Because this woman? Even after I’ve been chasing her for weeks, telling her flat out that I want her and want to date her, she’s not sure I’m being honest. People have really done a number on her. But I can undo it. I’ll keep trying.
Chapter 17
Zoey
We’re all born with virtues. Intelligence, kindness, creativity . . . they vary from person to person. Patience is not a virtue I was gifted with.
Waiting for Sebastian for days, waiting for Blake for weeks, waiting for sex for . . . well, let’s just say way too long . . . and I’m done with all of it.
I came to Blake’s after we left the dog park, ready to research some more, but we haven’t found the smoking gun of a possible poison and the proof we need. But if I’m honest with myself, the bigger mystery isn’t how Richard Horne died but why in the world a man like Blake Hale wants me.
But he does.
I can feel it as we talk about stupid factoids, play a game we’ve dubbed ‘Did You Know?’ that allows us to show off our useless trivia knowledge, consider and reject murderous methodologies Yvette might’ve used, and simply exist . . . together.
It feels right. I don’t trust it, or I don’t want to trust it because the one sure thing about trust is that it’s always broken, but somehow, Blake makes me . . . believe.
Sitting in Blake’s living room, Chunky passed out asleep with his nose in his once-again empty bowl and Blake relaxing beside me with an arm thrown casually over the back of the couch, I make a decision I hope I don’t regret. I scan for wood to touch and see the sign I’m looking for.
Blake said he put things all over for me to always have something to fulfill my superstition, and I believed him, but seeing it with my own two eyes is a very different thing. There . . . not just the wood coffee table, but the stack of wood and marble coasters on the end table by the chair. Those weren’t there last time I was here. I get up to check the kitchen.
Assuming my destination, Blake says, “Bathroom’s the second door on the left.”
I’ll take the opening, but first . . . In the kitchen, I see new wooden spoons in the utensil canister and a butcher block cutting board set out on the island.
Down the short hall to the bathroom, I quickly pee and wash my hands before staring at myself in the mirror.
“You can do this, Zoey Walker,” I whisper to my reflection. I’ve never been good at pep talks. The best I can usually offer is a hard-edged ‘at least no one died this time’, but I want to have different expectations.
I want to trust, I want to be a person who believes in silver linings and positivity despite my wealth of experience to the contrary. I shake my head, loosening the hold painful memories have on me, and point at myself in the mirror, firmly telling my reflection, “Holly is fine. Jacob is fine. Blake is fine. It’s okay to want this. It’s okay to need this. Nothing bad will happen.”
I can hear the lie in my own words. I correct myself, searching for truth and not wishes. “You’re already too deep in this, in him. Might as well . . .”
It’s all I’ve got, pitiful as it may be. I shrug, my eyes wide and showing the fear I feel inside. The reality is, I’m already involved with Blake, and if my curse is going to strike, there’s nothing I can do to stop it now.
“He’s not-scared enough for the both of us,” I remind myself, having repeated Blake’s words so often they’ve become almost a mantra of hope. While I don’t think anyone’s going to call me Pep Talk Queen anytime soon, they’re enough to bolster my hopes. Especially with the cherry-topper of Blake’s faith that it’ll be okay.
I sigh and close my eyes for a long moment. When I open them, the first thing I see is a tall, skinny wood vase on the counter, tucked in behind two smaller glass ones that hold cotton balls and Q-tips. Looking around, I find several other examples—wood framed art on the wall, a wood-handled brush hanging in the shower, and the wood vanity, of course.
Maybe those were all there before, or maybe Blake sees me, understands me, and doesn’t think I’m weird or should change.
Maybe he likes me not despite my weirdness but because of it?
I open the door and should turn right, back to the living room where he’s waiting. I go left instead and find myself in the doorway of Blake’s bedroom. The bed is neatly made with a navy and green plaid duvet, white pillows laid out at the head. It’s not fussy, just tidy—like the man.
On the nightstand, I see a poseable wooden figure; on the other, a stack of books and a set of small wooden boxes. I feel him behind me before he says anything, and I breathe in strength and exhale fear. His fingers trace down my arm to my hand, which he takes in his. “Zoey?”
The name I’ve heard hundreds of times, but the question in it is anything but easy. I’m not simple, but he’s taken the time to figure out my layers, fighting through the nonsensical labyrinth that is my head, willing to wait for me while somehow simultaneously making me believe in possibilities.
He’s given me . . . hope. And for a woman who doesn’t have that, it’s a precious gift. I let my head fall back to his shoulder, and his hands caress back up my arms, raising gooseflesh in their wake.
“You really put wood everywhere. For me.” No question, just truth.
“I did,” he agrees easily, never conceiving that I might’ve thought he was lying or exaggerating. But that’s what people do.
It’s not what Blake Hale does.
It’s not who he is.
“There was already a lot in here with the furniture, but I added a few little things by the bed, and in the other rooms. Amy and I went shopping. She helped me pick out things because I can’t decorate for shit. My plan was to put wood slices everywhere, but she told me I should be more ‘adult’ about it.”
As he talks, his hands trace along my skin—arms, neck, and even brushing my down-for-once hair over my shoulder. He follows the touches with small, sweet kisses that bring zings of sensation to my entire body, but it’s his words that make my heart race. “You did that for me?”
“Of course,” he whispers before nipping at my earlobe.
My eyes fall closed, and unbidden, the words fall from my lips in a plea. “Ask me. Please.”
He’s quiet for a long beat, his hands gripping my hips to control my swaying search for him.
“Are you sure?” he finally says, his voice strangled and rough.
I swallow my doubts, let his certainty wash through me, and nod. He spins me in place so suddenly that my stomach flip flops, or maybe that’s the reaction my body has to the raw, bare lust I see in his eyes. He cradles my cheeks in his hands, locking my gaze with his. “Zoey Walker, will you go out with me, Blake Hale?”
It sounds so serious, like a vow he’s asking me to make to him. Definitely not the booty call type of question I accused him of trying so long ago.
Was that only weeks?
How can that be?
I search his eyes, search my heart for any last arguments, but find only one word.
“Yes,” I breathe before I can stop myself.
He catches the word with a kiss, muttering under his breath. I think I hear him say, “Fina-fucking-lly.”
But I’m not sure because my heartbeat is roaring through my ears, my hands roaming over his body, learning the hills and valleys of his flesh as he ignites me with heated kiss after kiss. His hands release my jaw to tangle into my hair, guiding my head to gain access to my neck.
“We don’t have to wait until after the date, do we?” I beg.
His chuckle vibrates against my skin, tickling me deliciously. “Eager, are we?”
I flush, not sure if he’s making fun of me. He senses the change and pulls back, tipping my chin to bring my eyes up to his burning ones. “Zo, me too. I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you, scared to death that wreck had hurt you. I’ve been doing everything I can to give you time, holding myself back and jacking off every night to thoughts of you. I’m just so glad that you’re finally here with me. You are, right?�
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His every word melts my nerves, his bold honesty turns me on even more, and I forget any logical reason I might have had for refusing us both this pleasure. More importantly, I forget all the illogical reasons. “I am.”
A smile I’ve never seen before takes his lips, one filled with hunger and power. A shiver works its way through my body when he commands, “Lie down, Zo. Let me worship you.”
If this were a movie, Holly and I would laugh and roll our eyes at the cheesy line as she proclaimed guys like that don’t exist in real life. But when Blake says it, I believe him.
I pull my T-shirt over my head, my hair cascading over my shoulders, and his eyes and hands drop to my breasts. He kneads them, thumbs teasing over the hard nipples in a way that makes me arch reflexively. “Jeans.”
He ducks down to lick the breast he’s freed from its bra cup prison while I toe off my boots and undo my jeans to shove them down. But I’m not one of those lucky and graceful movie heroine types, and the denim gets stuck mid-thigh. I wiggle my hips desperately, trying to push them down further, but they’re not budging.
“Uh, hang on.” Mortified, I tap Blake on the top of his head, and he looks up with a question in his eyes. “I’m . . . stuck?”
His smile is huge, amused, and giddy with desire as he grasps my predicament. I watch as his eyes drop down my body and behind me to the bed, and a second too late, I realize that he’s measuring the distance.
He pushes, and I tilt backward.
“Ah!” I squeal, but I don’t go far—just to the bed with my knees locked together by my own jeans’ betrayal. Blake lifts one brow. ‘Gotcha’, that smug look says, and then he’s pulling his own shirt over his head to climb on the bed next to me. His skin against mine is pure decadence, sending little sparks of electricity everywhere we touch.
“Do you have any idea how sexy you look right now? Hair all splayed out, your eyes huge and dark with desire,” he asks, running his fingers through my hair, which is probably tangled into a rat’s nest. “Cheeks getting pinker by the second,” he adds, tracing a cheekbone I can feel heating with his thumb. “Flushing with want . . . bra haphazard, legs askew . . .” He brushes his entire palm and fingers over my breast, down my stomach, and to my hip. He dips down to whisper in my ear, “And the best part?”
My hands clench the duvet beneath me, trying to ground myself because I think I’m floating away into the ether and he hasn’t even touched me yet.
Fuck, I need him to touch me.
I’m gonna go off like a bomb with the slightest touch, but right now, I can’t be embarrassed about that.
I just want.
I need.
“What? What’s the best part?” I choke out.
“I can see how wet you are. You’re soaked right through.”
Fire flashes through me, but I don’t have a chance to react to the words because his hand cups my mound firmly and I feel . . . everything.
“Blake!”
His breath hisses as he inhales through gritted teeth, his fingers moving over me through the fabric. My hips squirm, begging for more, and he finally dips inside the thin barrier between us. When his finger glances over my clit and down to my entrance, my hips bow upward, trying to fuck myself.
It’s not his cock, but I’ll take anything.
I feel empty without him.
He slides down the bed to settle between my thighs. I track the movement, and he looks up my body to meet my eyes before pulling my panties down to puddle with my jeans, keeping my legs locked in place. I see his pupils dilate out into black orbs as he appraises my wetness and assesses my core, pulling me apart with his thumbs.
“Pretty,” he whispers huskily.
The compliment means that much more that it wasn’t said carelessly, but rather, after careful consideration. His nostrils flare, and he licks my clit. My head falls back, my eyes fluttering shut as all thought dissolves into pleasure.
Oh, God . . . so good . . . don’t come too fast or he’ll stop.
“I won’t ever stop now that I’ve had a taste of you,” he growls against me, accenting the promise with a thrust of his fingers inside me.
“Did I say that out loud?” I whisper, horrified but unable to stop. He just licks me again, and I don’t know if that’s an answer or if he’s obsessed with my taste, but he’s taking away my ability to form coherent thoughts so I have zero chance to ask for clarification.
I swear he’s sucking my brains out of my body, sending flutters through my gut as his tongue flicks my clit over and over. I come suddenly and powerfully, waves of a dark void shattering me into nothing and leaving me panting.
I feel . . . shimmery.
Technically, that’s not a feeling, but it’s all I can come up with to describe this, like I’m filled with glitter and rainbows, buzzing with champagne, and my bones are liquid.
“What did you do? I think you broke me.”
Blake chuckles, and I look down to find him wiping his lips. “I hope not because I’m not close to done with you yet.”
I gasp in surprise, but when he stands and I see his cock straining against his pants, newfound energy shoots through me and I kick my jeans and panties off the rest of the way, wanting room for him between my thighs.
And maybe in my heart?
He quickly undoes his button and zipper, and with one smooth whoosh, he’s nude between my legs, giving his cock a slow stroke. He reaches for the nightstand drawer to grab a condom, and as he slips it on, Holly’s advice floats through some responsible part of my brain. “I’m clean.”
“Me too.” His head notches at my entrance, pausing. “Zoey?”
I blink, trying to make my eyes focus, and realize he’s asking permission. One more check that I’m finally okay with this. Not the sex—I’ve been ready for that for longer than I knew—but for him and this connection we have.
Doubt tries to creep in, cold and dry like a stone in the pit of my gut, and I do my best to slam the door on it, shutting it out. Blake’s eyes narrow, his brain working behind their heat.
Finally, he reaches for the nightstand once more. Coming back with the wooden figurine, he holds it between us. I’m confused at first, wondering if maybe he got it for some weird Pinocchio sex thing I’m blissfully unaware of, but then I realize what he’s offering me.
I touch the figurine for luck, and he smiles as if it’s cute and not weird as hell to do this mid-sex. I can’t help but answer his smile with one of my own when he tosses the figurine to the pillow. “Finally.”
“Yes,” I promise. He thrusts forward, entering me an excruciatingly pleasurable inch at a time, and the word comes out again, stretched out like warm taffy. “Yesssss.”
Once settled deep inside me, a shudder rushes through him, releasing a sigh of relief from his lips. I feel it too. Something bigger than him, bigger than me, and like Aristotle said, we’re creating something greater than the sum of our parts.
How could I have turned my back on this in fear?
He takes my hands, holding them over my head and looking me straight in the eye. There’s no turning away from this, no pretending this is casual. There’s no chance this is a booty call. I’m too much work for that. Work he willingly put in, tiptoeing through the minefield of my past and my irrationalities.
“Come back to me, Zo,” he says, pulling me out of my mind. “Be here with me. Nowhere else, just here, now.”
I am.
Vulnerable and exposed, afraid I’m simultaneously too much and not enough, but Blake simply smiles the smallest, sweetest smile ever. “There you are.”
I see him too.
He’s confident, bold, a believer in love, but he’s also human, and like us all, he has his own weaknesses. Ones he covers with his charm and easygoing nature, but he wants to feel wanted and accepted as much as I do.
As much as anyone does. “I’m here, Blake. With you.”
The whisper releases his inner barriers, and with our hands entwined and eyes locked, he f
inally fucks me. Our hips buck together in a beautiful, frantic tempo, weeks’ worth of build-up rising to the surface quickly.
I bend my legs, planting my feet on the bed to give him deeper access. I want him everywhere—in me, on me, around me. His breath goes jagged, and I whine with every powerful stroke until he tenses, on the edge for a magnificent moment where his face scrunches up in pleasurable agony.
With a deep, powerful grunt, he falls off the edge, pulsing inside me. His eyes flutter back open afterward and he looks . . . happy. Actually, he looks downright giddy. “I guess you’re not a roll over and fall asleep type?” I tease with a small laugh as he grinds his hips. “Let me guess . . . round two and cuddles?”
Blake releases my hands to trace over my body with his own hands. “Something like that. I’m definitely more the snuggle bug, contemplate the universe type. Or the run a mile type, but you said you don’t run, so I guess that’s out.”
“I’ll take door number one, I think,” I negotiate around a yawn. “And a nap before round two.”
“Deal.”
Blake and I rearrange ourselves in his bed, him sitting with two pillows to prop up against the headboard and me lying on my side with my head on his bare chest. It’s intimate and cozy, with his hands mindlessly mapping out my skin and my fingers dancing through the small patch of soft hair on his chest.
“I’ve got an idea,” he says, picking up a book off the nightstand. “It’s nothing fancy,” he warns me, “just a recent best seller.”
The cover says it’s an Oprah Book Club book, but I’ve never heard of the title. “You want to read?”
“I thought we could take turns reading to each other?” he says quietly, but I can feel his heart racing beneath my cheek and he’s holding his breath. This sexy man is risking insecurities of his own, hoping that I’ll find the idea appealing, not weird.
“I think that’s the hottest thing anyone’s ever wanted to do with me.”
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