Текст книги "Thick Love"
Автор книги: Eden Butler
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 24 страниц)
5
Football is brutal.
It’s not every man that can handle it, but God knows every man wishes he could. It’s why Sundays are sacred during the season. It’s the reason grown men teach their sons to catch and throw, hug that pigskin close to their chests before those poor kids have really gotten the concept of running. It’s the battlefield for every boy who wanted to be a superhero but instead became an adult.
Laying back, my knee icing in the locker room, I thought that I wasn’t really edging too close to that adulthood like I should be. But hell, neither had my father. It was the game, the drills and calls I was supposed to be focused on out on that field. It was the nods, the subtle gestures from my teammates that I was supposed to be watching for as we practiced.
Football is especially brutal when your head isn’t in the game. Mine had been somewhere else, distracted by my worry, the stress of classes, the pressure to prove myself. It was the memory of soft skin, brown, not pale, and the crushing guilt I felt for thinking about her that had me missing Richard diving right at me.
My knee was twisted. The injury was so minor Dad almost let me finish out our drills when I landed under Richard’s sweaty grunts. He might be Kona Hale, new Defensive Coach at CPU, but he was still my father. Sent me straight to the team doctor.
Now I waited for that over-cautious doctor to tell me I was good to go. And waiting was never good for me. There was too much silence, too much quiet in those moments when I was alone. Too much recollection. Too much fucking reality.
Shit, I thought when an image of the dancer came back to me. That soft, beautiful skin, the heavy pant of her breath across my lips. Why couldn’t I get her out of my head? My eyelids felt tight, wrinkled when I squeezed them shut. Even gripping my phone in my hand didn’t keep the images of that body from flooding my mind.
At least the guilt was lessening, maybe more than it should. I watched myself, not understanding why I did it, as I scanned through the contacts on my phone and found Ironside’s number. He hadn’t been really returning my texts, instead kind of brushing me off when he did answer. Trent had mentioned not seeing the man when my teammates had spent Saturday night ogling the dancers at Summerland’s. Still, I had to try.
You gonna tell me who she is or not? I texted, same as the last several messages I’d sent him. His responses had been sarcastic, tight-lipped and I caught on quickly to what he was doing. Ironside wanted me owing him. He wasn’t interested in cash, no matter what I’d offered to get the dancer’s name. That asshole was the type of guy who dealt in favors and connections and I knew once I agreed, I’d end up regretting whatever price I had to pay.
Got it that bad? Even in text messages, Ironside was a sarcastic dick.
It was desperate, but I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about her. It had been a week and I still couldn’t shake the feel of her or how it was remotely possible that a total stranger had me hard, had me aching, even now. Grunting, I pushed back the doubts in my head, deciding I’d do whatever Ironside wanted just to have her name.
Tell me.
There was a whisper in the back of my mind, one I’d managed to tune out during the past week. It prickled against my conscience, taunted me with whatever I believed was right and wrong. It told me I was wasting my time. Unconsciously, I touched my chest.
Breathing through my nose, I concentrated on the sound I remembered the dancer making, those slow, even moans and the heat of her body moving, dancing against me.
My phone chirped twice, two messages in a row and that quiet voice in my head grew softer as I read Ironside’s texts.
What’s it worth to you? I can set up a performance.
No other promises than that.
I’d take what I could get. I’d do just about anything to see her again. Admitting that to myself amazed me, especially when I thought about how ridiculous I sounded. I didn’t even know this girl’s name. Had no clue if she was married or gay or only let me touch her because she needed a release as badly as I did. Was it just a moment? Something that wouldn’t ever happen again?
Was I really that fucking pathetic?
I reread Ironside’s messages and the silence rose back up, letting that small voice whisper in my mind again.
You don’t need anyone.
No, I didn’t, but I wanted her. I needed to know if I was completely broken, if that dance and how it affected me had been the fluke I thought it was. Not caring what Ironside was plotting, I hurried to reply.
What do you want?
Like I guessed, his answer came quickly and I swore I could see that stupid toothpick of his moving with his smile.
We’ll talk price later. I’ll let you know when she’s available, but it shouldn’t be more than a week or two.
A week or two. I could manage that. A week or two until I’d know if it was just her, only her, that had me twisted up and ready to burst, or if it was just a waking dream. Even the thought of her had been the only thing that managed to get me hard, even now. Just her. I’d tried it before. When the guilt got too heavy, when I felt so alone I thought I’d die, I’d lay in bed thinking first of Emily, then just faceless female bodies when thoughts of her only brought guilt instead of desire. It had never worked. Not once. Not until that night at Summerland’s.
You don’t need her.
Head slung back against my pillow, I heard that needling voice in my head louder this time. Clearer. It wasn’t her for real, I knew that, I wasn’t crazy. It really was all in my head. But the shame, the guilt had made Emily a ghost—and now the sweet, soft voice that I’d fallen in love with had been warped into something bitter. No matter how often I told myself Emily wouldn’t ever talk to me the way that voice did, I still couldn’t shake the heaviness that sunk into me whenever those phantom words came.
You don’t need anyone.
I wouldn’t answer this time. Wouldn’t give in to that stinging tone or the weight laid heavy, firm on my chest every time she spoke to me. But the pressure ripping into my body didn’t lessen when I covered my eyes with my arm. I couldn’t make it stop; not the guilt, nor the memory of the damage I’d done. It wouldn’t leave me, and this thinking only of myself, of what I wanted for the first time in ages, made that thick voice seem even more real, scarier than it ever had been.
You don’t deserve anyone.
“I know it, okay? I fucking know it!”
She’d gotten the reaction she wanted. It was always that way. She baited, I bit and every time I did, I lost a little bit more of myself. Like clockwork, Emily’s face came back to me—one minute hurt, tears in her eyes, skin flushed from the sun, then…God, the sounds. The screams.
Stop Ransom! Stop right now!
“I’m sorry,” I told her, trying like hell not to lose it completely lying on that bed in the locker room infirmary. “God, baby, I’m so sorry.”
“Brah?”
My arm felt weak, thin when I lifted it to look at my father staring at me from the doorway. He’d caught me. It wasn’t the first time, not likely to be the last, but every time when Dad heard me shouting to myself, back at her, he’d let the worry slide away, leaving me to my own demons.
I knew that expression. I’d watched him for years, back when my Pee Wee team called me Baby Kona, before I knew just how close to the truth that nickname was. Dad was worried. That forehead was heavy with lines and the cast of his eyes was tight, concerned.
“I’m okay. It’s fine.”
“Keki kane …” He stopped speaking when I sat up.
“I’m just losing it a little, okay? Don’t worry about me.”
Kona brushed my good leg aside and sat next to me, but that frown stayed fixed to his mouth and I felt the beginning of a lecture coming my way. “Listen, if you want to talk to someone…”
“You serious?” I didn’t let him answer. “I’ve been talking to someone since I was eight years old.” I wasn’t angry. That was something else I didn’t do anymore. But I couldn’t keep my tone from sounding sharp, defensive.
If my father was irritated by my attitude, he didn’t call me on it. “They said the same thing over and over,” I continued. “I could probably write a book about all the one-liners shrinks tell their patients. I don’t need to talk to anyone about what goes on in my head, just like I never needed to talk to anyone about how pissed off I got.”
“This isn’t about your temper.” Dad stopped me when I tried leaving the bed with his big hand on my shoulder. “It took me years…”
“Dad, I know.” God, I’d heard it so many times from my parents. Frustrated, I covered my face, scrubbing my fingers over my eyes before I finished. “You’ve told me all of this before. It took you years to learn how to release your anger. It took discipline and practice. The league did that for you. Mom learned to control her rage when she had me. And I learned how to deal with it when…” I looked up at the ceiling, knowing he watched me, that he probably thought I was getting worse. “I don’t do angry anymore.”
“You do. At yourself.” His fingers tightened on my shoulder. “You keep it all in.”
“It’s how I deal.”
“Ransom…” No. I didn’t want that tone—the overly stressed, no sleep, my kid has lost his ever-loving mind bullshit tone my father got whenever he thought I needed to see reason. He had enough on his plate. I didn’t need to add to it.
“Did the doc say I could leave? I want to get back to the team house. I’ve got a Chem quiz on Thursday.”
He looked at me for a long time and I felt the weight of his worry, that tight tension only worsening the longer he watched me. But then, I offered him a smile, hoped he got that I didn’t want to have a heart-to-heart while my teammates crowded into the locker room. Moving his hand off my shoulder, my father nodded once, letting the worry go. I knew he wouldn’t ignore it forever.
“Yeah,” he said, lifting the ice from my knee. “Just a little inflammation. You should be good.” My father’s presence was looming, and the way he moved his gaze at me as I pulled off my uniform and limped toward my locker had me just on the tip of losing my temper. But that wouldn’t do either of us any good. It wouldn’t settle the problems I’d created for myself since the accident, or since. “Listen, why don’t you grab your books and come home with me? I have to get back soon, and I know Keira would want to see you.”
“Why you hurrying back?”
Dad nodded at his assistants and a couple of linemen as they passed him. “Leann couldn’t stay all afternoon with her.”
“Leann?” I said, stopping him with my hand on his shoulder. “What about that Aly girl?”
“Who?” He had no clue, that much I could tell by the confusion making my father frown. You’ve got to be kidding me.
“The instructor from Leann’s studio.” That suppressed anger started to bubble as my father shook his head and I threw my balled up shirt onto the bench when I realized Aly had played me. “She said she’d call Mom, like three days ago.”
“Keira didn’t mention it and we’ve been bouncing through some of Leann’s students so your mom can get in a nap or two every day. But they’re still in high school.” Dad yawned, blinking quickly as though he needed to keep his eyelids moving so he wouldn’t fall asleep where he stood. “So you wanna come back with me?”
That was bullshit. You don’t say you’re going to do something and then flake out. Who does that? Assholes do that, but I honestly hadn’t picked up that Aly was a liar. Dad yawned again and I realized I’d have to let some of my temper surface. I didn’t care who this girl was, I’d scare the hell out of her if it meant my parents could get some damn sleep. “No. I’m good Dad. I’ve gotta get dressed and head to Metairie.”
He moved to my side when I shuffled in my locker for my clothes, ignoring the jabs I heard around me from my teammates. They stopped when my father waved them off. “I thought you were going to study.”
“I am,” I said, slamming my locker, “but first I need to go to the studio.”
6
The music coming from the dark studio was familiar. The drumming heartbeat thumped slow, two quick beats, then a lengthened third, some sort of pop that beat gentler than a pulse and yet pounded deeper. As I walked through the glass doors, a few lines from the song resonated, lyrics sung through a rasp, the language I recognized as Portuguese.
Since we were kids Leann had forced Tristian and me to into learning dances whenever a new style caught her attention and this music reminded me of salsa, maybe a slow tango. Whatever the music, it didn’t match my mood or quiet the temper that had my neck hot and my pulse throbbing. That Aly woman had lied, on purpose I figured, just to get away from me.
“No, step on the one, skip the two.” That was Leann in instructor mode, teaching someone I couldn’t see on the other side of the open studio door. The lights were dim, the music loud and there was the distinct smell of floor wax and the ozone from the AC in the large room.
Once I stepped over the threshold, Leann spotted me, frowning as she walked around who I thought was a student. But the woman at her side didn’t look like anyone I’d ever remembered seeing. At least, I didn’t think so when my glance slipped over her long, muscular legs and those three inch black heels that made her strong calf muscles flex.
But then the woman looked away from the floor where she watched her feet caught in a step, practicing whatever dance Leann had been teaching, and I realized this wasn’t a stranger. Aly wasn’t sporting the drab, busted t-shirt and dance pants I’d only ever seen her in before. She wore tight black leggings that came just below her knees under gray biker shorts and the swell of her round ass shook when she swayed and rolled her hips to match the bassline pumping out of the speakers.
“Ransom? What’s wrong?” Leann met me in the middle of the room, barely looking at my leg as I favored my knee. Her voice edged toward a panic. “Is it Keira? Is everything okay?”
“No,” I said, looking over Leann to glare at Aly in the mirror. “She,” I jerked my head at Aly, “lied to me. She promised she’d call Mom about helping her out. She damn well didn’t.” Leann tried to block me as I walked around her, but I moved too quickly to let her be much of a buffer between us.
Aly’s expression transformed from quiet surprise, likely at my anger, right to obvious annoyance. She stepped toward me and lifted her chin as though she was used to being on the defensive. “I didn’t promise anything.” She didn’t back down, and quickly returned her attention to her feet as I stood in front of her, like I was a distraction she couldn’t be bothered with at the moment.
The anger I’d managed to keep below the surface threatened to seep out as I stared down at Aly, but it confused me, too. Plenty of people lied to me—girls who’d tell me whatever they thought I wanted to hear to get me to touch them, coaches who promised I wouldn’t be pushed beyond my limits, teammates who assured me that I’d have fun following them into debauchery. Hell, that wasn’t anything new to me. So why did this woman lying have me itching to slam my fist into Leann’s wall of mirrors?
“You said you’d call. Who does that? Who promises to do something and then just flakes out?”
“Everyone, jackass.” I had to give her credit, Aly didn’t cower away from me. Not when my temper flared and my voice got loud. Not when I stepped right in front of her, glaring at her with my top lip curling up. She just stood there, arms crossed, face tilted like no amount of warning would make her back down. “Besides, I said I’d give her a call. I just haven’t yet.”
“That was days ago. And she needs help now.” This woman was unbelievable. Didn’t she get how desperate we were? Didn’t she understand help meant now?
“She’s not my mother. Why don’t you help her?”
“You think I don’t want to?”
“Modi, I have no idea what you think. And I really don’t care.”
“You’re a selfish, greedy…”
“Hey, you grosoulye bata,” that cool attitude fractured just a little and when Aly’s bottom eyelid twitched and I saw a quick rush of anger, one that could probably match my own. She jabbed her finger in my chest and I let her, floored that she had to nerve to touch me. I didn’t quite get why I let it slide, why I didn’t brush her hand away. The anger in the room felt heavy and hot, like something you should avoid, but are too tempted to test how quickly you’ll be burned. Aly’s eyes were wide and the low light around us glinted against the gleam like glass. “You don’t know me. Don’t you dare start slinging insults at me.”
“That’s enough. Stop it now.” Leann came between us, pushed me back a couple of steps. “You two are simmering. Too much energy.” Then that familiar slow grin pushed against Leann’s mouth and I knew she was going to ask me to do something that was sure to piss me off. She walked around me, gazing over my legs, my shoulders, judging me, like she hadn’t ever really seen me before. I felt like a horse being examined at auction. Aly’s back stiffened when Leann measured her up in the same way before she finally stood between us again, her grin transformed into something that reminded me of a super villain who was just moments away from monologuing his wicked, wicked plan. “You need to work out this frustration.”
“No. I twisted my knee at practice.” I knew Leann well enough to pick up on her in the middle of a scheme. That grin lowered when I shook my head. “Besides, I’m more concerned with finding someone to help my mother.”
“You’re barely limping and we’ll discuss Aly taking the job.” The small pat she brushed against my arm didn’t relax me, at all. “But for now, sit.”
“Leann, I don’t have time for this bullshit.”
“You make time, Ransom.” She stepped in front of me holding my arms so I wouldn’t just walk out of the room. “You promised to help me with the recital.”
“So?”
“So, Aly and I are thinking of adding a Kizomba number in the schedule.” She shrugged like that explanation was reason enough for me not to leave. “We need a male body and you know the basic steps. At least, you know the concept.” She pointed to the floor, nodding her head like she expected me to sit down.
“Did you not hear the part where I said ‘no’?”
Leann’s face was vacant, and she moved her eyebrows up, advertising that the little ‘I dare you to refuse again’ expression on her face was Leann at her fiercest. She was going to try a Guilt Card, one she must have thought I wouldn’t ignore. “A promise, Ransom. Remember that? Who promises to do something and then just flakes out?”
Ouch. Giving me back my own insult stung a little more than it should have and I deflated, ignoring my cousin when that stupid grin made another appearance. Told you. I can’t take disappointing women. I was such a punk.
“Sit down,” Leann said, pointing again at the spot just in front of the mirrored wall. “And watch us.”
Aly’s face was unreadable, but I caught the tension in her eyes when she glanced at me before Leann moved to stand next to her. Both women went over the hip movements as they watched themselves in the mirror. Leann was smaller than Aly, but the younger woman had more natural rhythm. They both swayed, rolled their hips to practice the woman’s steps, the style and movements she’d make while performing the Kizomba.
Then, they came together, Leann leading, their bodies maybe an inch apart. I watched Leann’s footwork, the slow, barely moving side to side steps of the male partner, each one matching the pulse of the music, understated, allowing the woman to subtly dazzle. It was mesmerizing, a controlled yet erotic seduction that shouldn’t have made me forget about Aly’s lie or the fact that my mother was virtually on her own with the little monster all day.
For some reason I didn’t understand or even fully realize, I got lost in the music, that hypnotic sway of limbs and feet and the near erotic push of Aly’s hips constantly gyrating in a twist that shouldn’t be technically possible. This was a dance that called for connection and, grudgingly, I understood why Leann wanted us performing it. There is a very thin line between anger and passion, love and lust. Sometimes the quick pull of rage can be mistaken for the thrill of physical touch. I’d never understood that completely, not until I walked into this room and screamed at Aly, when my mind warred between trying to get her to somehow submit—something I’d never have asked of anyone—and wanting to be touched, wanting to submit myself. Maybe that was why that rage had been so surprising. I hadn’t felt anything close to it for so long and had missed the flame of it bubbling warm and comfortable in my stomach.
Thin lines, thick lines, they sometimes got blurred and Leann knew that, probably bet on our anger to show itself in the dance.
Doubt though, was stronger than my anger or passion and that’s what bumped in my mind when Leann waved me over, directing me to take Aly’s hand in mine. Leann did the directing—hips here, my hand on Aly’s back, elbow extended—it felt very clinical and formulaic, but then Aly pressed against me, so close that my thigh rested right between her legs and her body softened, came to me in answer to a question I’d never ask.
“You need to lead, Ransom, that’s important and you and Aly need to be perfectly in synch. It’s a little bit of semba and a lot of seduction. All in the hips.” Leann guided and it only took me a moment for my body to remember rhythm, stance. I’d been the guinea pig so often that Leann’s instruction, her example, was easy to follow. I’d been doing that for years.
“Ransom, get closer. Aly, show him.”
And just like that, I felt the warmth of Aly’s center on my thigh and the push of her hips, that slow, slow movement of her grazing my dick. “What the fu…”
“Take it easy, I’m not flirting.” She looked up at me, eyebrow cocked in a challenge. I noticed that shy, awkward way Aly had been around me in Leann’s office had disappeared, replaced by a professional, one that didn’t back down from me as I charged in the studio pissed off. “Can you do this?” She looked down at my sore knee.
“I can lead.”
“Wanna prove it?”
I took the challenge from her eagerly, wanted to push that smug expression off her face, wanted, for some reason I couldn’t explain to myself, for her to know I could lead. I’d fucking lead and she’d follow willingly.
Aly moved her hips, a slow, minuscule grind brushing against me, and then a subtle moving away, a seduction, a sensual game between woman and man. It was a sway I was supposed to follow, something that went deep and as I watched her, felt the tightness of her grip in my hand and the shake of her hips, the music came into me, that drumbeat thumping into my ears, demanding I follow. So, I did, not realizing that my temper had calmed until I felt the rhythm of my heart slowing.
“Step on the one,” Aly said, nodding when I caught on. Still, she wouldn’t smile, as though she was only business, and when I turned, using my arms, the balls of my feet to guide her, I spotted how tightly she squeezed her eyes shut in the mirror behind us.
“Closer,” I heard Leann say, then she pushed on our backs, bringing our middles together so that I could feel Aly’s ribs against my stomach as she breathed. “That’s it. Good, guys. It’s got to be slow, slower than a Tango.” Leann danced behind me, her hands on my waist guiding my movements. “That’s good, Ransom. Now, follow my lead. Aly will show you.”
Leann slowed me with her hands and Aly inched back, holding onto my hand until we danced side by side, hip to hip, and just as quickly as she moved, Leann brushed my leg back with her foot, and Aly followed, curled around that extended leg with the back of her thigh, rubbing against the back of my leg as she arched into me. Her full breasts teased against my chest, nipples hardening and the only thought I had then was that she smelled good. Really good.
Blinking, I told myself it was the music, the press of a firm body, the cooling of the anger that had stirred my blood. I didn’t want Aly, no matter how soft she felt or how easily she fit against me. Then Leann directed again, had me moving back, and Aly followed, her movements faster than mine, her body a dichotomy of curve and strength, a perfect complement to me.
In my head I counted…one, two and three, two, two and three and let that be all that my mind could hold.
“And the saida, Aly, show him.”
And she did, a full five step movement, me walking back, her following again, all the while her hips moved like an invitation, a sweet call that my body heard. But I couldn’t be into this, not this woman, she wasn’t my type. She was defensive, cold. She never, ever smiled, not at me, I hadn’t seen that once. She had always been so rigid– from the way she walked and the distant attitude to the severe bun at the back of her head.
But this Aly moved against me like a wave on the sand, bending into my hips, a brush of our bodies touching, working together like they were made to be and I couldn’t help but give in to the sensations that surrounded me. The music beating heavy, lulling like a drug, the tight press of her sinuous body, how easily she followed my movements, the smell of her hair, the warm moisture of her breath moving my collar. It was too much—so sudden, so unexpected and I blinked, realizing that the dancer from Summerland’s wasn’t the only who could get my body to pay attention. How was this happening…again? Grunting, I moved my hips away, then jerked my gaze to Aly’s face when her soft gasp registered that she, too, had noticed my body’s reaction.
Unbelievable, I thought. Nothing for over a year and inside of a week and a half my dick started misbehaving.
Closing my eyes, I exhaled, bent closer so only she could hear me when I spoke. “It’s not on purpose, but please don’t tell Leann. I’d never hear the end of it.”
I felt her nod, that small gesture against my chest and then Aly looked up, only her eyes moving. They were hazel with the smallest hint of green around the edges.
“Apologize,” she said, voice quiet but determined. My only response came from the lift of my eyebrows. “What?” she said, mouth still held in a line. “You were grosoulye...um, rude.”
“And you are a liar.”
When she slowed her movements, I pulled her in even closer. “If you stop, she’ll make us start all over again. I know you don’t want that and I sure as hell don’t want my cousin to know this dance gets me hard.”
Curiosity must have edged her because Aly tilted her head, eyes sharp as she watched me and then pressed in with another hip roll that would have been a too damn familiar if we’d been naked. She didn’t smile, but I caught the small hint of a dimple on her left cheek when I kept pace with her.
“Fine. But remember your form and remember, you have to feel it.” When I laughed, glanced down at my lap, Aly sighed like I was an idiot. “This dance is push and pull, Ransom. It’s a joining.” She slid her fingers over my heart, right across Emily’s face, and I shuddered when her fingernails grazed my nipple.
I had limited interaction with Aly, but noticed that in the studio, in her element, there was no place for shyness or awkwardness. She instructed me, just as she did her students. I was supposed to listen, to learn and as Aly exhaled, as her voice came out demanding and sharp, I realized the woman was another person—fiercer, professional—when it came to dancing. “You have feel it here,” she said before she moved her hand to my hip, pulling me into a thrust I didn’t control, “and here. Like…like really good…”
“Sex?” I asked, grinning when Aly looked away from me.
“Modi,” she cursed. “Well, I suppose it is.” When she looked back up at me I swore I saw her light eyes deepen to a color that reminded me of whiskey. It was the first time I’d gotten close enough to really look in her eyes and see all the soft features her attitude and distance obscured.
“Sex that is wet and warm,” she continued. I turned her, into another saida and we moved further away from Leann as we danced; thank God my cousin was concentrating on something on her phone and wasn’t watching us all that closely. Aly’s words pulled me back. “Sex that slips into her skin.” Aly closed her eyes, moved her fingers to my neck like she was remembering something too personal, too damn erotic to share with a stranger. For some reason, I didn’t pull away from her, too caught by the vivid image she was describing. “It gets so deep, feels so tight, that it hurts, just a little and you crave that pain.” She blinked and slowed her movements, pushing back as she arched into me. “That’s the best kind of sex, isn’t it? The kind that you can’t stop thinking about, you can’t stop feeling for days afterward.”
My throat worked all on its own, like the dryness in my mouth would never be quenched. Aly’s features seemed to soften and for a moment there was only the roll of her hips and the low, tantalizing rhythm of the music and our heartbeats. My bottom lip felt thick when I bit it, and I nearly groaned, overcome by her description and the raw feel of her body when Aly took a breath that bunched her chest closer to me.
Yeah, I had vague recollections about that kind of sex, but it wasn’t with my Emily I thought about when Aly painted that picture. It wasn’t even the dancer, though my vivid imagination cast her as my co-star in every dick-pulling fantasy I’d had over the past week. As she spoke, images heavy with sensation, it was Aly I imagined. This grumpy, rigid, remote woman. But just for a few seconds, with her body sliding against mine and her hips pretending to offer something I’d never be able to take, she became someone else. Something else.
We stared at each other, quiet, breathes mingling together and I noticed she had a small freckle near her left eyebrow. Her smooth, soft skin reminded me of honey and cream mixing together, just as sweet, just as bad for me. Her nose was straight and sharp and those cheekbones were arched like they had been formed by the careful work and talent of an artist. She had the kind of features that reflected so many of the complex heritages of New Orleans: Spanish, Black, Creole, she could have come from any number of exotic, mysterious backgrounds. For the first time I realized, despite how cold she’d always seemed to me, that Aly was beautiful. Understated and guarded behind that aloof manner, but for the first time, I realized Aly was very, very beautiful.
