Текст книги "Four Years Later"

Автор книги: Monica Murphy

Соавторы: Monica Murphy
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

I’m contradicting myself in my own brain. I’m a mess.

“I’m gonna go inside and get a room,” I tell her. “You want to come with me?”

She slowly shakes her head, keeping her gaze locked on the passenger-side window, staring at the front of the hotel. “If you don’t mind, I’ll sit out here and wait for you.”

I exit the car and head toward the hotel’s entrance, swearing I can feel her gaze on me as I walk. If she’s watching me, I know we still have a chance. This is just a blip in the road or whatever.

But if she’s not looking at me, then forget it. I can almost guarantee it won’t work out.

Fuck. I’m afraid to turn around and look, but finally, after taking a deep breath and counting to five, I slowly glance over my shoulder, my gaze falling on the passenger-side door’s window.

Chelsea’s watching me, her fingers resting on the glass, her expression full of sadness. I smile at her, give her a little wave, and she waves back.

Glad to know there’s some hope between us after all.

Chelsea

The hotel room is nice and clean, but there’s one king-sized bed. It was the only type of room available, Owen had said apologetically when he’d come back to the car so he could park it. I’d sat there, quietly stewing, wondering if he was lying to me. I was going to confront him about it once we got to the hotel room but changed my mind when we stood in front of the door, where I watched Owen slide the card into the lock and open it.

I don’t need to start any fights. He already knows how I feel and I should be mad that he hasn’t apologized, but what do I expect? Owen begging for my forgiveness?

He’s been very quiet, almost somber, I’m sure in reaction to my mood. It’s hard for me to pretend everything’s okay when deep inside, I’m sad. Disappointed. And I know Fable hadn’t meant to make me sad or ruin the mood. Truly, I should be ecstatic by what she said because clearly, Owen and I don’t give off a just-friends vibe.

I just hate that he said it in the first place.

He’d glanced around the hotel room, asking if I thought everything looked okay, and when I said yes, he said he was going to go pick up a few things for us, toothbrushes and toothpaste and whatever else we might need. He asked if I wanted to go with him, but I told him I was going to hop in the shower instead. His eyes had gone all dark in that sexy way of his and he hardened his jaw, gave me a quick “all right, I’ll be back,” and then he took off, closing the door with a firm slam behind him.

I go into the bathroom and flick on the lights, impressed with what I find. The room is huge, the fixtures new, and everything’s so clean. I wish I had something different to change into after I take a shower, but I do find a hotel robe hanging on the back of the door and decide that will have to do. And when I push back the shower curtain and turn on the faucet, I notice the water pressure is amazing.

The shower at my apartment is lackluster at best, so I’m going to soak under this for as long as I can.

A sigh of relief escapes me when I step beneath the spray and I tilt my head back, letting the water wash over my hair and face, consciously trying to relax my forehead since it’s still super tense. I wasn’t lying about the headache. It came on just before we left the stadium, and I can only assume it formed because of a combination of things.

Travel can set me off. That time of the month does, too, though I’m not due for my period for a few more days at least. The tension between Owen and me has added to it, too, of course.

I wish I had asked him to pick up some ibuprofen for me. I should text him, but by the time I get out of the shower, he could be on his way back to the room …

I decide not to bother.

The water seems to help ease the tension keeping me rigid. My bones and muscles melt under the heat and pressure of the water, and the soothing scent of the shampoo and body wash that I found on the bathroom counter relaxes me. Steam fills the bathroom, making everything feel hazy, almost dreamlike, and when I finally shut the water off, I breathe a heavy sigh of relief.

My mind is deliciously blank and my eyelids are heavy, my head drowsy. I towel myself off, my skin pink from the hot water, and I don’t bother putting back on my panties or bra, deciding to save them for tomorrow. The thought of wearing them two days in a row is kind of gross, but what can I do? I don’t have a choice.

I finger-comb my hair as best I can, wiping the steam from the mirror so I can see my reflection. My cheeks are rosy, my eyes sleepy, my lids heavy. The look is almost … sexy, and I never think of myself that way. If Owen sees me looking like this, I can almost imagine him trying to jump me. Even if we are in the just-friends zone, he’d at least notice me because I’m naked, right?

I mean, what nineteen-year-old guy can resist a naked girl with a decent body? I’m no sexy bombshell porn star, but I’m not bad. I don’t have huge boobs or anything, but I’m sufficiently curvy, and Kari’s always ragging on me to show it off a bit. Wear a top that reveals a little cleavage or a short skirt, but that’s so not my style. I’d never feel comfortable wearing something like that.

Taking a step back, I assess my figure, something I definitely don’t do on a regular basis. I never have time to stand around and check myself out in the mirror and besides, I never really thought of myself as a sexual being, until I met Owen. Was never really aware of myself, or the power of my body.

But now I look at my breasts and wonder if he likes them. He’s never tried to touch them, not really. He’ll skim his hands along my sides, make me crazy with wanting him to boldly touch me, but he hasn’t done it yet. I cup one breast, feel its weight in my palm, and my nipple prickles with awareness, hardening just like that. I flick my thumb across it, gasping a little when the sensation seems to travel through my body and lands between my legs, a gentle throb that makes me momentarily breathless.

Just like I feel when Owen kisses me. Holding me close, his mouth fused with mine, his tongue doing all of these wickedly delicious things …

I drop my hand away from my breast and cover my cheeks with my hands, exhaling loudly. This back and forth, push and pull I’m feeling for Owen is slowly starting to drive me crazy. I need to not get so hung up on statements and words, especially when I don’t know what was really said. It’s dumb. And I pride myself on being logical and thorough, exploring all the factors, all the benefits and all the negatives.

But there’s nothing logical about relationships. I’ve learned that quickly, seen it my entire life. Actions speak way louder than words, right? I definitely learned that by watching my father, especially these last few years, before he ended up in jail.

He made so many promises. Ridiculous, unbelievable promises that I always, always wanted to believe. He told Mom again and again how much he loved her, needed her, wanted her, always with a smile and a reassuring hug, a gentle kiss. She believed every word he said, ever the faithful, devoted wife while he was off running around stealing money, having affairs, being the awful, immoral liar he truly was.

He said one thing and did another. All the flowery words in the world can’t hide a black, emotionless heart.

Whereas Mom loves to pretend she’s the one with the black, emotionless heart that feels nothing. That she hates men. It’s all a lie. She’s in denial. She always believes every single word Dad tells her.

It’s pathetic. She’s pathetic. He is, too.

So I need to watch Owen’s actions, not his words. We say things as a way of pretending we feel something else. Maybe that’s what he meant when he told Fable we were just friends.

Maybe he wants us to be something more.

Either that or I’m completely reaching.

Grabbing the sample of body lotion on the counter, I slather it on, using practically the entire bottle. The subtle, lemony scent is delicious, and a little smile curves my lips. When I finally wrap the hotel robe around my body, I’m cozy and warm. More than ready to slide beneath the sheets and go to bed.

With Owen.

Hmm. The idea of doing that has me suddenly wondering. It’s not going to be so easy to go to bed and fall asleep, with him lying beside me all night long. What was I thinking? I may be all sleepy and content at this very moment, but the second he comes back into the hotel room, my heart rate will pick right back up and I’ll be extremely aware of the fact that I have nothing on under this robe.

Alone. In a hotel room with Owen. He could grab hold of the robe belt, slowly untie it, and peel the fabric away from my body. Find me naked and warm, my skin soft and lemony, my body languid and ready for him to take me …

Oh God, what am I thinking? No way can I give up my body to him yet. It’s too soon. I want to, though. Despite my worry, I definitely, definitely want to explore more with Owen.

Exhaling slowly for courage, I open the bathroom door, the steam billowing out into the room. I peek my head around the corner of the door frame but I’m greeted with complete and utter silence, the only sound the low murmuring of the room’s heater.

I’m hot enough. I don’t need that thing running to make me hotter.

I walk into the room and flick off the heater, then grab my purse from the tiny desk. Pulling my cell phone out, I send Kari a quick text, letting her know I’m safe and we’re staying the night in the city and that I would be home in the morning. She immediately replies:

Gonna get some with the sex bomb huh? Don’t forget to use protection!!!

I roll my eyes and reply. Of course she’d think Owen and I got a hotel room for a night of illicit, out-of-control sex.

My body aches at the thought.

I don’t think so. I’m exhausted and don’t feel very good. Have a terrible headache.

I bet he could cure whatever ails you. With his big ol …

Don’t say it! I type back.

A giggle escapes me. God, Kari can be so crude sometimes. I know she does it to freak me out. She texts back a few minutes later, when I’m curled up on top of the giant bed, leaning against the fluffy pillows and anxiously awaiting Owen’s return.

Have fun. Get naked. Live a little.

I smile. Maybe I should take Kari’s advice.

Though I doubt I will. I’m too chicken.

And deep down inside? I’m still too hurt.

CHAPTER 14

Owen

I am such a complete asshole. I snuck back outside to my car after I left the hotel room and dug around in the trunk until I found half a joint. No way can I go back into the car and light it up. The smell of weed will permeate the interior and Chelsea will figure out quick that I did this. She’s not stupid.

So I’m standing out in the rain, getting pelted with tiny, stinging droplets of water, my hoodie doing a crap job of keeping me dry as I cup my hand around the lit joint to protect it from going out. I take a couple of puffs, trying to clear my mind and ease the tension because I am so tight inside, I feel like I’m going to burst.

It does the trick. Within minutes, I’m high as fuck, my body and brain numb, not caring in the least that I’m soaking wet as I run back through the parking lot and enter the hotel.

My mind is clear. Blank. That’s all that matters.

Hanging out in the lobby, I quickly text Fable and let her know we’re okay and spending the night at a hotel about an hour out from where we left them. I then go in search of and eventually find the tiny gift shop in the hotel, lucking out since they’re just about to close. I grab a couple of toothbrushes and a toothpaste, a travel-sized brush for Chelsea since she has all that hair, and a small bottle of pain reliever for her headache.

Yeah, see? I can be a good guy when I want to. Thoughtful. Nice. So why in the hell is Chelsea so mad at me? What did I do?

You said you were just friends.

Big fucking deal. Chicks can be so sensitive.

After I pay for the supplies, I head back up to our room, dread making my footsteps feel heavy despite my still blissfully blank mind. I should just confront her. Demand to know why what I said in some offhand way was enough to flip her mood like a switch from totally on to completely off. I stand outside the door, staring at the card key clasped in my fingers, zoning out so hard I nearly fall against the door.

Fuck. Whatever was in that joint was some extra-good shit. Maybe it would be best if I didn’t confront her. I might say something infinitely awful.

I open the door after about the fifth try and stride inside, setting the gift shop bag on the bathroom counter. I notice that it’s still warm and steamy from Chelsea’s shower and the faint scent of lemon lingers in the air.

My imagination runs wild. A naked Chelsea beneath the water, her skin all slick and wet and tempting me to touch her.

Yeah. Fuck. That sounds just about perfect. Wish I’d come back sooner. Maybe I could have found her like that.

Instead I find Chelsea lying in the middle of the bed on her side wearing a thick white robe, her legs tucked up, her body curled into a ball. Her long, wet hair is spread out on the pillow, her eyes are closed, and her rosebud lips are parted in sleep.

I stumble against the wall and brace my hand against it, my heart thumping about a million miles a second. Seeing her like this, vulnerable and beautiful and sexy as hell, makes me wanna do something crazy. Like grab her, undo the belt, and spread the robe wide open. Feast my gaze on her skin and pray she begs me to fuck her.

No, dude, you can’t fuck her. Not like this. You’re high. She’s a virgin. You can’t be high her first time.

The longer I stare at her, the more my entire body tightens, my cock twitches, and … fuck.

I want her despite my altered state. I always want her.

Fuck it. I’m taking a shower and I’ll jerk off to thoughts of her. How she tastes, the sweet, hot sounds she makes when I kiss her, when I let my hands wander all over her body, never lingering too long. I’m patient with Chelsea. Always, always patient.

For once, I’m dying to linger. Dying to get her naked and have her writhing beneath my hands. I want to be the one to slide deep inside her body, staring into her eyes when I enter her the first time. Have that connection with a girl that I’ve never really had before.

Closing the bathroom door, I strip out of my wet clothes and get in the shower, letting the hot, pulsating water wash over me, cleanse my chilled skin and my dirty thoughts. My cock is so damn hard it hurts and I wrap my fingers around it, grip it tight, slowly stroke. Close my eyes and think of Chelsea.

But I don’t want to waste it. She’s out there. Sleeping in the bed we have no choice but to share. Why should I beat off when I could wake her up with soft, sweet kisses and whisper I’m sorry in her ear? Slip my hands beneath that thick robe and hope like hell I encounter bare, soft skin. Because I bet she is soft and bare beneath that robe.

And I’m suddenly eager to find out if it’s true.

Turning the water off, I dry my body like I’m in a race with myself, slipping my black boxer briefs back on but nothing else. It’s not like I can just walk back out there naked. She’d probably freak the hell out if she found me like that.

I gotta take it slow with Chelsea. That’s been my mantra ever since I met her. Slow, slow, slow.

So different from the guy who’s always wanted it fast, fast, fast and now, now, now.

The heat of the shower and the steam-filled bathroom and smoking the joint earlier has left me dizzy. I stumble out of the bathroom and flick off the light, make sure the deadbolt is locked on the door, and then I approach the bed, where Chelsea is still sleeping smack in the middle. I flick off the lamp on the bedside table and tug back the covers, sliding beneath them, lying practically on the edge since Chelsea is pretty much hogging the entire mattress.

She doesn’t even move when I get into bed with her, and I realize she’s a damn heavy sleeper. Sweet and so innocent-looking, she’s facing me, her hands tucked beneath her cheek. I lie there in the darkness, listening to her breathe, drinking in her features that are awash with the faint light that’s shining from the crack in the otherwise drawn heavy curtains.

Reaching out, I touch her damp hair, slide a few strands between my fingers. She smells fucking amazing and I scoot closer, sharing the same pillow, desperately wanting to lean in and press my mouth to hers.

But I hold back. Not yet. Despite my fucked-up, high-as-hell state, I know I can’t just barge in and make this happen. This is going to be subtle.

That last thought alone makes me laugh. Hell, I am high.

Chelsea stirs, a little sigh escaping her, and the sexy sound goes straight to my dick, making me even harder. And there’s no way I can hide it, either. I’m in my underwear and everything is pretty much on display there. Hope boners don’t scare her.

I laugh again because damn it, that shit is funny. Her eyelids flutter open and my breath stalls in my throat.

Damn it. I didn’t mean to wake her up.

“Owen.” She stretches, her arm brushing against me, and my cock stirs. Damn, she barely touches me and I’m ready to fire one off. “When did you come back?”

“A while ago. I took a shower.”

She sits up with a wince, running her hand through her damp hair as she looks around. “I’m totally taking over this bed. Sorry.” She scoots over and I follow her, thankful for more room since I felt like I was gonna fall off at any second. “My head feels better.” She rubs at her forehead, runs her fingers through her hair, and I wish I could be the one touching her like that.

“Yeah, you sure? I picked up some stuff for you in the gift shop. Ibuprofen,” I say. “I can go grab some and a glass of water if you want.”

“Oh, you did? Thank you. You’re so sweet.” Her voice is soft, as is her gaze as she smiles at me, shaking her head. “I should be okay.”

“Chels.” I clear my throat, ready to get this over with. “I’m sorry about what happened earlier.”

“What do you mean?” She frowns, looking confused and adorable.

“For what I told Fable,” I explain. “I only said we were friends to get her off my back. It was nothing.”

Her frown deepens. “So you mean we’re nothing?”

“That’s not what I said. I …” I shake my head. “What I told Fable meant nothing. But you, Chelsea? You definitely mean something to me.”

She stares at me, her eyes wide, her lips parted. Damn, she’s pretty. Lying here so close, I can see the freckles that dot the bridge of her nose. I’m tempted to lean in and kiss every single one.

“Thank you. I’m glad you told me the truth,” she whispers, her voice shaky.

“You okay?” My hands literally itch to touch her.

“I’m just … really tired.”

“Take off that robe and get under the covers, then,” I say on purpose, curiosity making my mind spin with all sorts of images. Every last one of them is of Chelsea naked under the robe.

“Um …” She climbs off the bed to stand on the opposite side of it, closest to the wall. “I’m … not wearing anything under it.”

I swallow hard. Exactly what I’ve been waiting to hear, but now that I know she’s naked under the robe for sure, I’m not sure what to do next. What to say.

And this is a first. I always know what to do with a naked girl.

Just not a naked Chelsea.

Chelsea

I’d been dreaming about him. Owen. His big, rough hands all over my skin, his hot, damp mouth on my neck as we rolled around on the enormous hotel bed. In my dream, I was begging him for more and he was moving down my body as I lay flat on my back in the center of the mattress, his mouth on my chest, my breasts, his tongue licking, circling my nipple, and oh my God, I wanted more, more, more …

I jolted awake and found him lying there beside me, watching me, his green gaze glittering in the barely there light cast from between the curtains. He was gorgeous and damp and shirtless, his muscular chest gleaming, the dips and planes of his beautiful body making my mouth water. I said his name to ground me, to make sure he was really there with me and not some dream apparition put before me because I know my mind would probably play tricks on me. I felt so needy, so restless after the dream, I wanted to make sure he was real. When he answered, I knew I had to do this.

I had to be bold. I wanted to.

Then he went and apologized, telling me I mean something to him. How could I respond to that? My first instinct was to run, but I had nowhere to hide. And I’m tired of running, of hiding from men and what they could do to me. I can’t live like this.

I want more. I want Owen.

Confessing I had nothing on beneath the robe sent a charge of awareness into the room that turned into this living, palpable thing, the tension nearly unbearable. We both stare at each other as I stand by the side of the bed, my confidence wavering, my body shaking with nerves. Maybe I can’t say in words what I want and neither can he, but I can certainly show him.

Show him that I want to give him my body—and my heart—freely.

With shaking fingers I untie the belt and push the robe open ever so slightly, revealing a shadow of myself. My breathing’s erratic, my heart is racing, and Owen scrambles up so he’s sitting, his back against the headboard, his hot gaze locked on me, encouraging me to continue without saying a word.

So I do. I thrust my shoulders back, stand up straighter, and push the robe off, letting it fall to the floor in a soft heap at my feet. Until I’m standing there next to the bed, completely naked and on display in front of a guy for the very first time in my life.

“Fuck, Chelsea.” He sounds pained and he shifts, his hand going between his legs as if he has to readjust himself and I swear, I break out in a blush all over my body. My skin is hot, between my legs I’m throbbing, and I …

Don’t know what to do.

“Come here,” he says, his voice low, the sound sending a fresh wave of tingles along my skin. He reaches out his hand and I take it, our fingers entwining as I get on the bed, which squeaks when he pulls me in closer so I have no choice but to climb on top of him.

Much like we sat together in the backseat of his car that first night we kissed, I’m straddling him, though this time I’m completely naked and there’s only a sheet and a blanket between us since he’s beneath the covers. His arms band around me, his hands spanning across my back, and I feel so exposed, unsure. Exhilarated.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs just before he devours me in the most consuming kiss of my life. He tastes like toothpaste. His hands are branding my back as he presses me close and my breasts are pushed firmly against his chest. The skin-on-skin contact feels so good I almost want to weep.

“So are you,” I whisper when we break apart, his mouth at my neck, my hands skimming over his bared chest. I feel nothing but muscle and heat as I scratch my nails over his skin. His pecs are hard, as are his nipples, and when I rake my nails over them, he hisses in a sharp breath, then kisses me so fiercely, so deep, I swear I see stars.

His lips are firm, delicious, and precise. He kisses me as if he knows exactly what I like, knows exactly what I want. His tongue slides into my open mouth and dances delicately with mine, sending a flurry of shivers throughout my naked body. I clutch him close, devouring him right back, and I hope he knows how much this moment, this kiss, in a dark hotel room with minimal barriers between us, means to me.

I grow slick between my legs with every thrust of his tongue, my nipples hard little points as they brush against his chest. I rope my arms around his neck and bury my hands in his damp hair, holding his mouth to mine, deepening our kiss even further if that’s possible, as I tighten my bent legs at his hips.

“Chelsea.” He whispers my name against my neck after he breaks apart from our kiss, his lips sliding down the length of my neck, his hands resting lightly at my waist. “You feel so fucking good.”

“Please. Touch me,” I encourage, shocked at my demand. But here in the dark, in a strange, unknown place, doing wonderful, unknown things, I feel strong. Bold. Different.

I like it.

His hands skim down over my hips, down farther until he’s cupping my backside. A gasp escapes me as he strokes me, slow and sure, and his mouth is at my ear, panting, sounding so desperate a shiver moves through me. “Your ass has driven me crazy since the first time I met you,” he admits, his voice rough.

I smile and lean into his palms, his fingers so close to the achy spot between my legs I will die if he doesn’t touch me there soon. “Really?”

“It’s fucking perfection, Chels.” He skims his fingers along sensitive skin that no one else has ever touched before and a whimper forms in my throat. “Absolute perfection.”

I love it when he calls me Chels. I love it more when he says such sweet, delicious things. No one has ever called me perfect before. And the way Owen touches me, so reverently, so sweetly, I know he means it.

His mouth burns a trail of kisses down my neck, along my collarbone, and I lean into him, my hands slipping to his shoulders so I can hold onto him tight. His lips and tongue are like magic, making my skin spark and heat wherever they touch. He grips my butt tighter, lifting so I have no choice but to lift as well.

And then he’s pressing his lips to the valley between my breasts, skimming, tasting, licking. I tilt my head down, my hair falling around my face as I watch him, fascinated with what he’s doing to me. How my body is reacting to his every touch.

His mouth travels to my left breast and he pulls away the slightest bit, staring at me. My nipple tightens when he breathes over it and then he’s wrapping his lips around the hard bit of flesh, sucking, licking, driving me wild.

Oh God. I want to say it out loud but I press my lips together and lean into him, my arms winding back around his neck and squeezing him tight. The sheet is bunched between us, pooling in Owen’s lap, and I grind down on him, feeling the unmistakable thrust of his erection against me.

“Jesus,” he mutters, lifting me away from him with one arm bulging with muscle so he can push the sheet out of the way. Now there’s nothing between us but his boxer briefs and I fall against him, wrapping my legs around his hips, slick and hot against his cotton-covered erection. I want more. I want it all, but he’s holding me back. I can feel him pushing me away, his breaths harsh, his mouth against my forehead as he holds me loosely in his arms.

“I don’t want to go too fast,” he whispers. “You gotta tell me, Chelsea.”

“Tell you.” I swallow hard when I feel his mouth move along my jaw, his teeth nipping my flesh. “Tell you what?”

He cups my chin, forcing me to look at him. I blink, my vision refocusing so I meet his smoldering gaze. His mouth is swollen, his eyes slumberous, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen Owen look so sexy, so achingly beautiful. I want to touch his face, trace his every feature, but then his words penetrate my lust-filled brain and I’m left gaping at him.

“Are you a virgin?”