Thirty minutes later, I close the door of my apartment behind us. I turn to look at Ricky, and my heart stumbles on itself. The feelings I’ve been harboring since earlier this morning make the butterflies in my stomach lose control. Little by little, these feelings turned into a growing snowball of emotions and lust. It started gathering momentum when he told me how he felt about me and held me in his arms on the bike as we watched the sunrise. Then, that candid insight. The moment between him and his grandad. The nearly seamless pinky brush in the kitchen. And his “I’m head over my fucking heels for you, babe” all blend into something that makes the heat in my stomach boil. My hands shake with the need to touch him.
Ricky watches me with a frown. He cocks his head, assessing me. And he’s right there to catch me when I jump him, sealing my lips on his with a needy moan.
“Whoa.” He chuckles, holding me with one hand. Not leaving my lips, he bends sideways to lean the guitar against the wall. The overnight bag doesn’t get the same treatment when it’s unceremoniously dropped to the floor.
With his hands free now, he lifts me to straddle him. My fingers comb through his hair, and I all but attack him with a burning need. When I send my hand to his belt, Ricky slows the kiss.
I don’t follow his lead. Instead, I deepen our kiss while ripping open his buckle.
Ricky inches back to look at me. He shakes his head, places his forehead against mine, and closes his eyes with a lengthy exhale. Over a labored breath and with a graveled voice, he says, “Not here. Not like that. Bed, babe.” Sticking to his words from last night.
At this point, I don’t even put up a fight. Bed, couch, the damn chandelier—whatever. “Bedroom. Now.”
Ricky sends me a smile full of delicious promises, and with no further ado, he walks us to my bedroom.
The bedroom is dimly lit by a few stray sun rays that sift through the closed shades. While I expect Ricky to throw me on the bed and get to work, he seems to have something completely different in mind.
He lays me on the bed, kisses me softly, and takes a step back. He watches me for a charged moment and then says in a voice so low and wicked, “Undress for me.” When I open my mouth to protest the sudden shift of gears, he cuts me off with, “Vic, take your clothes off for me. Slowly.”
Taking my clothes off under his scorching gaze only adds fuel to the fire in me. By the time he kneels before the bed, grabs my ankles, and slides me toward his mouth, I’m nearly panting. And when he touches his mouth to me, the whole world stops.
After making me shout his name the loudest I’ve ever yelled anyone’s name before, Ricky positions himself on top of me. When he finally sinks into me, we are still, overcome by something that feels larger than both of us. The intensity of it all makes me want to run away.
“Vic,” Ricky whispers. He trains his stare on mine from behind a cluster of hair. “Stop fighting this. Stay with me, babe.” To my silence, he adds, “Eyes on me, Vic.” When I follow his request, he says, “That’s it, babe, look at me.”
We move harmonized, our bodies as close as possible, our mouths fused. I never want this to end. Never has plain old missionary felt so intense. Our breaths become labored, our bodies cover with thin layers of sweat as he moves in me. It’s slow, and it’s intense, and it’s achingly overwhelming.
When Ricky suddenly stills himself, bracing on his arms above me, I look at him in question. His eyes search mine, and he whispers, “I’m so gone for you, Vic. So. Gone.” My lips part in surprise in tandem to the lump of sentiments that lodge in my throat. Lost for words, I hold back the tear prickling at the corner of my eye.
A little devilish smile crawls to his lips just before he smacks my butt hard. “Back to work now!”
I’m overwhelmed by the delicious sting on my skin, by his confession, and by his little joke, and a startled laugh escapes my mouth.
With a guttural groan, Ricky’s mouth closes on mine, and gears change.
His thrusts turn deeper and fiercer. His hands wander all over me now, my face, throat, and breasts, grabbing my thigh to reach deeper. His mouth is demanding with sloppier, hungrier kisses. I follow suit, matching his intensity. I fold my legs around his butt, bringing him closer to me. My fingers rake through his hair while my mouth counters his in this delicious battle of dominance. The way my name falls from his lips as he reaches his climax sends me to yet another mind-shattering release of my own. He never leaves my stare, not as we move in synched rhythm. Not as we climax. Not till we’re both satiated and spent.
I’ve been with other men before, quite a few. At times, it was intense. At times, it involved feelings. However, never have I handed my partner my soul in the act like I just did with Ricky.
When we finally leave the bedroom, we’re inseparable, never leaving each other’s sight. We slouch on the sofa, my legs on his thighs as I answer emails while he strums on the guitar. We order takeout from two different places. There’s enough Indian and Japanese food to feed an army.
When I comment on the profusion of food, Ricky just shrugs and mutters, “We need fuel for what’s about to go down today.”
I thought he was joking. He was not. Much later, after our . . . I don’t know how many rounds in bed . . . couch/sink/wall, I ask, “Are we going for some kind of record?”
Ricky just grins. A grin that has me thinking, we just might. He sends his hand to caress my butt and winks. “You and me, babe, gold medal.”
Sometime later, between lazily kissing in bed and spooning, he falls asleep. I leave the bed but stay at the door, watching him, unable to take my eyes off him for some silent moments. He has his arm strewn over his eyes; the other, the one with the full sleeve of ink, casually lays on his bare abs. The comforter reaches the hem of his happy trail. I fight myself not to climb into bed and kiss down that teasing path of dark hair. I shake my head, scoffing at myself for what came over me, and head to the living room.
En route to my laptop, the papers Ricky left on the low table wink at me. I narrow my eyes at the stack of papers, washed with curiosity. Glancing toward the hall that leads to the bedroom, I take a few steps closer to the table. As if just walking casually by the low furniture, I pause and lean just a little to slightly spread the papers. I decide that having just a quick peek isn’t considered a felony. I don’t sit down to take a closer look. I just briefly read from above. That doesn’t really count as actively snooping.
Listen to my lyrics; you’ll hear them differently with your guards down
I want to take back some things I said, I wish I could make you take back some of yours
If I ask you, would you trust me and let go?
If I ask you, would you let me see what lies behind your mask
I don’t know that I can fix things, I don’t know that I can save you
But I want to be the one holding you when you fight your demons
The odds are stacked against us, but let me be the one
I push the papers back into one pile quicker than I can say, “you touched my core.” I grab my laptop with my heart galloping and take a seat as far away from the daunting words as I can get. Brushing away deep, sentimental thoughts, I dive into my mailbox. I refuse to analyze the lyrics or their impact on me anymore. No, there’s no way he wrote them about me. No, he couldn’t possibly see right through all my protective layers. I shake it all away and concentrate on work instead.
“Hey.” Ricky’s gravelly voice pulls me out of my concentration. As I turn to look at him, I catch a glimpse of the sky that turned dark while I was working. When my eyes finally land on him, I’m hit by a pang of desire. He sends me a side-smile as I admire him in nothing but distressed jeans with his defined chest, a medley of colorful tattoos, and bed hair. Lord, have mercy.
“Morning.” I mirror his smile. I keep watching him as he walks toward me. When he reaches me, he bends a little, extending his arms. I let out a surprised yelp when his hands grab my waist and lift me to straddle him. Instinctively, my legs wrap around
his waist. Instinctively, his lips land on my neck.
While nuzzling my neck wordlessly, he turns and walks us out of the room.
“Where are we going?” I ask, indulging in the feeling of his mouth on my collarbone.
“Coffee,” he says to my skin.
We reach the kitchen, and he deposits me on the counter. He switches on the coffee machine, places a cup under the machine, and returns to me. While the coffee machine does its sacred job, Ricky plants himself between my legs for some sacred job of his own on the delicate skin under my ear. When the machine falls silent, he leaves me to get the steaming cup, only to return to the same position between my thighs.
Eyes on mine, Ricky brings the steaming cup to his mouth for a drink. He swallows, bringing the cup to my lips. I shake my head with a smile, absolutely loving our intimate connection. He takes another sip and places the cup on the counter by my thigh. He kisses me, tasting of coffee and his unique Ricky taste. When he inches back a little to look at me, it’s with a twinkle in his chocolate eyes.
“Alexa, read wish list,” he says, his grin wider.
I can’t help but mirror him, albeit with a headshake.
We smile at each other as Alexa recites my wish list, which has only one new addition. “You have twenty-six items on your wish list. Lei è tutto per me. Sleeping with Ricky. Going back to Jutland—”
“Alexa, stop,” Ricky commands. “That will never get old.” He reaches for the coffee, takes another pull, and places the cup back down. “I didn’t catch the first one; what was it?”
To his credit, I must say that I wouldn’t understand it either if I didn’t know what it was. With Alexa’s mechanical intonation and lack of accent, it makes no sense. Not to mention, one should know basic Italian to understand the meaning. “Lei è tutto per me,” I repeat. “It’s something a friend of mine said about someone he’s in a relationship with.”
“What does it mean?” Ricky asks.
“She’s everything for me.”
Ricky cocks his head, eyes running between mine. “And you added it to your wish list?”
I shrug. “I found it special.” He doesn’t divert his attention, waiting for me to go on. “For someone to feel that way about someone else.”
He nods slowly, emotions coloring his eyes. The softness of his lips on mine next nearly take my breath away. Ever so slowly, he kisses with a wealth of emotions that speak louder than words could ever do.
And just like a complete amateur, I caught the feels.
The rest of the night is, simply put, perfect.
Our time together is the kind of time that you never want to end. A space of hours spent in such proximity to someone that you don’t even smell like yourself anymore. Where your scent has blended with theirs and created this new scent that you never want to wash off. When you eat when you’re not really hungry, and every bite tastes better than the last and you can’t remember the last time your laugh was so genuine and deep even when you’re so tired and can hardly keep your eyes open, but you do because you don’t want to miss a minute of it. And you keep close to each other, snuggling in the luxurious nooks of their body. The looks with the glint that tells you they feel the same way. And those smiles—God, those intimate, sacred smiles that make your breath hitch with emotions.
A space of time where it’s just the two of you in a perfectly, seemingly unbreakable bubble. The kind that makes a couple hop on a plane to Vegas on a whim for Elvis to officiate their marriage.
The next morning, he leaves.
Nothing really changed.
Yet I know I’ll never be the same.
And I am terrified.
So Many Faces I Can’t Begin to Name
“Not half bad, man.” Dave clinks his beer bottle to mine. “Didn’t know you had it in you. There’s an actual talent behind that pretty face,” he teases.
I scoff, flipping him the finger.
“I’d have Kayla look at it if I were you. She’s magic with lyrics,” Kevin says before licking some chick’s neck. I shake my head at Kevin and his exhibitionism, taking a swig of the beer bottle in my hand. The guy is embracing the whole musicians/groupies thing like a religion.
“Have Kayla look at what?” Kayla plops onto the bench, joining us in the booth with a drink she got from the bar.
Wordless, I hand her the notebook.
Kayla takes a sip of her beer, glancing at the notebook. She lifts her eyes to me. “You wrote this?”
I nod. “It’s good,” she says. She tucks her long, red bangs behind her ear. “Mind if I tweak it a little?” she asks. I gesture with my hand for her to go ahead. Kayla takes another drink, twists her mouth from side to side, absorbed in the lyrics of the song I wrote. She trades glances between the pages and me. “Is it about anyone specific, Patrick Hart?”
I just return her stare, keeping silent. I’m not going to tell her that it’s very much about someone. Someone who’s in every thought that passes my mind. Someone who’s in every damn breath I take. She raises a brow at me, smiling to herself like she doesn’t need me to confirm anything because she’s got it all figured out. “You have your guitar here?” she asks.
“You can have mine,” Dave says, handing it to me.
Somehow the casual drinks with my friends turns into a writing session, where I strum the guitar, sing, and my band members join, as it is meant to be, working as a team, as a band. Only we’re not, and the reminder eats at me.
Kayla hums, moving her head to the rhythm of the guitar. “Here, why don’t you add something in the vein of, and there’s a hole in me now. And everybody hurts, but not like this. What do you say?”
“Let’s try it,” I confirm.
Kayla grabs a pen from a passing waitress and adds the sentence to the notebook.
I close my eyes, and words just appear before me. “We are secrets; we are dreams. And tonight, you’re a song. We broke each other in this chaos we made. Haunted and left. But, babe, I never wanna fall in love with anyone else,” I say the words out loud, and Kayla writes them on the page.
The table holds double the number of empty bottles and dirty plates when my phone rings over an hour later.
Glancing at the name flashing across the screen, I all but jump on the device. “Amanda.”
“Hey Patrick, so how does your week look?” No pleasantries—straight to the point, Amanda style.
“The way you need it to look,” I say, knowing she’ll eat it up.
She chuckles. “You’re a fast learner. I want you in the studio tomorrow. You left a good impression on Blake.” Her ever-placid voice takes a slightly higher note, one that’s filled with enthusiasm. “He is going to produce your album.”
“Blake Alvin?” I ask unintelligently, just to make sure I heard it right. I wonder if I’ll ever feel worthy of everything that’s happening to me, or will I forever wait for the other shoe to drop.
“Yes. I can book you on a flight that’s leaving in four hours or tomorrow morning at nine.”
I don’t even pause to think about it. “I can make it tonight.”
“Great,” Amanda sounds pleased. “I’ll email you the details soon.”
“Amanda, just . . . for how long should I pack?”
She laughs. “Oh, two, three weeks? I want you to start working on songs and go from there.”
“Sure, I can do that.”
“Patrick, we need five songs ready yesterday. If we manage that . . . you’re going to open for Tyler Lee on his next tour,” she mutters nonchalantly, blowing me away.
“You’re joking?” Those words escape my baffled mouth.
She chuckles again. However, her voice holds no hilarity when she says, “I never joke when it comes to business.”
With four hours until my flight, I depart from my friends, but instead of going home to pack, I find myself going in a different direction.
I park the bike by Vicky’s building, glad her light is on and her car is parked at the curb. The first thing tha
t jumped to my mind with the idea of leaving for three weeks is that I need to see Vicky.
Helmet in hand, I buzz the intercom and wait. When a few good beats pass with no response, I frown and try again. I try the door, but it’s locked.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and dial her number. By the fourth unanswered ring; a bitter feeling settles in my stomach. A feeling that she’s home, but for whatever reason, she doesn’t want to see me. I try her number a couple of times more and retrace my steps back to the bike. I throw her window another glance and drive away.
Next, I go home to pack, make some calls to make sure someone will check in on grandpop once a day, and then call an Uber.
The first week away flies in a blur of long hours in the studio and late nights going to events Amanda suggests I attend. And when Amanda “suggests” you go, you go.
“We want your face out everywhere! You’re a hot commodity right now, so let’s make the best of it.”
I don’t entirely hate some of these events. I get to rub elbows with people from the industry who would otherwise never know I existed. True to her plan, Amanda makes sure to set me up with a different model/actress/celebrity every time, which of course leads to my face shown on more than a few gossip outlets. Not that I checked. My publicist told me, beyond thrilled. I’m pretty much everywhere Amanda wants me to be. I shake my head at the memory of Kelly, the publicist, telling me that #Rickychain is trending on Instagram with an insane following of over a million. Go figure. Madness.
What astounds me the most is that I haven’t even released a single yet. Yeah, there’s a massive promotion of my upcoming release, the collaboration with Tyler Lee Adams, but other than that, it’s just that video of me covering The Song.
I feel like a fraud. Like I didn’t really earn any of it. The stress of producing something to meet all these crazy expectations is fundamental. What if I’m not capable of doing something at the level that’s expected from me? And these expectations, the stress, are getting to me, especially when I’m alone with my thoughts and not at the studio, working hard with Blake.
by Chance : Poison & Wine, book 2 Page 12
