by Ginger Scott
I like simple. There’s potency in simple. There’s…magic in simple. And these simple moments are just for me and Ty, and nobody else.
He’s held me close in his lap for three whole songs, and I marvel that his right arm isn’t tired from spinning us in a slow circle. He’s rocked me once or twice, too.
His left hand has slid around my shoulders, to my breast, finally coming to rest along the side of my face. It’s the most tender of touches, and his thumb glides along my cheek in a way that honestly makes me feel beautiful. The CD starts to skip badly now, and even that somehow just seems right.
Ty reaches over and smacks the top of the player, and it makes the music skip ahead to some sort of reggae song that isn’t remotely romantic, and it makes us both turn and look at the music player and laugh.
“Where did you even get this CD?” I ask.
“Record Exchange,” he says, smacking it once more, causing it to start back at the beginning. I like the beginning. I like the thought of staying here, like this all night, starting over and over.
“I hope you didn’t pay much for it,” I say.
“No, got it for free. Well…sort of,” he says, and I lean back, quirking an eyebrow up. “I traded in one of Nate’s movies.”
“He’s going to be pissed,” I say, laying my head down on his shoulder, my hand tucked under his shirt against his bare chest so I can feel the movement of his muscles, his heart, his skin.
“No, he won’t. I watched it a shitload more than he did anyway. Nate’s not really a porn kinda guy.”
“Oh,” I say, suddenly uncomfortable at the thought of Ty and porn and me. And Nate. And, oh God! He can feel the heat on my face, he must, because he’s trying to look me in the eye, and I’m trying to bury myself under his arm.
“Cass, what kind of movie did you think I’d trade in for a shitty CD?” he says, amused by my embarrassment.
“I don’t know. I just…wow. Do you, like…watch that stuff? I mean, with your brother?” I’m so uncomfortable. I don’t know why. I’ve seen porn. The guys in high school used to play them at parties just to make the girls blush. It never bothered me. But something about talking about it with Ty is…weird.
“First off, you don’t watch porn. You use it,” he says, and I hold up my hand and slide from his lap to my bed. As much as I want to stay in his arms all night, in our dance, right now the urge to bury my face in my pillow is stronger.
“Nope, that’s good. Don’t need to hear any more,” I say, and he pulls himself close to me, leaving his chair and lying flat alongside me. When I try to cover my face with my hands, he pulls them away.
“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. It’s actually a really amazing business concept with high levels of demand and never-ending supply,” he says, talking about it like a commodity. “We should watch one.”
“Oooohhhhh kay. I think we’re done talking about porn now,” I say, red again, only to find him getting closer, teasing me.
“You know, that’s what I’m getting my MBA for,” he says, and my head snaps to him, I’m sure my eyes are wide and full of shock. “Oh yeah, I’m going to invest heavily in the industry. There’s a ton of scratch to be made.”
I hold his stare, trying to read his face, figure out if he’s bluffing me. Ty is good. He could sell anything—even this story. Holding my breath, I wait, nodding lightly like I’m considering what he said, like I think there might be some truth to it, and he ups his game, shrugging. Holy fuck, I think he’s serious!
“You cannot be serious? What does your mother think?” I’m holding my arms stiff against his chest now. He wraps his hands slowly around my forearms and slides them up, over my shoulders and into my hair, pulling me close again, bringing his lips close to mine. I’m still making an incredulous face, but he’s ignoring it, his lips coming closer, closer, until I can feel the tickle of the static electricity working between us, pulling us together the rest of the way. And then there it is—the dimple. The smile.
“I’m totally fucking with you,” he smirks. I bring my pillow up to his face and smack him across the head.
“I hate it when you do that!” I say, even though I don’t. I love it.
“You liar. You love it,” he says.
I do. I love it. I love you. I love you, Tyson Preeter. I love you. I love you. I love you. My lips almost feel like they’re moving. But they’re not. They’re not, because I’m scared. Fucking chicken. God, Cass…just say it!
There’s a pause in everything—Ty’s hands stop their movement, his eyes don’t blink, his breath holds, my pulse slows and then races. We’ve stopped time—I can feel it. It doesn’t begin again until he sweeps his eyes upward as his fingers pull a stray wave of hair back in place over my head. His eyes stay on that hair for a few seconds before coming back to my gaze. His head tilts. His hands cradle my face. His focus on me, everything me, and all I see are his eyes, blue and honest and vulnerable. Every thought in his head is racing behind them, and I can read what’s inside. I see it. He loves me too. I know he does.
His lips fall on me slowly, and I swear I feel them whisper the words—whisper I love you. I don’t say anything, because the sound wasn’t there. But I felt them. I feel them now.
He pulls himself above me, his elbows holding most of his weight and his forehead pressed to mine while our lips dance, grazing lightly. I let him take complete control. I surrender, and I wait—patiently wait for him to deepen our kiss, because I want more of him, more of his lips and his body and his everything.
When he begins kissing me harder, there’s another shift—time no longer standing still, but racing. He lies to his side, next to me, his lips and teeth rough against my neck, but the feeling is so welcomed. He grips the bottom of my cotton T-shirt quickly, pulling it up and over my body and arms, my bra unsnapping in the front and falling to the sides. When I move to lower my arms, he traps them above my head with one hand, his body leaning into me as he kisses me again, moving his way down my chin, my neck, my chest, until his teeth find the hardness of my nipples, and he pulls them into his mouth, biting just enough to send shivers across my bare skin.
My back arches on instinct, and he’s fast to move his right arm underneath me, pulling me closer into him while he devours my breasts.
Everything about our movements is hot, needy, wanting, greedy, hungry—a million selfish words. But there’s also something else—more than passion, more than lust. It’s like we both have so much to say, but the only way we’re willing is through a physical connection.
My hands finally free, I let them glide down his chest until I find the edge of his shirt, and I pull it from his body. This is my favorite feeling in the world—the feel of his skin against mine. The heat from him takes away my chills as his hands glide around me, kissing his way up between my breasts and neck and back to my mouth again. This kiss is fast, his teeth holding onto my bottom lip as his forehead presses to mine and his eyes look down.
Down, down, down—his hands sliding down until he finds the band of my black cotton pants. A growl escapes him as he finally lets loose of his grip on my mouth, and his thumbs work my pants and panties quickly down my hips, then thighs, then knees until I simply kick them away.
Ty’s eyes look drunk, they’re so heavy as they follow the curve of my body—tracing the line he draws with one finger from my thigh to my inner thigh until he’s where I’m craving him most.
There aren’t any words. There are no jokes or role-playing or sweet-talking or flirting. We’ve moved past that, past the nerves. We’re completely in sync, and as Ty runs the tips of his fingers over me intimately, I allow myself to gasp and whimper for him to hear exactly what his touch—what he—does to me.
His teasing is soft and sensuous, no rushing to get to the next part. We have hours, and the slowness of every move he makes is as if he plans to take every minute available to us to bring me pleasure. I’m not able to stop the pressure building inside of me, and when it becomes unbearable, I
let myself go—wave after wave of tremors passing through me, against his touch. I let out a small cry again, and Ty groans, biting at my shoulder.
I want him to feel just as I do, want him to feel this with me. And the need inside me has only grown from his touch. My hands quickly find the button and zipper of his jeans, and he’s not shy about helping me to work his clothes completely off of his body. My hand wraps around his length, and his eyes roll closed with my touch.
My touch is firm and continuous as I feel every bit of his hardness, and his breathing begins to grow more rapid with every movement. I stop only to reach into his jeans on the floor for a condom. I unwrap it and slip it over him, my hand feeling him one more time until his hand grips around mine to stop me. I’m expecting him to grab my hip, to direct me on top of him—to guide me just as he did the last time. But instead, he holds us here, paused, his eyes almost afraid.
“I want to hold you,” he says, his voice barely a whisper, and his eyes trapped somewhere between need and despair. “While we do this…I want to hold you. I want to feel how you feel when I’m inside you. But…”
His breath catches, and his eyes close, almost as if he’s searching deep within for the rest of what he needs to say, for the courage to say it.
“Anything, Tyson. What is it? You can tell me anything?” I say, letting my head fall forward until my lips can kiss his cheek.
“I want to hold you to me…but I don’t know how,” he says, looking down, but only for a moment. I don’t understand at first, so I hold his gaze and my breath. And then I realize. When Ty’s above me, his weight is held with the strength of his massive arms. They control his body, help him move, allowing him to do everything—everything but this.
I don’t speak, because I don’t think that’s what he wants. Just getting the words out, just saying this to me was so difficult for him. It’s not something that he wants discussion on. He just wants to feel me, for me to help him find a way.
With our bodies close, I bring both of my hands up to either side of his face, and I kiss him with the same reverence he’s shown me—slow and deep and patient. I worship him with my kiss. When I pull away, I look at him and my eyes beg him to trust me. Slowly, I turn to my back, and then my other side. I lie against him on my bed, our bodies spooned together, my curves finding the hardness of his muscles and melding together.
I can tell he’s unsure, afraid of not being able to do what I’m trying. He’s afraid of failing to please me, but I’m just as afraid of failing him. My hands are slow, my first one reaching for his arm and hand until I find his fingers, weaving mine through his and gripping hard to reassure him that I’ve got this. With my other hand, I reach lower, between us, until I find his hardness ready for me, and I guide him into place.
As I slide against him, pushing him deeper inside, his erection completely filling me, I feel his grip tighten, and he brings both of our hands around my body, pulling me to him. His exhale is slow, and the tickle of his breath as his mouth finds the back of my neck only makes me want to move against him more.
My hips slowly rock, my body doing most of the work. His arms weave around both sides of my body as his hands splay across my breasts, my ribs, my stomach—he touches all of me, and my body reacts to every touch, my hips working harder, my body working harder.
His hands never rest, but his hold on me is always tight and firm, his forearms fully flexed to make sure the space between us is minimal. The more I move against him, the harder he breathes, and the more my own need grows again. As the intensity builds, my hips work harder and faster, and when Ty’s hands both slide down my body to rest just above my pelvis, I lose all control. My body shakes, and the rocking of my hips becomes slower, but his hands pull me back to him tightly—over and over until he groans into my hair, his head pressed against the back of mine.
We lie still like this, holding each other just as we finished, for minutes—until I’m sure his arm is falling asleep, and my body begins to grow cold from being exposed. His grip on me loosens, and I slip away from him, pulling my shirt over my head so I can step into the closet to freshen up at my sink.
My reflection catches my attention, and I pause at the mirror, noticing the flushness of my face. My chest feels tight, and every nerve in me wants me to cry. I don’t understand it, because I’ve never been happier. But something happened between Ty and me just now—something amazing, and beautiful, and special—but also something raw. And I want to hold onto it hard and fast.
When I slip back into the room in a fresh T-shirt and a loose pair of sleep shorts, Ty is already dressed in his boxers and is waiting for me, my quilt pulled back on the corner, a welcome for me to join him. I flip the light switch and crawl into his arms, this time my cheek finding the firmness of his chest. His lips touch the top of my head, resting there for several seconds before he turns his head, replacing his lips with his chin.
I love you, Tyson Preeter. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you…
I mouth the words, shrouded in darkness. It’s a rehearsal for the real thing, and I feel the quaking in my gut, because the thought of saying this aloud terrifies me. I’ve never said this, not to anyone, other than family. I rarely say it now to my parents and Paige; in fact, I think we were kids the last time I uttered those words to her. It’s sad how hard it gets to love.
“Thank you,” he whispers, interrupting my homemade panic attack. His whisper is soft, but perfectly clear. I don’t say anything in return, because I know what he meant by thank you. I squeeze him tightly and kiss his chest once more before closing my eyes, my lullaby the chorus of I love yous that cease to end in my head.
Chapter 21
Cass
The debate over whether or not I would join the soccer team picked up right where it left off the night before. When Ty left for his workouts with clients, I turned the sound back on for my phone and endured the three messages waiting for me—one from my father, reiterating his reasoning; one from my mother pretending nothing was wrong at all; and one from Paige, telling me she heard about it all from Mom.
I don’t feel like talking to any of them, but I call my dad back anyway because if I have to talk to one of them, at least he has a valid point. He isn’t going to waggle a finger or feign like everything’s fine and my spirit isn’t destroyed.
“Hey, sweetheart. Just got in the car to head to the office, but I can talk for a few,” my dad says. “How are you feeling about things this morning? Fresh perspective after a good night’s sleep, I hope?”
I wait a few seconds before responding, half tempted to shock him by saying something like “…no sleep for me. Spent the night with my boyfriend. Thinking about getting pregnant. Oh, and then joining the team. And maybe I’ll pose nude for Playboy, too.”
I don’t say any of those things. But I don’t roll over either.
“Yeah, I thought. I’m still joining the team,” I say, and his heavy sigh comes fast, just like I knew it would. He’s disappointed. What’s new?
“Cassidy, we talked about this. I know what your mother said, how she doesn’t feel comfortable with you overexerting yourself. But it’s more than that. If it were just the physical demands, Cass…if that were it…? I could hold your mom off. But this Paul Cotterman thing—Cass, we just don’t know how it’s going to go.”
That’s what had me in tears last night, more than anything. I called home to tell my parents I was going to play for McConnell, and in seconds, my father stripped my power away with news that Paul Cotterman was thinking about not signing the bargain—not following through with the carefully laid plans my father had constructed—the plans that would erase that awful experience from my life.
He was the one who was wrong. He was the one who should be punished. But I was the one who was going to suffer.
My mom found out. My dad tried to keep it between us, but the Cotterman issue, as it was now referred to, was just too big for him to keep hushed. She didn’t really believe me eithe
r. I know she didn’t. My dad said she knew, but my mother never brought it up when we spoke. Like so many things, she just liked to pretend that none of those bad things were real. Instead, after she told me soccer would kill me— exact words—she spent the next ten minutes filling me in on her bead workshop and the new things she got in the store.
“Cass, listen. I’m just pulling into the office. I’ve got a few calls out, and we’ll see where things stand in a day or two. But for now, honey…” I hate it when he calls me honey. “For now, let’s just sit on this. Sit and wait this out. Maybe next week…maybe the outlook will be different.”
It won’t be. I know it. But I am going to play anyway. And everyone trying to take this away from me can fuck off.
“Whatever,” I say. Not even goodbye. My dad doesn’t notice, telling me he’ll talk to me Tuesday or Wednesday, like one of his clients. That’s what I am.
Whatever.
It didn’t take long for my mom to figure out that she could catch me. My dad must have told her we talked, because she called only a few minutes after. I let her go to voicemail. But she called again. She would keep doing this—I knew it.
Just before the second call fades to my voicemail, I catch it, taking a deep breath before I dive into a conversation where we pretend I’m not pissed, that she doesn’t think less of me, and that the only things on the table to talk about are Thanksgiving plans and beads.
“Hi, Mom,” I don’t have the energy for the fake voice, so I don’t put the effort into my greeting.
“Well, look who’s finally awake?” She sounds like one of those workout videos, where the person counts down the reps with so much enthusiasm that you start to think they might be high on speed.