solid he is against me.
“Before.” Kisses turn to light nibbles along the edge of my ear. “Because of our date, Lo.”
I turn my head to give him access, and those nibbles deepen—quickening my already too-fast breath. “Because you wanted to fuck me?”
He pauses, holding himself above me. His shoulders tense with the weight on his arms. “I’ve wanted to fuck you for a very long time.”
I close my eyes, listening to our breathing. To a light creak that must be the breeze against the open ceiling. His words do something—light a fire and soften it at the same time.
“Then do it.” It’s a whisper. But it feels louder than any words I’ve ever said before.
He pushes off the floor and slides down his jeans, standing as he shrugs out of them. They drop on the floor, but not before pulling that packet out.
And there he is… it is. I actually get a little nervous. Okay, a lot nervous.
I start to pull down my tiny thong, but he stops me with a look, drops to his knees and loops his fingers in the string. He yanks them down in one movement. His gaze traces me as he pushes up my dress, pulling it over my head, and then unclasps my bra. I’m displayed before him—my nipples at attention, my breath coming so hard and fast that my chest pitches. He’s between my legs—all those inches coming towards me. And, fuck… my thighs slap together.
He sits up, looking down at me. “Don’t be scared, Lo.”
“I’m not scared.” My voice is breathier than necessary.
“Of course you are,” he says. “You’re scared of what you want from me.”
“No.” Yes. “I’m not scared.” Terrified.
“I know you were serious when you told me you have expectations.” He trails a finger across one of my knees as if he’s asking for permission. I let them fall open, and his hand slides down, his thumb resuming that swirl over my clit. “I only have one expectation. That you want this. One hundred percent.”
I take a shaky breath and nod, and he leans closer to me, the tip of his cock replacing his thumb. He spirals it against my clit, calling my hips up. I arch, my body begging him to slide into me. My want edged with fear—but still want. One-hundred percent want.
“Please,” I whimper, remembering how he didn’t like that word from me before. But this time he answers by easing into me. Pushing lightly in and out. Smoothly and slowly. He’s so fucking in control. Not the full force I’d expected.
I let out a breath. The last guy I was with wasn’t so…
“That’s not so bad,” I find myself saying. “I thought it might, well, hurt a little.”
“I’m only halfway inside of you, Lo.” And then he presses in, and I forget to breathe—I forget everything except how he stretches me to fit around him. I buck up against him because, holy fuck, the warmth of him inside me is so fucking good, and I’m frustrated with the slow, steady movement. I want…
Images wind up to the front of my brain. I imagine his fingers digging into my hips. His hand against my throat. I try to ignore the pictures, but they keep playing, just like they did with Ty and all the others. God, I don’t want them there. I don’t want them to be a part of this.
“Kepler.” His name is an uneven twist. “I keep thinking of—”
He claps a hand over my mouth. My head knocks into the floor, and I gasp, surprised by the intensity of it. And how I want more. But his hand falls, and he wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me up. He kneels with me on his lap and arches himself up in me. Hitting me somewhere so deep that a shot of delicious pain laces through me.
“If you can form thoughts, then I’m not fucking you hard enough.” He pushes into me with so much force that those
images in my brain go white. He fills every part of me. Hits every nerve. Pleasure tipped in ache with each thrust. The pleasure makes me moan. The ache keeps me with him.
My feet slip across the tile, but when they catch hold, he knocks them away. I’ve got no control. No say over how deep he fucks me. I hold onto his shoulders, and all I can think about is him inside me and the sensations growing in my body and shooting down my legs. Warmth and all the needs that light in me. I arch, trying to get him even deeper—I think he might fill all of me—up to my fucking heart.
He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t pause or give me a moment to breathe. He fucks me until I’ve got no thoughts left. No images of wanting something else. Just blissfulness I didn’t know existed.
I wish I could stay there forever.
Fifteen
Too-bright sunlight is the worst way to wake up. It’s not the first time I’ve fallen asleep with my head on our breakfast bar and woken up with light battering me from the skylight. But it is the first time I’ve woken up on the breakfast bar and realized I’m not there. Instead of just a skylight, the entire observatory ceiling is open.
I find a pillow under my head, a sheet wrapped around my legs.
I don’t remember falling asleep. Or Kepler bringing me the sheet.
But I sure as hell remember everything else. And if I’d forgotten, the dull ache spreading across my entire body would certainly remind me. When I sit up, the ache intensifies in specific smile-inducing zones and makes me corkscrew around to find the source.
Kepler sits on the floor with his back to me, staring up at the open ceiling. The sunlight intensifies the blond in his hair. The muscles of his back angle down to his hips like an invitation.
Meo-shi-seo. Maybe morning sunlight isn’t so terrible.
His lighter catches and smoke curls above his head.
His name lingers on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t say it.