Текст книги "The Weight of Rain"
Автор книги: Mariah Dietz
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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 23 страниц)
MY EYES are sticky and dry when I open them, feeling a hand on my shoulder. It takes me two seconds to realize that it’s King, and another two to realize I should be startled since nothing about this scenario is within my comfort zone. First off, I’m cuddling, and although it’s with Mercedes, it’s not something I do. Secondly, I’m wearing soggy clothes and sleeping in Mercedes’ bed—an atmosphere I only see during the day.
“Come on. Let’s get you some dry clothes,” King says quietly.
I look back to Mercedes and find her in a deep sleep with both hands tucked under one side of her face. She looks so peaceful I fear moving.
“She sleeps like a rock,” King says when I hesitate.
Still, I pay close attention as I move ever so slowly to get free before I follow King to the well-lit hallway.
“This way.” King tips his head and moves toward the basement. I follow him slowly, still feeling the urge to head to the front door and hike through the rain to my apartment. I allowed myself to be so vulnerable, and while a side of me relishes in the fact because I’ve found so few people I can reveal my darker sides to, I hadn’t anticipated doing so tonight, certainly not in that setting.
I know most of the basement is set up for King. There’s only the laundry room and a large closet down here that I’ve ever accessed. There was never a stipulation put in place that I couldn’t enter his space, but even now that we’ve been dating for a couple of weeks, I haven’t been down here. I’m assuming it’s because it resembles the rest of the house BM: a disastrous mess.
My eyes widen in surprise as I follow him through the door that bridges his space. We’re in a living room where a large overstuffed sectional sofa is cozied up to the far wall, across from an expansive TV. There are three bikes mounted to the walls and several framed black and white photographs that I know without asking were taken by Summer. The floors are a dark cherry like the upstairs, and the walls a muted gray. A desk with a computer sits near the door. It’s sleek and industrial, tying in with the metal and hard lines of the bikes and black frames, softened by a large white area rug. The contrasts remind me of King, who’s currently opening a door off to my right.
I’m curious to follow him. Since there are only two additional doors and he came to get clothes, I have a pretty safe assumption he’s gone into his bedroom, and the urge to see it is increasing by the second.
Before I can move more than two steps, the light is flipped off and he reappears. “Here.”
I accept a handful of clothes and quietly muster a thanks before King directs me to the other door: the bathroom.
The walls are a dark espresso, and while the pedestal sink needs to be cleaned, I can tell it was washed within the last couple of weeks. It explains why the kitchen was the only clean room in the house when I began.
It takes me several minutes before I finally manage to get my jeans off, tight and sticky from being wet. I pull on the soft cotton of King’s sweatpants with relief. They slide low on my hips and end slightly past my heels. I then pull on his T-shirt. The hem reaches the top of my thighs, and the sleeves go down just past my elbows. It’s so rare for me to ever feel small, yet I feel that way now, petite even.
I pull my hair free from the collar of the sweatshirt he gave me and head back to the kitchen when I find his living room empty. The house feels so different at night. The large windows that line the dining room and usually allow the muted Oregon sunshine and shades of green to brighten the house are dark, revealing faded reflections that make my eyes continuously dance over shadows. The wood floor is cool under my bare feet as I cross to the fridge. I pull a glass down from the shelves, admiring the flash of lightning that dances across the surface like a firework, and turn at the sound of quiet footsteps. King stops when my eyes meet him, and he freezes. It’s apparent with the way his eyes are searching mine, he’s looking for some sort of clarification on where things sit between us.
“Do you remember that song? It was popular when I was a kid I think, so I don’t know, but you’re older. You may remember it.”
“Are you calling me old?”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
He laughs, and the sound is nearly an acceptance.
“The lyrics talked about how the rain sounded angry, and I never get that when I listen to it. To me it’s just peaceful.” Silence extends around us. We’re both listening to the dance rain leads with every surface outside.
“Do you know what I like about rain?”
I turn to King, my curiosity piqued.
“People can try their damnedest to avoid it—add extra layers, umbrellas, boots—but you can’t escape the rain. It will always get you wet, even if it’s only a few drops.” His account is so true. I know from working to avoid it on numerous occasions myself that it’s nearly pointless. “That and girls at parties tell me it makes my face look like a sculpture that inspires them to paint.”
His comment sparks another memory from that night. I recall following a raindrop down the side of his cheek with my finger, twisting his hair and feeling the contrast of cool and warm. “Girls?” I ask, stretching the s.
He shrugs. “Girl. There’s only one girl that has made me feel comfortable in my skin. Like it doesn’t matter what my name is, what mistakes I’ve made, or whether or not I’ll ever live up to my brother.” King takes several steps, closing the gap between us until there are only a couple of feet.
“You and I both have a negative history with titles, but you shared something with me that I didn’t respond to like I should have. You opened up to me, Lo, and told me something personal about your past that I know you don’t share with others, and I should never have thrown my mother into the mess like it was a valid reason to void your experience. It doesn’t.” His hand travels to the side of his jaw, and I hear his nails catch on the short stubble.
I shake my head, uncomfortable with his apology though it offers a salve to my previous embarrassment and rejection that I hadn’t realized was there until now. “I’m only going to be here for a couple more months. Using the terms girlfriend and boyfriend isn’t necessary for something that we already know is going to end.”
King’s eyes widen. “You got accepted?”
“No. I haven’t heard from them, but if I’m not, I’ll likely head back to Montana and work there until I figure out what to do next.”
He looks at me with patience in his wide brown eyes. “Let’s go downstairs,” King says, nodding toward the foyer.
I follow absentmindedly, wondering if he’s trying to convince me to stay.
He turns to face me after flipping on a floor lamp. We stand near the sofa, but neither of us sits. “Can’t you figure out what to do next, here in Portland?”
“Portland’s expensive. Kenzie’s moving to Seattle in June and I don’t want to find another roommate to live there with me. I’ve realized studio apartments really are made just for one person.”
“We can look outside of the city, Hillsboro, Vancouver…”
“I’ve thought of that, but…”
“We can figure it out.”
My lips part with an objection and King takes a step closer to me. He wraps a hand firmly around my hip and his eyes bore into mine. “A lot can happen in a couple of months.” King’s eyes become darker, unfamiliar, yet I recognize them so clearly from that night back in July. It’s been seven months since I last saw him look at me like this, and the memory it brings forth has every cell in my body brightening, strengthening, anxious.
“We’ve only gone on one date,” I murmur into the darkness of King’s living room.
“We’ve known each other for months.”
“We hated each other for most of them.”
“Lo,” he whispers, and I feel fairly confident it’s to make me shut up by the sternness that makes his voice slightly deeper. “I want this.”
“What?” I ask. “What is this?”
“Us.”
He steps forward, allowing my eyes to see him a little more clearly. His hand falls from my side and fists the hem of the shirt he loaned me, making my heart rate bolt. He hesitates, and I nearly protest. Instead, I lean forward and kiss him. His lips are soft and warm, familiar as my own brushstrokes, but realizing that I’m going to sleep with King again—completely sober this time—stops me from falling into rhythm with him and my teeth crash against his, making a sound as revolting as nails on a chalkboard.
King grips my shoulders and pulls me forward, a lazy smile on his lips. “I’ve already seen you naked. In fact, I’ve…”
I press my fingers against his lips, silencing him. But then I move them, curious as to what he was going to say. “You what?”
“Lo.”
“Yes?”
“It was better than you remember. I’m going to make you remember everything tonight that you’ve been working to forget.”
My heart thrums, an excitement that makes all of my limbs feel suddenly different, more alive and aware. My eyebrows rise and my lips set into a smirk. “Promise?”
His lips meet mine and his hands travel under the baggy layers of his shirt and sweatshirt, gripping my sides with a reverence that makes me feel claimed. I’ve never been someone who has ever wanted to be a possession. I want to be a strong, competent, capable woman, never needing anyone, especially not a man to make me feel whole, or of merit, certainly not a possession, but the way King handles me like I’m necessary for his own survival, makes me want to be every title, every significance to him, because he’s become so many of mine.
King’s hands trail higher, tracing the line of my bra and then over my clavicle, making me shiver and shift with impatience.
“I told you I’d make you remember. I didn’t rush this then; I sure as hell don’t plan on it tonight.”
“King.” My voice is quiet, nearly uncertain of what all I’m about to reveal. “I remember that night with such perfect precision. I have several notebooks of you that I will never be able to show others.”
The air between us thickens with the magnitude of my admission. “For months, I was desperate to find out who you were. Charleigh and I asked so many people about you, about your tattoos, scars. I couldn’t forget any of it. It was as though I was constantly reliving that night. I never expected you to walk through that door. I was so upset with you…” I’m not sure what I’m about to admit. That I was angry with him because he was even more attractive than I had managed to remember? That I felt used? Embarrassed? Elated? Terrified that he had forgotten me?
“You felt everything shift,” King says, tightening his hold on my waist where his hand rests just below my ribs. “I’m pretty sure it took me a week to convince myself it was really you.”
I’m tempted to tell him how much he means to me, but I don’t know how to unwrap my words from my lust. We slept together twice that night. I had laid in bed completely naked, tracing lines and scars over his body while laughing and revealing secrets about myself I’m fairly certain I didn’t even know about prior to that day. But it’s far more than that. I know King. While that night back in July was void of inhibitions and packed with trust and comfort, I now realize that part of that was simply an image that we both created and fostered. While neither of us has any idea what would have happened had his number not rubbed off or had Kenzie not meddled, I feel that we never would have become what we are today. I know how much he loves his family, the extents he would go to for his friends, and how much attention he’s been paying to me when I never even knew.
My hands glide over his chest covered by the thin barrier of his T-shirt as I take a step closer to King and slowly tilt my head, smiling as I do as if to pronounce my intentions. The right side of his lips rise with the uneven smile I now consider mine, and his head tilts forward, his chin tilting to prevent another collision. Our lips move slowly, tracing over each other with the intention of imparting every detail of this night to memory. With each ridge my hand travels over, the muscles in my stomach get tighter. King’s hands are stretched wide as they travel under the cotton layers. I feel the pads of his fingers pressing into my skin like they don’t want to let go, and the reverence they possess as they slide across my ribs, my stomach, my lower back, making me move even closer to him, knead my fingers deeper into his skin, press myself flush against him. It elicits a groan from King that I trap with my mouth.
His hands are spread against my back, searing their memory into my skin while mine run over his shoulders, tying him to me as our tongues trade promises.
King releases me slowly, sliding down my sides and fisting my sweatshirt and T-shirt together. His tongue presses more firmly against mine, the stubble on his chin deliciously sharp as his head moves forward with the intensity of his kiss that only lasts a moment before he draws back and pulls the shirts from me in one fluid motion.
The lighting is muted, yet King stares at me as though I’m a fine painting being showcased with impeccable light. As his eyes slowly trail down my body, I step forward and place a hand on his chest and tilt my head forward. King leans his upper body back and rips his own shirt free before pressing his warm chest against mine.
His lips graze against mine, but before I’m able to kiss him back, his hands are gripping my thighs, encouraging me to lift them to wrap around his waist. Thoughts of being too big, heavy, and awkward for this to happen make an ugly appearance that King amplifies by bending and not giving me the chance to consider things. My knees bend only out of the absurdity that comes with seeing them both sticking out at uncomfortable angles. He carries me through his bedroom door, where we’re encompassed in darkness.
King’s lips are leaving hot paths along my jaw and down my neck that I can’t reciprocate because my mouth is level with his forehead. I’m considering ways to convince him to set me down that won’t require words, when his hands shift, one running a teasing trail up my spine and stopping on the clasp of my bra. His mouth doesn’t leave my skin, licking, sucking, tasting as his fingers deftly release the clasp in a single motion. The magenta fabric slides down my arms, resting in the crook of my elbows. His tongue traces a line to the hollow of my collarbone, sending my heels to dig into his sides and my head to draw back. King’s hand rests on the bare space between my shoulder blades, and as his teeth graze over the tender skin that follows my collarbone. His hand slides down my shoulder, taking the strap of my bra with it so it hangs from just my right wrist, and his palm covers my breast, lifting the weight and compressing as his fingers glide back down to my nipple, and run over the sensitized peak with just enough pressure to make my thighs constrict.
“There you go, baby. That’s my girl.” His words are quiet and throaty, and his lips tickle the bottom of my ear as they’re spoken before he slowly runs his teeth along the same area. His fingers compress more tightly, tugging on the tips of my nipples as his teeth catch the very edge of my skin, creating a sensation I didn’t know my earlobe could produce. My hands run up through his finger-length hair, my nails lightly scratching his scalp, pulling him closer to me. I want King to do that to every inch of me.
His hand returns to my back and his lips to my neck, distracting me from the fact that we’re moving until he’s laying me against a down-feather comforter that sinks under my weight. King slowly stands, pulling my bra completely free and discarding it somewhere in the dark room. I can barely see his silhouette, let alone his expression, as his fingers brush from my shoulders, over my breasts, and along my stomach, to the elastic bands of my sweats and underwear. I can’t recall which pair I wore today, but it doesn’t matter. They, along with my pants, are gone with a second that stretches as King’s hands push them down while his palms glide down the outside of both of my legs, continuing all the way to my toes. His hands create a new path on their way up, gliding over the tops of my legs, over my stomach, and slowly over my chest before coming back down, where his hands trail the insides of my legs. My hips lift inadvertently with his touch. King’s hands stop on the inside of my thighs, his fingers massaging the skin as he hums a quiet approval and drops his head to kiss me. “Every inch of you is beautiful. Every. Inch. Don’t hide from me, Lo.” His fingers slide up, running along the area where I am now in need of his touch. My hips lift again, a quiet gasp breaking through my lips with relief and desire. Too quickly, his hands fall back to my thighs and continue their journey to my ankles, returning along the underside of my legs and clenching both butt cheeks before moving around to my stomach and tracing up along my breasts. This time, he doesn’t continue up to my neck; he kneads both nipples with enough pressure I’m confused if it hurts or feels like nirvana.
My breaths come out shallow and uneven as he applies more pressure, my body writhing under his touch. He stops, and my throat groans with protest.
“King.” I mean for his name to serve as a warning. A threat that he can’t stop at this point because I feel the buildup like a punch to my stomach.
“I remember that sound,” he whispers, his lips sliding along my jaw. “You’re almost there.”
“Then why did you stop—”
King’s mouth moves to the apex of my legs, his tongue meeting the promises he made to my mouth as he massages every nerve ending with his tongue. My hands fist the comforter, my hips lifting off the mattress, pressing against him. His movements are slow, rhythmically moving higher and higher until he’s kissing my stomach.
I hear him pull his nightstand drawer out and wrap my hand around his arm stretched forward. “I’m still on the pill, and I haven’t slept with anyone but you since…”
King’s head drops and his teeth connect with my thigh. “God I’m glad I wrecked you as badly as you did me.” He stands up, spreading my legs, and I stop.
“Do you have a lamp?”
“What?”
“I want to see you. I want to be able to draw this.”
A small stained glass lamp with milky panels and small dragonflies creates a dim light that allows me to see the bright gleam of lust in King’s eyes, and his hair, tousled by my touch.
He watches me for long seconds, and then drops his hands to either side of me and kisses me. His chest is pressed firmly against mine as his lips move with a reverence and need that I reciprocate. King presses one last kiss to my lips and stands up, linking my legs over each of his arms he pulls me to the edge of the bed and slides into me so slowly, I’m lost between frustration and bliss until he pulls out and does it again at a slightly faster pace. He repeats the movement until I make a guttural sound in my throat, and then King takes me to every edge as he burns new memories and fuses previous ones to this night, making every inch of me feel beautiful and sated as only King can.
“I have known you for only a few months, and already it feels like you know me better than anyone.” Using his finger, he slowly traces my cheekbone.
“You should let more people in.”
I look down as his wide fingers press firmly around my hand. I look back to his face, and his eyes are wide with patience. “It’s not that I keep people out. I can tell twenty other people the same stories that I’ve shared with you, and they still wouldn’t understand.” He lifts his free hand and cups the back of his neck, dropping his head. “This sounds so lame. I sound so lame. I’m not saying you’re … I don’t know what we are, Lo. All I know is that six months later, you’re in my head more than ever. Hell, that’s saying something because I didn’t even know who you were for the first two, and I would still feel your skin when I was trying to sleep. I was thinking about what makes you laugh when I was supposed to be working. I didn’t even know you. Something about you just buried itself inside of me. Initially, I thought it was because you didn’t know who I was. You treated me like I was just a normal guy. It wasn’t until a few months ago that I realized it’s not something about you, it’s everything.”
THE NEXT morning I stand in the kitchen, surveying the coffeepot. I may not know how to cook many things, or use kitchen gadgets with much success, but coffee I can do. I’ve been an addict since I was eight. Apparently I was either meant to be well over six feet, or it truly doesn’t stunt your growth.
I set the machine to brew as I lean against the counter, appreciating the soreness of my muscles. King and I fell into an exhausted state of euphoria last night, and if I hadn’t been so tempted to draw him this morning, I would have woken him up to do it all over again. Instead, I dressed in his borrowed clothes again and grabbed my bag from upstairs, preparing things in case he was a light sleeper before I made my way back down and sat on the edge of the bed so I could still see him while my hands went to work. I worked for over an hour, until my lids felt heavy and my shoulders ached from slouching, making coffee a necessity.
“Hey.” King rests his cheek against mine. I feel his chest slide against my back, memorizing the heat and friction, the width of him against my frame, before his arm wraps securely around my stomach, overwhelming me with sensations.
“Did I wake you?”
He shakes his head slightly. “No, but I was disappointed you were gone.”
“I needed some fuel.”
“I can help with that. Let’s go back—”
“Is Dad home yet?” Mercedes makes her way into the kitchen, her hair in a million directions and her eyes still blinking with sleep.
King sighs, his hips shifting against me slightly before he moves to stand behind the bar.
“Not yet, but it’s still early,” I say. It still looks gray outside, but I checked the news when I first woke up and reports informed me that crews worked late to clean everything up.
“Want some coffee?” I ask, turning to King.
“Please.” He leans forward on the bar. “Are you the kind that drinks their breakfast?” Curiosity pulls his eyebrows up.
“Not always, but it is what makes me approachable.” He laughs as I pull two mugs down and face him. “How do you like it?”
His eyes turn bright, his lips curving into a smile that makes them nearly even.
“Your coffee,” I say, shaking my head.
King’s lips stay pulled into a smile as silent innuendos pass between us. “Two sugars,” he says finally.
I’m distracted by his silent insinuations, picturing images of him from last night that make my movements feel slow as I reach for the coffeepot. The sound of the front door closing has me turning to the foyer where Isabelle’s now calling out a happy greeting. Her eyes land on me and grow wide with calculation before she smiles again and wanders farther into the kitchen, stopping to hug Mercedes.
“Hey, Isabelle,” King greets her. Rounding the bar, he hugs her and then stands behind me, his hand resting gently on my hip. “I’m going to take a shower.”
I nod absently, not certain if I prefer him being around while she’s here or not. He disappears down the stairs as Isabelle takes a seat next to Mercedes at the bar.
“How are you hanging in there, monkey?”
“I’m going to go try calling Dad again.” Mercedes slides from her chair and looks back once before also disappearing.
“Is she okay?” Isabelle’s tone is filled with a sincere concern that makes me feel worse for not liking her.
“Yeah, the storm last night spooked her, but I’m sure as soon as she talks to Kash she’ll be fine.
“It’s so great you’re getting along so well with the family. It surprised me a little to hear about you and King, but I’m happy he’s happy.”
“They’re a great family.” I feel as though I should say something more profound, or something to verify I’m worthy of their time, as pathetic as that seems. “Would you like some coffee?” I lift the coffeepot in question.
“Sure, that would be great.” I pull down another mug and fill it. “Is that for King?” she asks as I pull the sugar bowl forward.
Arching my eyebrows, I nod.
“He likes brown sugar.”
“In his coffee?” I ask.
She nods with a shy smile that ties my stomach in knots. It exposes secrets, truths about their relationship that, as benign as I know they are, still burn.
I want to find out what else she knows, but the front door opens and Kash and Summer make their way in with rushed movements, showing they’re just as anxious to ensure we’re all safe.
While I would prefer to ride the bus home, King insists on driving me. We sit in silence, one of his hands resting on my thigh while the other drums against the steering wheel. He’s relieved and happy, forcing my interaction with Isabelle to the recesses of my mind.
