Where The Little Birds Go

by Celeste, B.

  Every movement is mastered and skillful, and suddenly my grip on her becomes full of anger and need and so much more. Because what she’s doing was fucking taught to her.

  But not by me.

  Pulling her head back so her lips pop off me, my nostrils flare. “Stand up.”

  Her eyes widen at the command, but she nods and does as I ask. Before she can say anything, I’m kissing her with a new fervor. My hands go to the back of her thighs and I pick her up until she’s wrapped around me.

  “Bedroom,” is all I say.

  She points to the right and I work on suckling her skin and licking the salty taste until her pelvis arches to rub against me.

  With a gentleness I didn’t know I still had, I lay her on the unmade bed and slowly begin stripping her of her clothes. The pajama pants she’s in are plain instead of the colorful ones she used to wear, and the cotton panties are pink, which is a color she never really liked before.

  Completely naked, I stare at every inch of her with a heated gaze. Her front teeth dig into her bottom lip as she squirms and tries hiding the rosy nipples that are swollen from my mouth.

  She watches with close attentiveness as I strip off my hoodie, then slide out of my jeans. The belt hits the floor like a last warning alarm as my fingers trail under the elastic of my boxers. Her eyes lock on the slowest movement of my fingertips as the last layer between us finds their way to the pile of clothes on the carpet.

  The nakedness of the moment is more than just physical as we get our fill of studying every dip, valley, and curve of the other person. We’ve both seen each other like this before but never with the hunger and distance that settles how we look and act and think now. Her body is curvier, fuller, perkier like she spends time at a gym when she can. Yet there’s a softness to her that gives way to a vulnerability I want to take away as she moves her legs to hide the pretty pink pussy I want nothing more than to bury myself in this second.

  As I crawl over her on the bed, supporting myself with my arms on either side of her head, she stares up at me with a glassy gaze.

  “I hate you,” she whispers.

  My arms lower, so our bare chests are pressed together. “No. You don’t, Little Bird. But you want to.”

  I kiss her softly, exploring her lips for as long as she’ll let me.

  She pulls back. “I hate that name.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  It’s her who grazes her mouth against mine, the tip of her tongue tracing the outline of my bottom lip. “I hate who I am with you.”

  That warrants no response because I know there’s truth in that, that seeps a little too deep. So, I let her kiss me, suck my bottom lip into her mouth, and arch her pelvis up to mine until my cock brushes her stomach. We explore in silence and map out every detail that we shouldn’t know about each other until we’re rolling in the mess of blankets and sheets.

  She straddles me. Her palms rest on my chest and she looks down and locks eyes with me. “Do you hate yourself?”

  Every single day.

  “It would make this easier,” she continues, fingers following the indentation of my pec and the slightest smattering of hair lining it. “I wouldn’t feel like the bad guy if I knew that I wasn’t the only one.”

  One of my hands covers hers. “You’re not the married one, Kinley. I’m the bad guy. I hate myself for what I’ve done since I stepped out of Lincoln. For choosing my career. For making assumptions. For rushing into marriage. I hate not being able to love you loudly—to hold your hand for everyone to see, to put my hand on your back without the rumors, to kiss you without people criticizing us. I hate myself for doing this wrong, but I hate myself more for dragging you down with me because I need you.”

  Her eyes close.

  “I. Need. You,” I repeat.

  She exhales a breath.

  “I. Love. You.”

  A tear sticks to her eyelashes.

  “And I’ve never stopped.”

  She bends down and presses her chest against mine, sending racks of shivers down my spine from the contact. We kiss. We cry. We breathe. And in the slowest, gentlest fashion possible, I flip us over and guide myself inside her until I’m seated fully.

  I think about the past and kiss her.

  I think about the present and caress her.

  I think about the future and hold her.

  But the cool depths of reality tell us that this moment is temporary, so we make the most of the weight and warmth and the need that our bodies crave. I vibrate with it so brutally as I slowly enter her again and again.

  The softest exhale of my name from her parted lips as I take my time with her has me swelling. She wraps her legs around me, and angles herself up so I’m further in. We both moan as we find our pace, my body coming down completely on hers, and pushing as deep as I can until there’s no clear indication of who is who.

  Her fingernails rake down my naked back, digging in with a pain that I welcome. I want her to mark my flesh and engrave herself into my existence for good.

  Because I meant what I said.

  I need her.

  I need her fast wit and sarcasm.

  I need every emotion—good and bad.

  I need the feeling that has cemented itself so concretely in my chest that tells me how stupid I was when I was eighteen. So fucking stupid. I need it all, even if it destroys me and what I’ve built for myself because nothing compares.

  So, I breathe the words over and over again, punctuating each one with the deepest thrust that brings us closer to the edge.

  “I need you.”

  The bed creaks.

  “I need you.”

  Her breath catches.

  “I need you.”

  Her nails pierce my skin.

  My hips move into a circle, grinding down on her until she’s making the noise that is music to my ears. She tightens around me with every push, and the kisses I land on her chest, collarbone, neck, and lips all bring her closer and closer.

  Yet, nothing quickens my pace.

  This isn’t screwing or fucking or a one-time thing between people who don’t care. We’re consumed and that’s the problem. We care too much.

  I make love to her slowly, finding her hands and intertwining our fingers because I need this—the contact, the warmth, the empty promise that rests openly between us. Once it’s over, then everything we’ve been through is final.

  It’s over.

  It ends.

  And no matter how many highs we chase to find the feeling that’s stayed between us since the day I stepped foot into Lincoln, nothing can mimic it. The flutters. The spark. The restlessness.

  When our tongues meet and our bodies jerk and our breaths mix, there’s no stopping from the climax that takes over us. Her hands let go of mine no matter how badly I want her to hold on, and she wraps herself around me in a tight hug as she milks my cock of cum.

  Even after the tremors end, after our breathing evens, we stay like that. Wrapped up in a fantasy world like we can stay. The truth is there in the bunched sheets and scattered clothes.

  This time, she’ll leave.

  Resting in silence with nothing but traffic sounding in the distance, she traces my chest. Her fingers go to the very spots where two little lines used to be. She stills when she notices the slightly lifted ridge of a third one.

  She sits up, staring at my chest.

  Three tally marks.

  “Corbin?”

  I swallow, finding her hand. “I wasn’t completely honest with you about the tattoos. I do think we’re equal, that we’re meant to take on the world like nobody else. But these lines are so much more than that.”

  The emotion on her face goes to her eyes, glazing them with oncoming tears. I want to brush them away, kiss her in comfort, protect her from the pain.

  “Each line represents the moment I realized I loved you,” I admit, tracing the first one closest to my heart. “When you fell asleep next to Fred after helping me run lines.” My
finger finds the middle line. “When you got me that audition for Christmas, one that neither of us knew at the time would change my life.” I move along to the newest one. “When I saw you walk onto set, looking so fucking beautiful it hurt. I knew, Kinley. I knew that my Little Bird would always be mine.”

  Her lashes bat away stray tears, some catching in them until she wipes them away. “I don’t know what to say, Corbin. I’m…”

  I pull her into me, hugging her warm body to mine and trying to make the moment last. I know it won’t. “Don’t say anything. Just let me hold you for a little while longer, okay?”

  She doesn’t argue.

  My Little Bird stays.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Corbin / Present

  Extra security is placed on set and nobody is being let in without clearance first. It’s been two days since the pictures surfaced, so the media has died down enough to keep working. The absence of Kinley on set doesn’t go unnoticed though.

  Bright and early Monday morning, Buchannan made the announcement that Kinley had to go back to New York. Despite the few weeks she spent with us, it’s obvious she made an impact. She always made an effort to talk with everyone on set, no matter what position they held. It was never just to get away from me, though I’m sure that was an added bonus on her part, but because she cared.

  I step foot in the final scene before lunch, where Olivia is perched on the counter. Her long legs dangle over the side, and she’s only in an oversized button down white shirt with a few buttons keeping her from being completely exposed. She shoots me a wink when I situate myself where I’m supposed to be.

  “So … Kinley, huh?”

  From the corner of my eye, I notice Buchannan direct a few of the cameramen as to how he wants the scenes shot. “Not now, Liv. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Her shoulders lift as she leans back, supporting herself with her hands. “Hey, why didn’t the cow read the book?” Her eyebrows wiggle at me right before she delivers the punchline. “He was waiting for the moo-vie.”

  Her cackle just has me rolling my eyes, causing her to straighten and sigh. “Get it? Because Kinley wrote the book and we’re in the movie and you both came from the middle of—”

  “Stop,” I warn under my breath. It isn’t often I let my anger get out when I speak to co-workers, but she knows I spent a lot of time and money to get the press to stay out of my business when it came to Lincoln.

  She groans. “You do realize that people around here are going to find out, right? Those pictures of you two are only the first step. You know how this works. They’ll move on to the next big thing and circle back to speculation once you’re out and about looking mopey like your puppy ran away.”

  My eyes cut to her. “There’s nothing for them to—”

  “Nope.”

  “Kinley is just—”

  “Try again.” She inspects her nails. “You don’t want to accept that things will change, do you? They already have, Callum. Or can I call your Corbin?”

  I don’t say anything.

  Her legs swing in a slow, causal movement. “She didn’t look at you the way she did when she first came here if that means anything to you. And I think it does.”

  Again, nothing.

  “Kind of ironic, really.”

  This gets my attention. “What is?”

  “She left before she could see what happens between Beck and Ryker play out. It’s almost like she never got closure…”

  Again, is what she doesn’t say.

  And fuck me, if Olivia isn’t perceptive. Not to mention right. Kinley wrote a story that was based on us, whether she admits it or not, and just like how I fucked up the first time, we’re screwed over again from our ending. I told her we’d keep in touch this time—that it would be different because we’re older and have control over what we choose to do with our lives. All she did was ask me to leave her hotel room.

  Her voice had broken as she watched me open the door, and said, “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Corbin. We’ve been down that road before.”

  I never assured her it would be different because I knew there was no point. Her eyes were full of doubt and unspoken emotion and her arms hugged her chest like she was the only person who could comfort herself.

  So, I stepped into the hallway, glanced over my shoulder, and told her, “We’re inevitable, Little Bird.”

  Though her expression didn’t seem so sure, I knew she felt it. Why else would we fall back into old patterns so easily? It’s because we don’t want to miss out on the feeling that connected us since we were young and stupid.

  “What are you thinking about?” Olivia asks, her legs stilling.

  “Nothing,” I lie, picking a piece of lint off my shirt and rolling my shoulders back.

  “Liar.”

  I simply shrug.

  Buchannan walks over to us. “You two ready? We’ll be finishing your scenes together today and tomorrow and do any reshoots necessary the rest of the week before moving on to the last minute stuff.”

  We both nod and take our places.

  Olivia starts the scene as soon as we’re told the cameras are rolling. One of her legs drifts up, the shirt exposing the bottom of her pert ass as I lean forward against the counter and watch her lazily.

  Her fingers trail up her leg. “Do you think it would have been like this if we’d given in to each other all those years ago?”

  I straighten and make my way around the island, trapping her on the counter between my arms. Her legs part and easily wrap around me, her arms draping themselves on my shoulders. Flashbacks of my night with Kinley replay in my mind, fogging the lines that I know I need to deliver.

  Olivia eyes me subtly.

  I raise my hand to her cheek, moving a piece of hair out of her face and curling it behind her ear using my knuckles. “I think we wouldn’t be sure about each other if there wasn’t pain to fight through. How would we know this is worth fighting for if there wasn’t a battle to face?”

  She leans into my touch. “How will we know if we survive it? Battles turn into wars, Ryker. Not everyone survives.”

  Her hands trail down my sides until they bunch the shirt I’m wearing. I watch her like I’d watch Kinley, with fascination over everything she does. The way her eyes skirt over my face, how her warmth absorbs into my skin through the expensive material of my dress shirt. I picture chestnut hair and fair skin and big brown eyes in front of me, and it makes me feel everything Ryker does for Beck.

  “We’ll be the exception,” I tell her with a conviction I wish I delivered to Kinley when we parted ways. “Some people don’t survive because they’re too busy looking over their shoulder. We have each other.”

  “You really believe that?”

  Both my hands move to her face. “I believe that the reason I never let you go was because I was waiting for a second chance. This is it, Little Bird. It’s now or never.”

  Realizing my mistake as soon as the nickname escapes my mouth, I play it out. Olivia does the same, slightly startled but willing to go along with it.

  Her mouth ascends on mine, claiming my lips in a kiss that only two people who are beautifully broken can understand. There’s an understanding between us that our kiss explains silently with every brush, suck, and breath. I try channeling Ryker the best I can, gripping her sides and making her mine like I’ve always wanted. Yet the surge of emotion that I feel coursing through my veins with my actual Little Bird is absent. Ryker will never let Beck go because he thinks this is their last shot—this moment cements what he’s always wanted. Needed.

  When Buchannan calls cut, I instantly back up and wait for the scolding over ruining the scene with my botched lines. But when I turn and see everyone staring at me, there’s awe on their faces instead.

  Buchannan walks over to me and puts his hand on my shoulder, squeezing. “I don’t know what that was, but there’s not one person in this room that didn’t feel it. Damn, kid. And the Little Bird
bit—”

  I rush out an apology. “I’m sorry about that. It just slipped out. If we need to redo the scene, I understand.”

  “Redo it?” Buchannan shakes his head. “I worked with you back when you were what? Nineteen? Twenty? You were just starting and there was passion since day one, but what you just did exceeds anything I’ve seen you do. You’re a good actor, but great ones channel their emotions into the job. I don’t know what significance Little Bird is to you, but I’m keeping it in the scene. Beck deserves to have a nickname.”

  He squeezes my shoulder again before walking away and nodding at something somebody tells him along the way. Panic builds in the pit of my stomach as I swipe a hand through my styled hair and messing up the perfectly placed strands.

  “Oh my God,” Olivia whispers. “You really love her, don’t you?”

  I turn ever so slowly.

  She blinks. “You are so fucked.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Kinley / Present

  The familiarity of being back in my territory has me walking a little lighter and waving to people with a soft smile on my face. The tightness in my chest disappeared as soon as I walked into my home and saw Penny, short for Pennywise—my calico cat, run towards me. I know my neighbor took good care of her, but I still missed being the one to watch her gobble treats and demand attention at the most inconvenient times.

  Since I’ve been back, I’ve thrown myself into work to complete my newest project and stay up to date with Jamie and the team following our meeting. Jamie Little is a five-foot-five intimidating woman who’s always ready for anything. There’s rarely a smile on her serious face, which screams success in how she carries herself. Her styled white bob never moves an inch out of place and her wardrobe probably costs more than I make in a year. But that’s why I love her. She’s the perfect woman to conduct business in a no-nonsense way.

  The three weeks that I’ve been back have been a whirlwind of edits, meetings, and local promotional tours. Jamie’s literary agency works hand in hand with a publicist who helps me keep my social media regulated since the media raised questions regarding me and Corbin, but since there’s been nothing since about us, things have gone as smoothly as possible.