Get a Life, Chloe Brown

by Talia Hibbert

  “Yeah, Button?”

  “C’mere. You smell like sleep.”

  He didn’t know what that meant, but he decided it was a good thing. After a moment’s hesitation, he tucked the covers over her, then crossed to the other side of the bed and lay on top of them.

  He’d just stay here for a while until she fell asleep again. He’d practice some of the techniques Dr. Maddox had mentioned at their first appointment today—taking the time to arrange his thoughts and feelings, sinking into positive moments. He was supposed to write shit down, but he preferred to visualize, and the doc had said that was okay, too.

  So Red lay back, closed his eyes, and thought about Chloe’s smile. About stir-fry and space cowboys. About feeling like himself. He counted the moments of clarity he’d teased from his messy mind today, and he was proud. He let himself feel good, good, good.

  It was surprisingly easy.

  Chapter Seventeen

  When he woke, the bedroom was bright. Birdsong and cold air floated through the open window, and Chloe was standing by her dresser in a towel.

  This was an excellent way to wake up. “Hey, Chlo.”

  She screeched, then clapped a hand over her mouth. “You’re awake!”

  Her hair was dripping wet, her skin glistened with little water droplets, and the towel wrapped around her only hit midthigh. “Yeah,” he said roughly. “I’m awake.”

  She made a strangled sort of noise and grabbed some stuff from the dresser. He looked away from her thighs long enough to notice she was holding a pile of clothes. Then he looked back at her thighs.

  “Be a gentleman and close your eyes,” she sniffed.

  “Do I have to?”

  “Not anymore, because I am leaving.” She clutched her clothes to her towel-clad chest and rushed off toward the bathroom. Under the slick strands of her hair, he caught sight of something on her upper back, a pale rectangle that looked kind of like a bandage. No, he realized, it was like a giant nicotine patch. Maybe some kind of medication. Then she slammed the door shut.

  He stood, ran a hand through his hair, and wondered how the hell he’d managed to fall asleep.

  Abruptly, the bathroom door opened again, just a crack. Chloe called, “Do you still have my hair tie? I can’t find any of the others.”

  He tugged it off his wrist and handed it through the slight gap in the door. “You feeling better?”

  “Quite.”

  “Details,” he ordered, though he expected she’d tell him to piss off.

  Instead, after a pause, she said, “I’m still exhausted. But I’m not tired. That helps.” She shut the door. Her next words were muffled through the wood. “Thank you.”

  You smell like sleep. “Anytime.”

  When she came out again, he was sitting on the bed, trying not to look like a man who’d barely resisted the urge to snoop through everything she owned. It had been hard because this room was so Chloe, from the sci-fi-looking computer with two screens on her desk, to the pretty row of shoes tucked just under her bed. There was stuff everywhere: candles she’d never lit, fancy bottles of perfume she’d clearly never used, notebooks stacked in piles so high she’d surely never use those, either, and a thousand pictures of her family. It was adorable.

  “Sorry about that,” she said, smoothing her hands over her skirt. It was sunshine yellow, with a thick white stripe at the bottom. Made her skin glow. Made him want to go over there on his knees. Her hair was up and sleek as glass, her glasses perfectly polished. “I meant to take my clothes into the bathroom with me, but I forgot.”

  “I didn’t mind.” Understatement of the year.

  She gave him a look. “I have a spare toothbrush, if you want it. You could also just go home. However, I thought I might make you breakfast, to say thank you for dinner.”

  That took his attention away from her legs, which was no mean feat. “You want to make me breakfast?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised. If you like eggs and toast, I am more than capable.”

  “No, I just—” He just wasn’t used to women doing things for him. He did things for them, and that was it. That was how it worked. He ran a hand through his hair and realized that, apparently, that wasn’t how it worked anymore. “All right. I like eggs. Thanks.”

  He found the spare toothbrush. Her bathroom shelf was full of products that matched: she bought the same brand and scent of shampoo and conditioner, body wash and moisturizer, because of course she did. She liked flowers, and strawberries. He added that carefully to the list of things he knew about Chloe Brown, a list that was longer than he’d ever expected it to be, but still not long enough. Maybe it would never be long enough.

  Still, it was satisfying, as the morning went on, to add to that list again and again. First, it was Chloe makes great scrambled eggs. Then it was It feels good to wash dishes while Chloe dries. Finally he realized: Starting my day with Chloe feels like starting my day in front of a canvas.

  When they finished washing up, Red had a smile on his face that he already knew would last until he went to bed that night. Then, all at once, he turned left, Chloe turned right, and they both moved at exactly the wrong time. Or maybe it was exactly the right time. It felt right, when she stumbled into him. It felt right, gripping her waist to steady her. It felt right, her hands pressing against his chest.

  So right he didn’t move away.

  She must be able to feel his heart pounding. He was surprised it wasn’t visible through his clothes. She tilted her head back to look at him, her lips parted. Was this how she’d look, just before he kissed her? He wanted to add that knowledge to the list.

  She said, her voice still a little hoarse, “Sorry. Gosh, sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going.” But she didn’t move, either.

  His hands tightened at her waist for a moment before he forced himself to relax. It was a long, slow process, loosening every tense muscle in his body, reminding the unthinking part of himself that he couldn’t just put his mouth on hers. He meant to let go of her completely, meant to step back, meant to say something.

  He only managed the last of those goals. And what he said wasn’t exactly sensible. In fact, he didn’t know how it sneaked past security to roll off his tongue. “Do you know what I want yet, Chlo?”

  At his rough whisper, she froze. She hadn’t exactly been moving before, but now everything about her was unnaturally still, as if she wasn’t even breathing.

  He closed his eyes and cursed himself. Too much. Too—

  “Yes,” she said softly. “I do. And I think I’m scared.”

  When he opened his eyes, she was dragging her teeth over her lower lip, her frown agonized. The expression on her face practically ripped his heart open. He swallowed. Kept pushing, because screw it. “Why? Do you think I’d hurt you?” He didn’t add, Like everyone else.

  She seemed to hear the words anyway. “Maybe.” Her frown deepened and she shook her head irritably. Against his chest, her hands curled into fists, fingers tangling in his T-shirt. “No. Yes. I just—I’m always afraid that . . .” She looked up at him, realization dawning on her face. “Red. I think I’m being a coward.”

  “There’s a big difference between being a coward and putting your emotional safety first,” he said. He knew all about that.

  Then again, so did she. She was nodding slowly, but her eyes narrowed behind her glasses. “There is a difference. I look out for my own safety all the time. Constantly. That’s not what this is. The urge I have to avoid this,” she murmured, almost to herself, “it’s like . . . it’s like going to bed at nine sharp every night. Like refusing to make plans, even with my sisters. Like staying inside for a year because I don’t think I can handle catching a cold.”

  He blinked, distracted for a second. “You did that?”

  Her smile was a quicksilver flash. “The first few years were not good, Red. I was not good. This list isn’t the first challenge I’ve had to set myself.” She wet her lips, her eyes drifting away from his face a
s she sank into her thoughts. “But I always succeed. One way or another. I always take the next step, no matter how long it takes.”

  “Of course you do,” he whispered. “You’re a tough motherfucker, remember?”

  She looked up at him again, her smile wider this time, more certain, like it was going nowhere. Her eyes glittered with something that made his heart feel light in his chest. “That’s true. I am. And I want . . . you. All of you. I haven’t done this sort of thing in a while, you know. But I’d like to try. Would you?” Her gaze, dark and serious, felt like a weight—the satisfying kind, the weight of expectation that meant someone might, almost, trust you not to fuck up. His whole body went rigid with anticipation, the kind of oh-shit giddy nervousness he usually felt before an exhibit.

  “Yeah,” he breathed. “Chloe. Yes.”

  She smiled. And then she kissed him.

  It was the slightest brush of her lips over his, once, twice, three times. So soft, so gentle, his heart ached. He held his breath and closed his eyes and bent down for her, so she wouldn’t hurt herself. His fingers sank into the lush curves of her hips for one desperate moment before he forced himself to relax, to not maul her like a caveman. At least, not until she asked him to.

  Her fingers fluttered at his jaw, like she wanted to touch him but wasn’t sure how to do it right. He wanted to tell her that any way she touched him would be right, but he’d rather step on a rusty fucking nail than break this barely-there kiss. Her lips brushed his again and the sensation seared through him like a shooting star, the kind that streaked the sky for long moments after it had passed. She tasted like minty toothpaste, sharp-tongued sarcasm, surprising hesitance. She was killing him. She was absolutely killing him.

  Red slid a hand over her jaw and tipped her head back. She sighed as he slanted his mouth over hers and gave her the sweetest kiss he was capable of, because that’s what she’d just given him. Slowly, carefully, he sank into the mouth he’d dreamed about. When he felt the edge of her glasses against his cheek, he pulled away to let her take them off—but she followed with a sound of protest. That indecisive hand of hers finally stopped hesitating; she threaded her fingers into his hair and tugged, pulling him closer, trapping him. Apparently, she didn’t care about her glasses.

  His hand slid down from her jaw to her throat, just because he wanted to feel more of her skin. She hummed low and pulled his hair again, setting off flashes of pleasure like camera pops behind his eyelids. Her tongue licked shyly at his and arousal shot up his spine, bright white and urgent scarlet. She pressed herself against him, full breasts and soft belly and breathless pants into his mouth. One of her hands tugged at his T-shirt before slipping beneath. The glide of her fingertips over his abdomen made him moan like she was sucking him off. Touch me. Want me. Be mine.

  He liked to let her lead, but God, someday soon, he’d touch her, too. Anywhere. Everywhere. He wanted to feel her stomach tremble under his lips when she sucked in a breath, wanted to hear her beg for more as he palmed her tits, wanted to taste her hot pussy melting under his tongue. But he had no idea if she was there yet, and the last thing he wanted to do was lose it and rush her. She’d only just decided, officially, to do this at all.

  He pulled back slightly, just enough to breathe, “Slow down, Chlo.”

  She stopped completely, let go, and stepped away, her gaze awkwardly avoiding his. In an instant, she was stiff and self-conscious. Not what he’d wanted. It was so not what he’d wanted that he had to resist the urge to whine like a dog. Instead, he caught her hand and dragged her back into his arms. “Don’t do that,” he said against her hair. “This is your spot now. Okay?”

  * * *

  Chloe hadn’t known it was possible to go from mildly embarrassed to melting like goo, but apparently all it took was five short words. This is your spot now.

  Her voice muffled, since she was currently plastered against Red’s wonderful chest, she said simply, “Oh.”

  “And when I said Slow down, I meant, Give me a second before I come. Not Go away.”

  “Oh.” She looked up.

  He straightened her glasses and tapped her on the nose. “Yeah. This is me checking in. I know you’re still not feeling great.”

  She wasn’t sure how he noticed things like that. She was up, she was dressed, she was medicated and smiling. He should’ve had no idea about her slight, lingering headache, or the thrum of pain that her patch couldn’t quite touch, insistent enough that she was already frustrated.

  She supposed whatever it was about him that made him notice might be the same thing that made her trust him.

  “I don’t feel that bad,” she muttered, honestly enough. On her personal scale of one—wonderful—to ten—excruciating—this was a smooth six. Six was fine. One point above average. On the rare occasions she got down to a four, she often wondered how one found the universe’s feet in order to kiss them.

  Apparently, though, Red wasn’t impressed by Chloe at a Six, because he just snorted. But he didn’t let her go. And, when she burrowed deeper into his arms, she felt his hardness through his jeans, pressing into her belly and singing through her blood. Well now. She wasn’t letting that go. Not when she’d decided to be brave.

  “I think you should kiss me again,” she said, “and this time, don’t do anything silly. Like stop.”

  He smiled, but his eyes were serious. “You aren’t well.”

  “I’m never well. And my consultant does like to go on about endorphins being natural painkillers, and—”

  “Really? Your doctor tells you that?”

  “Well, yes, but usually in a Chloe, you should go out and have fun sort of way.” Not a Chloe, you should clumsily seduce someone by discussing pain management sort of way.

  He wrapped an arm around her waist, hugging her tighter against him. No avoiding that erection now. She tried to maintain some dignity, succeeded for half a second, then crumbled like feta and rocked her hips into his. The choked groan he gave was . . . pleasing. The way he screwed his eyes shut and let his head fall back, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat, was intoxicating.

  Sounding pained, he asked, “Orgasms cause endorphins, right?”

  “They do.”

  “Want one?”

  She blinked at his lovely, flushing throat for a moment. Was this actually working? It seemed so, but she wasn’t sure, because she suddenly couldn’t think straight. Then her backup brain kicked in—the smaller section of her mind that took over like a generator whenever something wiped out her general brain’s power. “Something” such as the casual offer of an orgasm.

  The backup brain told him, “I’m still wearing my buprenorphine patch. Which makes it more difficult for me to do, um, that.”

  “Want to try?”

  She exhaled sharply. “Yes, please.”

  Chloe could not be held responsible for the actions of the backup brain.

  He opened his eyes and she saw the naked lust there, as if someone had switched on floodlights in the dark. That sharp green gaze settled on her like a ton of bricks. A ton of sexy bricks. Apparently, bricks could be sexy when they were shooting from Red Morgan’s eyes like lasers. She may or may not be delirious with lust. The backup brain was still in control. Never mind.

  He cupped her face in his hands like she was something delicate and kissed her like he’d missed her for a lifetime. His callused thumbs swept over her cheeks while their bodies pressed together from chest to thigh, his erection rigid against her belly. His lips claimed hers hungrily, every slick, hot glide of his tongue tugging at something delicious between her thighs. She moaned, and he pulled back as if that was what he’d been waiting for. The size of his jet-black pupils made his pale eyes seem strange, otherworldly.

  “Bedroom,” he said.

  She ended up sitting primly on the edge of her bed with a tightly leashed storm of a man kneeling between her thighs. He wrapped his big hands around her bare ankles and muttered, “You always wear those fucking shoes . .
. and these skirts. You drive me out of my mind.” He let go, flicked one of the buttons on her jumper, then frowned. Fiddled with it for a moment. “Chloe . . . are these buttons fake?”

  “Of course they are,” she said. “Actual buttons would be an inefficient use of limited dexterity.”

  He laughed like she was a headline act at the Apollo.

  Laughing wasn’t exactly what she wanted from him right now, but it was so adorable she let it slide. He rested his head in her lap as he chuckled, and she slid her fingers through the golden fire of his hair until he calmed down. When he looked up at her again, his smile was even brighter than his eyes. “You and your fucking cardigans. Your fake fucking cardigans.”

  “Do you like cardigans?” she asked pertly.

  The last of his amusement faded away, replaced by something raw and animal. “I like yours.”

  She’d never been happier about her own strange obsession with buttons she couldn’t use. Before she could lose her nerve, she pulled the jumper off over her head. “See? Efficient.”

  He didn’t answer. Apparently, he was too busy staring at her chest. His brow furrowed as if in pain and his eyes fluttered shut for a second before he forced them open again, like he didn’t want to miss anything. And then, good Lord, he bit his lip. As if he wanted to bite her. As if she made him hungry.

  Well, the feeling was mutual.

  She slid her bra straps off her shoulders, but he finally found his voice. “Woman. Don’t take that thing off unless you want me to die here.”

  She rolled her eyes. “So dramatic.”

  “You don’t know how much I want you,” he whispered, his gaze devouring her bare skin. “I can’t fucking tell you. I don’t know how.”