Текст книги "Every Second With You"

Автор книги: Lauren Blakely

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

Chapter Twelve

Harley

“Let me try. Move your fat ass,” Kristen says, bumping my hip.

I roll my eyes as I scoot over on the carpeted floor of our apartment. “Oh my god, how long are you going to make fat jokes? I’m eight weeks. I’m not even showing, beyotch.”

She strokes her chin, adopts a contemplative look. “Hmm. Let’s see. If my calculations are correct, I’m going to make jokes for the next seven months. Now, watch what happens when a pro with the camera takes the shot.”

Kristen is a film major, and I’m not sure that means she takes better cell phone pictures, but I’m just glad to have a partner in crime.

Kristen centers her phone in her line of sight, and snaps a photo of one of the vintage cards. Our coffee table is littered with them.

Kristen has been playing detective with me for a few days now. I started by Googling my father’s first name—John—and San Diego. But, big surprise, I wasn’t able to narrow it down. Then we stopped in a fancy stationery store in the Village and I showed the owner the cards, but she shrugged and said she had no clue where they were from. After that, Kristen pretended to hypnotize me into remembering my grandparents’ names.

The added benefit of playing detective? It helps me to not think about Trey. I have a focus for my too-busy mind. This is a puzzle, this is something to be solved, this is a task that I can figure out.

“All right, the weird owl that’s looking at me is done,” she says, pointing to the card with a raised illustration of an owl with huge eyes.

“That’s what they do. Owls stare.”

“Spoken like an ornithologist. Now that one.” She snaps a picture of an orange fox with a bushy tail. “And how about the hedgie?”

I slide the chubby-hedgehog card across the wood, and she captures its likeness.

“All righty,” she says, wiggling her fingers. “Let’s have Google do its magic.”

She emails me the pictures. I flip open my laptop, download the images, and then upload them into Google image search.

I cross my fingers. “Dear Google: please tell me everything.”

But Google returns a search result for an online store that sells rubber stamps with the owl design.

I try the others. The hedgie yields a craft shop. And the wise old owl? Nothing but related images of cartoonish owls. I flop down on the carpet. “This sucks. I was hoping to find out who made the cards, or if this is some crazy business my grandparents own and then I could call them.”

“I know. And I hate to suggest this, but do you want to try your mom?”

I snort. “If she kept them from me since I was six, why would she tell me now?”

“Because she wants you back in her life,” Kristen says, matter-of-factly, looking at me over the top of her red cat’s eye glasses. “And you can use that as leverage.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Really?”

She nods, several times. “They do it in all the movies. Trust me.”

“But I can’t stand her.”

“Obviously. But she has information you need and want, so we need to figure out how to get it from her. Call her for dinner and let’s come up with a plan,” Kristen says, rubbing her palms together.

As I’m about to dial her number a picture pops up on my phone. A text message from Trey. I hate that my heart bangs wildly when I see his name, because I’m still pissed about what he did. But when I slide open the picture, I clasp my hand against my mouth. It’s a picture of a tree. And a note from him. This is why I’m afraid.

Chapter Thirteen

Harley

The second I hear the screechy sound of the outside door, I buzz him in. He’s in the building entryway now, and then he’ll be on the stairs, and I can’t wait to see him. I fling open the door, and I’m wearing only a T-shirt and leggings and big fluffy socks, but I run for the stairwell anyway. I can hear him, his boots hitting each step, quickly, so quickly, matching my stride. He’s faster than me, and I make it down one flight and he’s there, scooping me up, wrapping me in his arms, and nuzzling my neck and my hair.

“I’m sorry, Harley. I’m so sorry. You were right. I was terrible. I used you that night and I’m sorry. I’m so fucking scared. I’m so scared, and I don’t even know what to do with it.”

I kiss his face, his lips, his cheek, tasting saltiness, and I know he must have cried, and that makes me start to cry. I cup his cheek, stroke his stubbled jawline, and try to reassure him with my touch. “I’m scared too, Trey. We can be scared together.”

He pulls me closer. “We can do everything together. I don’t want to be without you. I know it’s only been a few days, but I can’t stand it. You have to let me apologize sooner if I’m an ass again.”

I push his chest. “How about just don’t be an ass again?”

He shoots me a smile that melts me, that crooked grin that lights up his beautiful face, his green eyes sparkling, the gold flecks in them doing a happy dance. “Yeah, I can do that too. How about I start right now on Project Don’t Be An Ass to the Only Girl I Will Ever Love in My Whole Life?”

“Okay, show me what you’ve got, Project Manager.”

He loops a strong arm around my waist and picks me up. I shriek. Then he carries me, Rhett-Butler-carrying-Scarlett-O’Hara style up the final flight, two by two. My eyes widen. “You’re strong.”

“Yeah, I am,” he says, and then he elbows open the door and deposits me on my feet. He closes the door. “Is Kristen here?”

I shake my head. “She went to Jordan’s when she heard you were coming over.” He takes my hand, brings me to the couch, and sinks down on it, facing me.

“Talk to me,” I say. “Just because I let you carry me, doesn’t mean I’m that easy. I’m so glad you’re here, but you can’t fall into me and use me again. You need to tell me what you’re feeling. Don’t bury it in your head, or in sex.”

He reaches for both of my hands, clasps them in his, leans his forehead against mine. “I don’t want to go through something horrible again, Harley,” he whispers.

“I don’t want to, either.”

“And it would be worse this time. Not just a brother, but a son, or a daughter.”

“I know,” I say softly. “I know.”

“I can’t lose someone again. I don’t know that I can survive it.”

“We just have to hope. We have to hope for the best. Because there are no promises.”

“I don’t want to be scared, though. I don’t want to live each day remembering how awful it was to lose them.”

“So don’t, Trey,” I say, meeting his gaze, and not letting go. I place a hand on his cheek, so he has to look at me. “Make a choice. Make a choice to live going forward. We don’t get to have a protective suit.”

“Some days I just want to escape.”

“And when you feel that way, you need to talk to me, okay?” I grasp his hands harder for emphasis.

He squeezes back and nods. “I will.”

“One day at a time, right? Isn’t that what they all say?”

“Yeah, but sometimes the fear feels so insurmountable, and I want to be strong for you.”

“You are strong, Trey. You are.”

“And then there’s the whole matter of, you know, being twenty-one and having a kid.”

“This isn’t what I would have chosen for us. Not now, at least. But it’s our reality, and we have to deal with it,” I say, then a dark thought crosses my mind and I tense and pull away. “Wait. You didn’t come here to end it with me?”

He stares at me like I’m a puzzle that makes no sense. “Seriously? Did you seriously ask that?”

I nod, jutting out my chin. “Yes. I seriously asked that.”

“Let me ask you a question. Do I look insane?”

I pretend to inspect him, peeking behind his ear, checking out his face. “No.”

“Then no. Never. You’re not getting rid of me. Because here’s the thing you need to know. I’m in love with you, and that’s a package deal. And that means no matter what, I’m by your side. Whatever happens, I’ll be here. I’m not the kind of guy who walks away. I might be scared out of my fucking mind, but I’m not running. You’re stuck with me, Harley,” he says, and shoots me another lopsided grin that makes my stomach flip.

I snort. “Well, we’re definitely stuck together now.”

He slides his hand under my shirt, feathers his fingers against my belly. “Yeah, we are.”

“But you really hurt me the other night in your kitchen, and you can’t do that again. You can’t have sex with me like I’m not important,” I tell him, pressing my hand against his strong chest.

“I know. I won’t. I promise,” he says, his eyes locked with mine, so sincere.

“I’m not a drug, Trey. I’m your girlfriend, and I’m going to be the mother of your child, now. I don’t talk to you like I did my clients, so you can’t talk to me like you did.”

“I won’t. I swear.”

“I believe you,” I say. “I just don’t want to be like them. I wish there was a position or something you’ve never done with anyone else. That could be just for me. But that’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid, Harley. It’s just I’ve done a lot, and you know that. It’s not fair to ask for that.”

“I know,” I say in a low voice. “It doesn’t matter. Forget I said it. Besides, I don’t feel like talking anymore.”

“What do you feel like doing?”

“Making up,” I say, then I kiss him, and even though his lips have touched mine countless times, it feels like our first kiss, all over again. But a new first kiss, a kiss that comes from knowing someone and hurting someone and loving someone and promising you’ll do everything not to hurt them again.

He kisses me slowly, taking his time, sliding the tip of his tongue across my lips, parting them. There’s something both sweet and dirty in how he kisses me, like it’s a kiss and a teaser of all the other things he can do with his tongue, all the ways he touches me. I moan as he kisses me, roping my arms around his neck, tracing the soft ends of his hair. Then the kiss becomes more urgent, a desperate kiss because we need each other so much.

His hands are all over me, moving from my neck to my shoulders down to my wrists, and every place he touches me sets off a fresh wave of goosebumps. By the time he reaches my hipbones I’m aflame with heat and need.

“Come here,” he says, pulling me up from the couch.

“Gladly,” I say, and I figure we’ll head towards my bedroom, but he stops at the bathroom and pulls me in. He tugs off his T-shirt, and starts to unzip his jeans. “There’s something we can do that I’ve never done with anyone before.”

I narrow my eyes. I might not have done much, but I know about everything. “Um . . .” I say, because I’m not into weird stuff.

“Harley,” he says as he turns on the water. “Just the shower.”

“Good,” I say, and we strip and step under the hot stream. “But you’re really saying you’ve never showered with someone before?”

He sighs heavily. “I don’t want to dissect everything I’ve done, but I’ve never done this,” he says, as he gently cups my neck and leans my head under the stream of water, letting it wet my long hair so it’s a sleek blanket along my spine. He reaches for my shampoo, squirts some into his hands, and then washes my hair, his strong fingers kneading my scalp as he works the shampoo through my strands. It feels so good that I close my eyes, and let the sensations flood me. The gentle way he washes my hair, his fingertips rubbing against my scalp, sends a new kind of pleasure through my body. Not sexual, not desire, but peace and calm and warmth from him taking care of me as his fingers reach through the ends of my hair. He leans my head back, washing out the mango scent of my shampoo. I feel cared for, as if the way he’s touching me is a promise of what he’ll do for me. For us, in the future.

“That,” he whispers softly in my ear, his words in harmony with the beat of the shower against the tile, “That’s for you only. Always.”

He soaps up his hands, runs them gently over my shoulders, my arms, my belly and then higher. I bite my lip as he palms my breasts with his lathery hands. He rolls his thumbs under my breasts, and then he groans as he strokes my nipples until they turn to hard peaks.

He wraps his hands around my ass, cupping my cheeks and tugging me against his wet body, his hard cock rigid against my thigh. I reach for the soap, lathering up my hands.

“And is this for me, too?” I ask, grasping him.

“Hell yeah,” he says in a husky voice. I grip him harder and he rocks into my fist. “Always for you.”

I watch as he closes his eyes, and his breathing intensifies as I stroke him in the shower, hot water raining down on both of us, his hard length in my hand. He reaches for the back of my neck, pulling me closer. “This is what you do to me, Harley,” he says, his voice rasping. “You. No one else.”

“Good,” I say, as I touch him the way he likes, hard and tight, with quick strokes. “Because you better be thinking of me.”

“I am thinking of you,” he says, his mouth grazing my wet neck. Then he reaches between our soapy bodies, grasps my hand, and stills my movements. “But I’m also thinking that if you don’t stop touching me I’m going to come in your hand, and it’s not a make-up hand job that we’re supposed to have. It’s make-up sex that I want.”

“Make-up sex…I don’t think we’ve ever had that before. Because we’ve never had a fight like this before. Will it be epic?”

“So fucking epic,” he says, in such a sexy voice that heat rushes through my body, pools between my legs.

With his hand tight around mine I give one more quick stroke, then let go of him. I smack him lightly on the ass.

He opens his eyes, and laughs. “What was that for?”

I waggle my eyebrows. “Because it was fun.”

He pinches my butt in return, and I giggle.

“Rinse off, and let’s get out.”

Within minutes, we’re both in my bed, naked, dried off, wet hair dampening the pillows, music playing softly from my iPod, a mix I made of sexy songs. The Perishers bat first with a slow number that always makes me think of Trey: 8 a.m. Departure.

He clears his throat. “So, you wanted something just for you?”

“Yeah?” I ask curiously because I don’t know how he could fulfill that request. But I’m not sure it matters because he’s running his hand over my shoulder, kissing my tattoo, then trailing his fingertips down to my wrists, lacing his fingers through mine so excruciatingly slowly, sliding into the space between them like he’s making love to my hand. I can’t help myself—I sigh loudly, like a lust-struck idiot. Because we’re naked in bed, holding hands, and it’s become this erotic act, as he strokes the top of my hand with his fingertips. I close my eyes momentarily, letting the sensations wash over me. A spark of heat ignites in my chest, then jumps to my shoulders, to my fingers, down through my belly, finally making its home between my legs, as heat pours into every cell in my body.

“I like that,” I tell him when I open my eyes, and if that’s what he had in mind, I’ll take it. Because I know without a shadow of a doubt that he’s never held hands with anyone else, and certainly not the way he did with me just now, like it’s foreplay.

“I can tell,” he says playfully, and brings his other hand to my thigh, stroking the outside of my leg. I arch my hips, wanting more.

“Spread your legs,” he tells me, his green eyes dark and intense as he looks at me, only at me, and I let my knees fall open. He’s still holding one hand tight, while he maps my skin, moving slowly, at a tantalizing pace, from my thigh to inside, then there, right there, where I am slick and wet for him. He rubs one finger against me, and I moan loudly. “I love how turned on you get,” he tells me.

“I love how you touch me.”

“God, I fucking love touching you, Harley. I love everything about you and your body, and how hot you are. I love how you want me,” he says, his finger gliding across me, making me hotter and hungrier for him. I raise my hips for him, inviting him to thrust a finger inside me. But he shakes his head, and captures my lips with his, consuming me in a devastating kiss, plundering my mouth with his tongue, rubbing his finger between my legs, depleting my brain of everything and anything but this moment in time, our bodies reconnecting, as he shows me he’s mine and I’m his, and we’re ours.

He pulls apart, and his eyes are glassy. He’s just as drunk on me as I am on him. “Wow,” he says. “How is it that kissing you only gets better?”

I shrug. “Because you like me?”

“Wrong answer. I fucking love you like crazy,” he says. “And I want to be inside you so badly.”

He removes his hand from between my legs and slides his erection against me, and I scoot up on the bed because I love the missionary position and I don’t care if that makes me boring. I love when he’s on top, and I can feel the weight of him on me, his hard body against mine, filling me, his arms pinning me.

“No.” He shakes his head, grips my hipbone between his thumb and fingertip that’s still slick with me. “I told you I had something just for you. Something I’ve never done before.”

I raise an eyebrow as he shifts me to my side, so I’m lying on the bed facing him. He says, “We’ll do it like this, okay?”

Heat flares through me like a comet, its tail burning bright and hot through all my organs. “Yes, it’s more than okay.”

He hitches up my thigh, rests it on his hip, then moves closer to me, rubs his hard cock against my center. I shift so my knee is draped further over his leg, and I’m even more open for him. Then he slides into me, slowly at first, inch by inch until he’s all the way in. He groans loudly, and I draw a deep breath, savoring the intensity of him filling me.

He grips my hip tightly, and starts to move inside me. It’s a strange position, side by side, face to face. There’s not a lot of room to spread out, or move around. But that’s the point, I’m learning. You need to stay close to stay connected. It’s terribly intimate, and he’s so deep inside, but he’s taking his time, each stroke, each move he treats like it’s a luxury, like he wants to feel the very atoms of every single second, and make them last.

Time ceases to exist, and all there is is us. Coming together. His body in mine, his heart on his sleeve. His emotions written on his face. Every time with him is better than the last, but this is so much more. It’s more than sex, it’s more than love, it’s a way back to each other, as we promise that sex between the two of us is only between the two of us.

The moonlight slants across my room, casting his face in shadow, and the faint sounds of music form the backdrop, as More Than This plays.

More than this….there is nothing.

And it’s perfect, so perfect, because this feels like everything in the world right now.

“I like this position, Trey,” I tell him.

“I fucking love it,” he says, his voice all ragged and husky, as he thrusts inside me. “I love it so much.”

Soon, we start moving our hips together, and he’s rocking into me, and I’m arching into him, and all the while he’s looking at me, then kissing me, my neck, my hair, my face, my lips.

“Have I told you how much I love being inside you without a condom?”

“No. How much?”

“You feel so fucking amazing, Harley. You are so wet, and tight, and I love all that heat of yours around my dick. God, it’s so good. It’s so good with you,” he says, breathing hard, and soon his moans intensify, and he can’t keep his eyes open anymore. “I want you to come so badly,” he says, but I’m not there yet, I’m not close enough; I’m still just in the moment, thrilling from the sensations.

He slows down, forcing himself to stall, squeezing his eyes shut, as if he can hold back for me.

“It’s okay. You can come,” I tell him.

“Fuck. No. I want you to.” He opens his eyes, breathes in deeply, and smiles a big, broad and clearly false smile. “See? I’m totally fine. I sucked it back in.”

And I crack up, a gut-busting laugh, all while he’s buried deep inside me. “Where does it go when you suck it back in?”

“You don’t want to know,” he says. “And now my mission is singular. I’m making you come, Harley, whether you like it or not. We are not having totally fucking hot and amazing makeup sex and me coming solo. We’re a team. Let’s get you over the finish line.”

I trace his lips with my finger, loving everything about him and us right now. Every. Single. Thing.

“Tell me what you want me to do to get you there,” he says.

“Touch me while you fuck me,” I tell him, wriggling even closer, though that will make the order tougher to execute. But he doesn’t care, and nor do I, because he’s up to the task, slipping his hand between our bodies, sliding his thumb across my clit, rubbing me as he thrusts inside me.

“Like that?” he asks.

I nod and gasp, and the sensations start to roll through me, little sparks of flame jumping from nerve ending to nerve ending, setting them off like sparklers burning brightly in the night. Each one flares, igniting the next, and the next, until everything is blazing brilliantly.

In seconds, I’m moaning and writhing, and he’s moving his thumb faster, all while pumping deeper into me. I rock into him, and close my eyes, and the build starts to overtake me, to burst through my entire body.

“Yes,” I say loudly, and for one of the first times I think I might actually be shouting, I might be that woman you can hear through the walls, the one who makes the neighbors want to know what he could be doing to her. Because he’s doing it to me. He’s making love to me, and he’s fucking me, and he’s driving me to the brink, taking me on this gorgeous ride with him, our bodies locked, our lives connected, everything about this time feeling like the first, and the best, and the most amazing, as we come back to each other.

Waves of pleasure drench my body, every inch of me, my skin tingling, my blood ignited, my breath and bones all bathed in this absolute bliss.

“Oh fuck, that’s fucking perfect, Harley. I’m going to come so fucking hard now,” he says, driving into me, his thrusts hitting me so deeply that I swear it feels like I can come again. And then I do, and it’s not as intense as the first one, but it doesn’t matter because I’m awash now in complete and utter ecstasy, and the man I love is mine, all mine, and I have him in a way that no one else has, and no one else will.

“Oh my fucking god,” he says as he slows, and buries his face in the crook of my neck. He starts kissing me, planting sweet, sloppy, sexy kisses across my collarbone. “That was amazing.”

He looks woozy, and it’s a look he wears well.

“Hi,” he says, after he pulls out.

“Hi.”

“Can I just say it?”

“Say what?”

“That was the best ever.”

I smile. “It was. But don’t get any big ideas and start fighting just so we can do it like that.”

He brushes his nose against mine like we’re Eskimos. “Hmmm . . . I think that’s the perfect send-off into sleep. Though I can’t promise I won’t want to do that again in the middle of the night,” he murmurs.

“I can’t say I’d object.” I switch sides, and scoot in close, tucking myself into him so we’re spoons, and we fall asleep like that, and we don’t wake up in the middle of the night, because sometimes your body has had all its needs met, and sleep is the perfect cherry on the ice cream.