Текст книги "Revealed to Him"
Автор книги: Jen Frederick
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 17 страниц)
“I think that’s amazing. I think you’re amazing, and I’m trying really hard not to cry right now. I think crying is verboten on dates, right?”
“It can put a damper on things,” I reply dryly.
Inside, I hear her doorbell ring. “It’s Chris. He says he has a bag of something that smells awesome.”
“I left your food with him. Go get it.”
While she answers the door, I settle gingerly into the small chair. Thankfully, it holds my weight. From my bag, I pull out my own dinner. Three chicken breasts and plenty of veggies, courtesy of my sister. I pop off the plastic lid and dig in. It’s late and I’m hungry. I guess one of the advantages of not eating face-to-face is that she can’t see when I’m being rude. Even I know that starting to eat before the other person does isn’t well-mannered. Mom likes to say that I use being in the army as an excuse to forget everything she’s ever taught me. She’s only half wrong.
A long, loud screeching noise has me rising from the table and knocking on the glass door. “You okay in there?”
“Yes,” she says, slightly out of breath. “I was just pulling my coffee table over. I didn’t realize how heavy glass is.”
“Shit, you should have asked me, I’d have helped you move it.” My voice dies off at the end. That’d only happen if she could open the door. “Never mind.”
“I want to open the door. I really do.” Her voice catches on the last word.
I clench my jaw. “It’s nothing, sweetheart. Have a seat. Let’s enjoy our dinner.”
“This is bizarre.”
“Only if you want it to be.” I tear off a hunk of the chicken and shove it in my mouth. There are benefits to being out here. I don’t have to watch my manners and I can eat with my hands.
I hear the clink of a plate on the glass-topped table she has and then silence. I imagine she’s dumping her food out.
“God, this food smells great. Where did you get it?”
Bizarre or not, we’re having dinner. I smile with satisfaction and swallow another piece of chicken before answering.
“There’s a tiny little hole-in-the-wall near my place, with great Chinese food, reasonably priced. I think everyone in the four-block radius who knows about them keeps quiet so we can get in and out real fast.”
“Well, it’s delicious.”
“What’re you eating?” I told her, I’m a visual guy.
“My egg roll. Do you like them?”
“Don’t eat a lot of fried foods,” I admit.
“Everything tastes better when it’s fried,” she says. “I saw this one episode on television where they tested out all these different animals to see if they tasted like chicken. At first they fried all the stuff and admitted that the test wasn’t very challenging because everything that’s fried tastes good, even lizard. I suspect even poo would taste good fried.”
I nearly spit my chicken out when she says that. Laughing, I pause and take a long drink of water before I can catch my breath enough to answer. “Let’s just agree to assume, because I’m not willing to test it out.”
She chuckles. “What are you eating? Same Chinese?”
“A few chicken breasts. Some broccoli.”
“What? Why? Did being in the army kill your taste buds?” She sounds aghast. I hear her shift on the floor, the sound of fabric rubbing against wood as she finds a comfortable place for her ass on the big floor pillow I spotted sitting near the French doors.
“At the risk of sounding like a ’roided meathead, I’m pretty careful about what I eat. It’s harder for me to build muscle in certain areas of my body, so since I was discharged, I’ve stuck to a diet of mostly lean meats and vegetables. I’ll splurge now and then, but not tonight.”
“Now I’m feeling guilty, but not so guilty I’m not enjoying the crap out of this lo mein.” Her gusty sigh of appreciation is followed by a moment of silence, for eating, most likely. I polish off the rest of my chicken and lean back to enjoy the cool spring air.
While she eats, I talk.
“When I was first in, the meals were terrible. We lived on a diet of caffeine, tobacco, and stimulants. The latter are banned, but we used them anyway and the officers turned the other cheek. They weren’t going to deny us Ephedra when they were asking us to carry out twenty-four-hour shifts at a time. The food we ate was basically a bunch of calories in a bag. There was mystery meat in chunks and we’d heat it up using this weird-ass chemical that would cause cold water to boil immediately. There was a ton of junk food—cake, snack foods, candy. The supply of MREs varied over the course of our time over there. Sometimes we had too many of them. Later, in the middle of the deployment, there’d be too few. All the good stuff, we’d save, and then distribute when we got low.”
“What’s the good stuff?” she asks, as if there couldn’t be anything good, which is probably a fair assumption after what I’ve shared.
I wonder how long she’ll let me stay out here. I should’ve brought a blanket and I could’ve bunked down, although my six-foot-plus frame would have a hard time being comfortable. “Instant coffee, cocoa powder, grape Kool-Aid. Skittles. Loved the Skittles. The Charm candies, though, we’d get rid of. They’ve been considered bad luck since they first appeared in World War II rations. If you’re caught carrying them or eating them out on patrol, you’re likely to get shot and killed, so most platoons will throw them out or give them to the Iraqi kids.”
“Is it true?” she asks tentatively. “Did anyone get hurt while they had Charms in their packs?”
“People got killed all the time. Sometimes with the Charms and sometimes without. It’s like the poo assumption, though, no one really wanted to test it out. Better to be superstitious and get rid of them.”
“Jake.” A ripple works its way down my back when she says my name. I haven’t heard it often. Or maybe I just haven’t heard it enough.
“Yes?”
“Can I ask a stupid question? I know it’s stupid and I shouldn’t ask, but I want to ask it anyway so please forgive me in advance.”
Her earnestness takes away the sting of anything she could ask. “Go ahead.”
“Did you lose someone you cared about?”
I look up at the sky and think of Staff Sergeant Matthew Dalton and Captain Brian McKenna. The stars wink back at me. Maybe those two are operating those stars. “You know, there were always people that you liked that you heard about dying. Guys you might have stayed with at a forward operating base or trained with out of Fort Benning, but my small unit came through the first deployment unscathed. The saddest part is that a couple of the losses happened after guys got out. That’s the thing that people don’t like to talk about. But so many casualties happen after the war, because you can’t let it go.”
“I’m not one of those people, you know,” she says. “I’ve never thought about it.”
“I didn’t think you had.”
“I just wanted you to know.” She clears her throat. “I’m sorry you lost your friends.”
“I know you are.” I could hear real regret.
“How’d you get over it?” There’s more to her question than how I got over the war. It’s a question of how I recovered from my injuries, how I managed not to let the anxiety overtake me, how I was able to move forward. It’s that question she wants answered for herself. I pick my words with care, remembering Isaiah’s words.
“I didn’t do anything special. I went to counseling because I had to go to counseling. That was part of my treatment to get my prosthetics. Unlike a lot of other guys, I had the means to get other care, but I was in Bethesda for a time and when you’re there, you learn quickly to be grateful for your circumstances because there are always people who have it worse than you.
“I had a very loving family and a good support network, and I knew that if I had died I would’ve been mad as hell if someone like me didn’t get off his ass and start living. So I focused on all the things I could be grateful for. I could kiss my mom and hug my sisters. I could shake my dad’s hand. None of those feelings happened overnight—I’m still a work in progress. I’m not always comfortable with my prosthetics. When I go out, a good part of me wants to shove my stump in other people’s faces, and another good part just wants to be ignored. Most the time I’m just grateful to be alive, functioning. But I have my moments.”
This is the most I’ve shared with anyone outside the confines of a hospital or therapy room, but I felt that not only did I need to share it with Natalie, she needed to hear it.
We are silent for a good long time. I don’t know if she’s eating or thinking or both. I’m just enjoying the company. Natalie doesn’t realize it yet and I’m not ready to share it with her, but we’re a match. I know it like I knew when those planes crashed into the World Trade Center that I had to go enlist. The war wasn’t what I thought it was about, though I’m not sorry I served. Just like I’m not sorry I met her. I’m not sorry she’s got a bad case of agoraphobia. I’m not sorry that I might have to have a hundred dinners with her on one side of the glass and me on the other.
I’m going to sit out here on her balcony until she’s ready to come out. For as long as it takes—deep down, I know she’s worth it.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
NATALIE
The food he brought sticks in my throat as he talks. The things he says, the intimate, private thoughts that tumble from his lips are so moving, so real. I don’t know why this man has walked into my life, but I treasure him.
And he compels me to reach deep and tell him what I don’t enjoy admitting.
“I’m tired of being afraid. Tired of being tied up in knots over it and”—I take a deep breath and jump off the deep end—“I’m afraid I’m never going to get better. That this apartment will be the only thing I’ll ever know.”
“When you’re ready, it will happen,” he responds in his pragmatic way.
“How do you know?”
“Because you made it out before and you’ll do it again.”
He’s so confident that I start to believe. I exhale, closing my eyes. I imagine what it would be like to sit next to him and stare into his eyes as he says these tender, sweet things. My heart balloons until I fear my chest might explode with all the feeling. I lay my hands over my chest, not to keep the feeling inside but to hold it close. I don’t know what he feels toward me; but he’s here sitting on my balcony when he could be anywhere, with any woman.
“I’m so glad you’re here, Jake.”
“Me too.”
“Can I ask why me?”
I imagine that he shrugs, a lazy roll of his shoulders up and back, because he doesn’t seem to be overly perturbed about anything. “You laugh. You listen. Perfect people are boring, Natalie. You know what you’re getting with a perfect person every day, and you have to be perfect too. I know you think it’s strange that I want to spend time with you. It’s true that I don’t spend a lot of time just talking. That’s never been my style. But you’re different and I’d rather spend time with you, even separated by this glass door, than prowling a club. What about you? Should I feel insecure that you’re only talking to me because I’m the first male other than Oliver who will spend time with you?”
The last part is said in a teasing tone, because the last thing that Jake Tanner feels is insecure. I know it in my bones. His steps are confident; his actions decisive. His behavior is that of a man who not only knows what he wants, but gets it.
That he wants me is the only incredible variable in this whole scenario, but he deserves an honest and sincere answer even if he wasn’t looking for one.
“No. I’d want to spend time with you, no matter what. Because to you, people really are the sum of their parts. Plus, I like the sound of your voice and the way you make decisions. There’s no wavering with you. I like that. If I’d met you before, I’d have followed you home and I would’ve sat outside your apartment until you came and talked to me. Then I would’ve stalked you repeatedly until you had no choice but to let me into your life.”
He smothers a laugh. “Good thing, then, things didn’t play out that way or I’d be applying for conjugal visits.”
My breath catches. I want him inside, next to me. No, I want him inside me. I want to know what it feels like to have his hand on my skin. I want to feel his lips trace a path along my neck. I want to watch in breathless anticipation as he lifts my shirt and uncovers my breasts. I want his mouth on my nipples, between my legs. I want to trace his body with my hands and with my mouth. I want him to take me and I want to take him a thousand times until we’re sweaty and weary and too weak to even lift our heads off the ruined bed. “I want to open the door,” I whisper shakily.
His swift intake of breath at my husky words causes me a corresponding tightening of my core.
“Why?” he demands.
“You know why.”
“I want to hear you say it.” His tone strains with his effort at control.
I press my lips together. It’s one thing to joke about phone sex. It’s one thing to write a sex scene. It’s an entirely other thing to say it out loud.
“What would you do if you opened the door? Would you want me to touch you? Or would you want to initiate it? Tell me,” he says with fierce insistence.
The desire we have for each other is a palpable thing. I can feel it pulsing in the air, making it harder to breathe, heating the room with its very presence.
“I’d want you to touch me and undress me.” Remembering our conversation the other day, I look down at my off-the-shoulder knit blouse and tight black leggings. “I’m wearing a thin sweater. It’s light blue with a black trim around the neckline. The black sets off my skin, makes it look paler, and the blue makes my eyes look more green than brown.” I pause and take a sip of water. Outside I hear nothing but his heavy breaths, currently the hottest sound in the universe. The bundle of nerves between my legs are aching and on fire. I slip my hand inside my pants to ease the pain as I continue. “I have black leggings on and my toenails are painted blue to match my sweater.”
“What color is your bra? Your panties?” he asks.
“I have no bra on.”
He hisses in response. “How hard are your nipples? Reach up and cup your breasts. Describe them for me.” Each word punctuates the silence around us.
I do as he commands, slipping my hand out of my underwear so each hand cups a sensitive breast. “It feels like they weigh more. And they’re hot. It’s so hot in here.”
“Take off your sweater. Bare your breasts.”
I whip off the offensive cloth and toss it to the side. Taking my breasts in each hand, I squeeze them. The rough touch eases the ache momentarily, but it roars back in a hurry. I pinch my nipples and rub my legs together.
“Oh, sweetheart, what are you doing to yourself? The sounds you’re making, fuck—” He breaks off.
I didn’t even realize I was moaning but I am. I’m moaning and whimpering. “It’s not enough, Jake.”
“Do you have a vibrator?”
“Yes.”
“Go get it,” he orders.
I rise on shaky legs and stumble to the bedroom. The batteries still haven’t arrived, or they might have and they’re down in the mailbox. In my preoccupation today, I forgot to check with Jason, the day doorman. Shit. Back in the living room, I slide down onto the big floor cushion in front of the French doors. Before Jake came, I drew the curtains closed as he’d instructed. Now, though, it seems too private, almost claustrophobic, but my window balcony faces the street and I’m not prepared to open the curtains so people can see in while Jake and I share this intimate moment.
“Do you have it?” he asks.
“Yes, but it’s not working. I don’t have any batteries,” I vent in frustration. Earlier today when I used it, the relief it brought was only transient and not as powerful as the need it left behind. I don’t want to be half satisfied again.
“Shhh,” he soothes. I hear him shift outside. He’s closer now. Before he was on the chair and now I nearly feel him, only a few feet away. If the doors were open, we could touch.
I roll to my knees and reach toward the door, but just as I place my hand on the doorknob, he speaks. “I’m going to make it all feel better.”
And I’m curious. Can he, just through talking, make me come? I don’t believe it’s possible, but then if you’d told me a week ago I’d be having dinner with a man like I did tonight, that wouldn’t have been believable either. I ease back onto my cushion.
“Are you still wearing your leggings, sweetheart?” he asks.
“Yes.” And just like that, the tension is curling inside me. “Do you want me to take them off?”
“Place the vibrator on your right and then peel down your leggings, slowly. No rush.” His instructions are explicit and detailed, and I wonder what he did in the army. It must have involved telling people what to do. He’s very good at it—a natural leader. I heed his commands nearly without question. It’s nice not to think about things, not to have to worry about my next move.
I can place myself entirely in his capable hands. I wouldn’t feel this comfortable with someone else—or with anyone else.
“They’re off.” I kick the leggings to the side and await his next order.
“Lie on your back right along the door. Take your left hand and touch your panties. How wet are they?”
I gasp when I touch my panties.
“Dammit, how wet?” His voice is tight, hot.
“W-wet,” I stammer, unused to this dialogue. I lick my lips and try to give it back to him—to give him what he wants. “I’m very wet—I want to take them off. Can I, Jake?”
He’s so close I can hear his heavy, labored breaths and the way he tries to grapple for his own control. I wonder if he has himself in hand. What would he taste like on my tongue? As these thoughts run through my head, I rub myself through the already moist cotton.
“Yes, take them off.” The words have a slight shake to them, which fits my state of mind exactly.
I’m unraveling like a ball of yarn tossed across the floor. Excitement runs through me as if he’s poured liquid aphrodisiac through my central nervous system and it’s chasing down my veins, lighting up every neuroreceptor in my entire body.
“They’re off, Jake. I don’t have anything on.”
He takes a breath and then another. “Pick up the vibrator and rub it on your clit. Just tip on tip.”
I do as he says. As I rub, my toes curl into the floor and I draw my knees up to give me better leverage, although not for the vibrator and not for my fingers. I’m readying myself. My knees fall open and I know this will turn him on and drive him crazy so I describe it, in explicit filthy detail. “I’m rubbing myself with the vibrator and my other hand is squeezing my breast, my right one. My nipple is hard. The vibe is getting slippery. My knees are wide open. I look—” I struggle for the right word.
“—Beautiful.” The compliment is bit out like a curse. “Fucking beautiful. I want to be the one touching your skin. I want my fingers to be slippery from your juice. I can see the light under the curtains. There’s shadows there, hinting at what you’re doing, and it’s driving me crazy, sweetheart. My cock is like stone right now. I swear to fucking God, I could drill a hole in your balcony with the goddamn thing.”
He’s losing control, which affects me like gasoline on a fire. I’m enflamed.
“Jake,” I pant, “I need . . . I need . . .” God, what do I need? More than I have here at my disposal. I need him. I want his big body pressing mine into the floor. My stomach tightens and my legs grow taut at the idea of his rough body moving in long, slow motions over mine.
“I’ve got you. Take the vibrator all slick with your juice and ease it inside you. Do it slow. You like your clit licked, sweetheart? When you close your eyes, what do you think about?” He doesn’t give me time to answer but floods me with more sensory images. “Am I standing or kneeling between your legs? When I’m licking you, are you squirming or can you hold yourself down?”
“All of it,” I cry. “All of it.”
I work myself faster, thrusting the vibe repeatedly until the tight mass inside me explodes and my hand cups the vibe as if by holding it in I can draw out the pleasure. I can’t hold it in, crying out, something like “Jake, my God, Jake.”
When I come down off that high, I’m aching. It’s too much and not enough and it’s everything and nothing. Because I’m alone.
He’s just outside the door.
If I make one act of courage, I could have him and this emptiness will be gone.
“Jake,” I whisper.
“Yes, baby?”
“Will you come inside?”
