by Lydia Reeves
It was like this shy, soft, serious man knew exactly how to read me, just how to build anticipation. Just as he had with his ghosting touches, his kisses built the same way, teasing, slow, until I couldn’t take it anymore and found myself twisting and writhing in my seat. And then he would ratchet it up a notch, a long slide of his tongue on mine, his fingers tangled in my hair to tilt my head just right.
I’d never been kissed like that before. Any hesitation he’d shown earlier didn’t carry over into his kisses, and I felt like my blood had turned to fire, like I might combust at any second.
I’d never known anyone who could read me so perfectly, could control my reactions and keep me wound so tight, and I didn’t even realize how much he was being affected as well until he groaned, long and low in his throat, his breath a shuddering gasp as he moved his mouth to my jaw. The power I felt in that moment was exhilarating, but quickly forgotten as I melted into his touch once again.
I don’t know how long we sat in the car. It might have been minutes or hours. Long enough for the cold to seep in and turn my fingers and toes to ice, until not even the heat of his kisses could thaw them. While the thought of staying here forever and slowly freezing to death in his embrace had a certain appeal, finally I forced myself to break the kiss and lean my forehead against his. We were both breathing hard, and his face was flushed in the dim illumination of the moonlight.
“As much as I enjoy making out in the car like a couple of teenagers, I don’t think frostbite is very sexy,” I told him.
He sat back a little, eyes dark on my face as he caught his breath. “Thank you for tonight,” he said. “I really—”
“Please,” I cut him off. “Come upstairs with me.”
He didn’t protest, didn’t say another word. Just pressed another lingering kiss to my swollen lips and pulled back, climbing out and locking the car. The loss of his touch was jarring, but he was back almost immediately, hands warm on my back even through my coat as he followed me into the building and up the stairs to my second-floor apartment. We were kissing again before we made it to the door.
Chapter 6
GEOFF
No one had ever been as sexy as Bria. Her hair was mussed from my hands, her lips red from my mouth, her face flushed, and I barely got her in the door before her coat was puddled on the floor, wicked-looking cherry red heels kicked beside it. She lost three inches of height without them, but she still seemed to fit me perfectly.
Her lips fitted to my throat as she pushed me backward down a short hallway toward what I assumed was her bedroom. Her hands fisted in my suit jacket, pulling it off my shoulders and tossing it carelessly to the floor. We shed clothing as we went, dropping them heedlessly in our wake, until I found myself in her room, the side of the bed pressing into the backs of my legs, wearing only my suit trousers, shirt unbuttoned and hanging on by one sleeve.
I barely remembered the trip down the hall, lost in a hazy fog of tangled limbs and sliding lips, heavy breaths and soft skin.
She still wore her dress, but her sweater had been abandoned along the way, and one of her straps had fallen down over her arm. Her eyes were as bright as stars as she reached behind her for the zipper to the dress.
“Wait,” I said hoarsely. “Stop.” She froze, fingers still poised behind her.
“Wait,” I said again, softer this time, and the corner of my mouth pulled up. “Don’t ruin the suspense.”
She rolled her eyes. “You and your suspense.” But her hands fell away from the zipper.
I watched her for a moment, all flushed skin and parted lips. So beautiful. Then I lunged. I caught her around the waist, and she gasped out a laugh as I tossed her onto the bed, face down. She made to turn over and I climbed up as well, straddling her legs and pinning her down, surprising myself with my own actions. This woman seemed to bring out a side of me I hadn’t known was there, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. No one had ever turned me on the way she did. Leaning forward, I swept her hair off her neck and bent to press a kiss to her hairline. She went still, spreading her arms out at her sides and waiting to see what I would do.
I did the only thing I could, what was quickly becoming my favorite thing to do. I touched her, just a brush of fingertips at the nape of her neck, where the finial to a sweeping flourish of filigree ended. I felt her shiver against me, and I took it as encouragement, tracing my finger down the line of ink. The design spread out across her shoulder blades, and my fingers did as well, following the patterns etched into her skin.
She arched into my touch, grinding back against me in a way that nearly derailed me entirely, but I persevered, tracing over the lines until they disappeared under her dress. I needed to see more. I needed to see everything.
I grasped the zipper in one hand and began to pull it down, one slow inch at a time, and she whimpered, her hands fisting into the blanket. I watched as the design was revealed. It spanned her entire back, a wash of color, sweeping lines and shapes that formed a scene of such beauty I was astonished at the quality. I’d had no idea tattoos like that were even possible. With a slide of fabric, I pulled the dress off completely, the rustling crinolines as well, and the tiny scrap of lace beneath them, before sitting back to admire the view. The artist had taken care to emphasize her figure, and the design followed her curves, sweeping down the expanse of her back, curving in at her waist before flaring out again at her hips.
I couldn’t help myself. I leaned down, replacing my fingers with my mouth, pressing kisses all along the length of her spine, tasting her skin, breathing her in. She squirmed against me, and finally I lightened up the pressure, giving her space to flip over to face me.
“You’re so beautiful,” I told her, and she reached up for me, snagging what was left of my shirt and pulling me down to kiss her. She hitched a leg up over my hip and I could feel the wet heat of her, pressing exactly where I wanted her.
I wanted to see the rest of her artwork too, because in my brief glimpse I could see she had bold patterns splashed across her torso as well, spanning her waist and down both legs. I wanted to freeze time so I could stop and look, admire and touch and taste every square inch of her, but the friction of her was more than I could handle. My breathless impatience was growing to match hers, and when she reached down between us and fumbled with my pants it was all I could do to help, kicking them off and pulling her close again. Her hand slipped in between us and wrapped around me, a startling jolt of pressure that made my breath catch in my throat, and then our lips were together again as she guided me, sliding me into the slick heat of her body, and the feel of her was overwhelming.
I would have time to look at her later. To touch her everywhere and ask a million questions, about her ink, her job, her family, her friends, her life. Because as we moved together, hands clutching, breath coming fast, bodies slick, all I could think was, I’ll never be able to get enough of her.
* * *
Sunday was usually my day off from the bookstore, and while any other week that wouldn’t stop me from spending my morning working in the kitchen and bringing a tray of freshly-baked something-or-others over to Sam’s, for the first time in over a year, on this morning I had other things on my mind.
Other things that took the form of long smooth legs that tangled with my own. Arms that twined around my neck and pulled me close. Soft lips and soft hair and soft skin. Low, dirty laughs and breathless gasps.
When the sun came streaming in through the open blinds and she lay sprawled, still asleep, across the tangled blankets, I finally got a real look at her. I’d never seen anything like her. I’d been right—the ink covered her front as well, an intricate scene that tied into the one on her back, leaving only her nipples bare.
Unable to help myself, I reached out and traced a finger around one nipple, watching it tighten into a peak, before widening my circles to take in the weight of her breast. She shifted in her sleep, then slowly blinked awake, dark lashes revealing sleepy blue eyes.
“
Good morning,” I said hesitantly. The previous night had been amazing, but this morning I had no idea where we stood. No idea what she would be thinking, or how she would react. Had it been too fast? Undoubtedly. Did I regret it? Not one bit. But that didn’t mean she felt the same way.
She stretched languorously in the sheets before sitting up, but she didn’t move to cover herself, which I took to be a good sign. But then she just looked at me for a long moment, blinking owlishly, and my uncertainty returned.
When she did finally speak, her voice was a demanding bark. “Coffee!”
I couldn’t help but laugh. Not a morning person then. “Coming right up.”
Half an hour later we sat together in bed, partially dressed and drinking coffee, and as she began to wake up, we talked. My fears began to dissipate as she showed no sign of regret or apprehension, and I hung on her every word, eager to know everything I could about her.
I learned that she suffered from vitiligo, a disease that caused her to lose pigment in her skin in blotches, turning her naturally creamy skin to a stark white. It mostly affected her legs, and she’d been teased mercilessly about it as a teenager.
“Is that why you started getting tattoos?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Not at first. My first was here, on my hip.” She had commandeered my dress shirt from the night before and was wearing it, partially unbuttoned, leaving me only with my suit pants to put back on. My shirt came down nearly to her knees, and I had to admit, seeing her in it was something I could get used to.
She pulled up the black fabric and indicated a tiny faded red rose near her hipbone that had since been worked into a larger design. “I didn’t really think about using tattoos to cover the pigment loss until my artist suggested it. He was dating my roommate in college, and she knew I was pretty insecure about my legs. She must have told him about it because one time when we were together, he mentioned that I could cover the skin with tattoos, and no one would notice the vitiligo.”
She pointed to an area of skin on her calf, covered over with a bright cluster of flowers in an art nouveau-style frame, and while I could see the patches of discolored skin, she was right, I would never have known if she hadn’t pointed it out. I told her so and she nodded and smiled.
“I think that was the beginning of the end. I started covering my legs, and I never stopped.”
“Is the vitiligo still spreading?” I asked, lightly touching the skin on her leg, tracing the line of pigment loss as it disappeared behind the bold flowers. She shivered but shook her head.
“No, it seemed to stop in my mid-twenties. But I was too far down the tattooing rabbit hole at that point.”
I took a drink of my coffee and looked at her with a thoughtful expression. “I would imagine,” I said carefully, “that you probably get more attention from the tattoos than you did from the vitiligo.”
Her face hardened slightly, but she nodded. “I do. But…it’s different. I was just a kid then, and kids are mean.”
“Are people not mean about the tattoos?”
“Sure, they are. It might be worse, even, because these are adults, and I think it comes more from prejudice than from ignorance, like it was when I was young. But…” She paused to think, pulling absently at a loose thread on the edge of the blanket. “It’s different, you know? These were my choice. I hated the vitiligo; I hated how it made me look different. And I know I still look different, but I love the way I look now. I’m happy with myself, and I wasn’t before. Does that make sense?”
I nodded. It really did. I could completely understand the desire to make choices for yourself that made you happy, even if they upset other people. I only wished I had the guts to flaunt it openly the way she did.
“I think that’s really admirable,” I told her. “It takes a lot of courage to do what you want and not care about what other people think.” I paused for a second. “What do your parents think?”
“They like them,” she told me. “Or, at least, my dad does. I’m not sure my mom cares either way. They’re not originally from around here, and they’re both pretty open-minded. It helps. A lot, really. I don’t know that I would have pushed it so far if I hadn’t had their support from the beginning.”
I nodded, shifting on the blankets as I thought about her words. I wondered how my own path might have been different if I’d had support in the beginning from the people who mattered.
She seemed to follow my line of thoughts, because after a minute she said softly, “You said yesterday that your dad didn’t approve of your baking. Has he always…”
She trailed off, as if she wasn’t quite sure how to finish the question. I mentally filled in the options. Been overbearing? Been judgmental? Disapproved of all my choices? It didn’t matter. The answer would be the same regardless.
“I was supposed to be a doctor,” I told her. She raised an eyebrow. “Maybe a lawyer, or an engineer, those might have been okay too, but doctor was always the first choice.”
“His, or yours?”
I shrugged. “Both, I guess. He was always pretty strict growing up, and I’ve never been much of a rule-breaker, not really. It was always easier to just try to make him happy. I always failed, because I was never the tough, manly kid he wanted, but at least I figured I could give him that. So, I always assumed I’d be a doctor, too. I made it all the way to med school.”
Her eyes went wide in surprise. “What happened?”
I looked down at my lap. “I’ve always been kind of squeamish around blood. Turns out that’s not something I could easily get over. I dropped out after one semester.”
She winced. “I imagine your dad was upset.”
I laughed, but there was no humor in it. “That’s one way to put it.”
“So, why baking?”
I leaned back on my hands. I wondered if she was as interested in me as I was in her. It was too bad my story wasn’t as interesting as hers was.
“My grandma loved to bake,” I said. “I was a sensitive kid, and if I got picked on, at school or at home, I’d go to her house. I spent a lot of time with her, and she used to teach me to bake when I was a kid. I guess it’s always been a hobby. My undergrad degree is in chemistry, which my dad thought was a good plan for med school, but I got really interested in applying it to baking. It can be pretty scientific, learning how ingredients work together and how they react.” I shrugged again. “I needed a job after I dropped out of school, and I ended up finding work in a bakery. I was there for a few years, then Sam opened his store, and…I dunno. It’s good to do something I enjoy while I figure out where to go next.”
“Where to go next?” She looked at me closely.
“Well, sure. I’m not going to work at the bookstore forever. Someday I’ll get a real job. I’m just not sure what it’ll be yet. I’ll need to save up for another year or two, but I’ve been thinking about applying to law school.”
Chapter 7
BRIA
I felt like I’d stepped into some alternate reality. One where a really amazing guy wanders into my life, asks me out, takes me home and screws me senseless, then—gasp—sticks around, asks me about my life, shows interest in all its mundane details, and wants to see me again. It was like the plot of some cheesy rom com. Well, either that or things were about to go spectacularly wrong—like I’d find out he was secretly married and a father to quintuplets, or he had an obsession with women’s shoes, or he was on the run from the mob. Or more likely, I thought with a pang, he had an abusive childhood, or a secret drinking problem.
It had to be something. Things like this just didn’t happen to normal people.
But, at least for the time being, it seemed to be happening to me. We spent almost the whole day together on Sunday, in and out of bed, eating takeout on the couch, ignoring the movies we let play in the background. While I had managed to get him to open up at least a little about his family and his job, it was obvious he didn’t like to talk about either, and tended to change the subject
when they came up. But I learned lots of other useful information about him—like the fact that he didn’t care to wear a lot of clothing around his apartment, something I certainly wasn’t complaining about. Those shoulders…
I also learned that while he loved to bake, he didn’t seem to like to cook, and ate out as much as he ate in. I learned that he had studied abroad in France for a semester in college, and while his French was absolutely terrible, I still couldn’t keep my hands off him when he tried to speak it.
That Sunday was one of the best days I’d had in a long, long time. In the evening, forced out of our isolated bubble and back into harsh reality, Geoff drove me to pick up my car from the parking lot outside Claire’s building, where I hoped she hadn’t noticed it had been sitting since the night before. I left with no small amount of apprehension, worried that the magic of the day would dissipate with any amount of distance. Had I overinflated our connection? Was it just a fun one-time thing and now that it was over would he want to move on? Was I being that girl right now, overanalyzing everything?
My apartment felt cold and empty without him there, but with evidence of him everywhere, from the empty takeout containers in the kitchen to the rumpled sheets on the bed that still smelled like him. My apartment had never seemed so foreign.
In the end, I hadn’t been home more than half an hour when my cell phone rang. When I saw his picture on the display, I let it ring three more times before I answered so as not to seem too eager, feeling completely idiotic the whole time.
He didn’t even say hello.
“I miss you,” he informed me. “How can I miss you? It hasn’t even been an hour.”
I put on my best condescending tone, even as relief swept through me. “Seriously, Geoff? That sounds pretty needy. I don’t think we should see each other again.”