Butterfly in Frost

by Sylvia Day

I turn to face him, and he pulls me in with that dancerlike grace, his head coming down to press a kiss to my lips. My eyes drift shut; my lips part to let him in.

  There is magic in a man who knows how to kiss well, and Garrett is as much an artist in this as he is in his work. The pressure of his lips is perfect, firm enough to convey desire yet soft enough to show an awareness of my comfort. The deep licks of his tongue are smooth, slow, and rhythmic, teasing me with thoughts of a more intimate penetration; his arms around me are a gentle cage, dominant yet tender. Above anything else, I know he’ll be in charge when I finally take him to bed, and I won’t object to that at all.

  When Garrett eventually pulls away, I’m hot all over. Need for him pulses between my legs, making me squeeze my thighs together. All I want right now is to lie beside him and kiss him for hours. Just the thought causes a constriction in my chest.

  He lifts my hands to his pecs and presses my palms flat against the heat of his bare skin. His eyes drift shut as I caress him. My fingers sift through the dusting of hair on his chest before tracing the intricate lines of his tattoos. The design is a single massive piece, not random images, and similar on both arms, though not mirrored.

  “Teagan.” He says my name on a sigh.

  I love the feel of hard muscle beneath warm flesh. As my fingers trace the ridges of his abs, my gaze follows. He’s so aroused from the kiss and my touch. His cock is proudly erect, the wide head peeking out from the waistband of his shorts.

  My mouth waters. The evidence of his size, the impressive thickness and length of his penis, makes me hot. As I watch, a thick bead of precum pools on the broad head.

  “Teagan, if you keep staring at my dick like that, my patience is going to run out real quick. Are you ready for that?”

  I swallow hard and tear my gaze away to look up at his face. There’s a high flush on those sculpted cheekbones and a provocative fullness to his lips from the fervor of my kiss. He’s even more gorgeous when lustful.

  But I’m more intimidated. Because we don’t talk about his past or mine. We don’t talk about next week. We exist only in the now and tomorrow, right here. Yet there is a part of me that has come to depend on him being around for a long time, as far ahead as I can imagine, and that’s a terrifyingly dangerous precipice to stand on.

  So I shake my head, knowing we have steps to take between here and there. “I’m almost ready.”

  “Almost is a step in the right direction.” Garrett presses a swift, hard kiss to my forehead and backs away, adjusting his shorts. “Let’s discuss over coffee,” he suggests, his voice still passion-gruff but free of frustration or irritation.

  Looks like it’s a good day for him. It always takes me a little while to figure out if his mood is up or down. Regardless, his greeting is the same, and his kiss is always ardent. It’s only in the moments after we slide apart that I can gauge whether ghosts haunt him that day or if they’ve let him be.

  We tell each other we’re just starting the day together, but it’s also touching base for both of us, checking in with one another to make sure we’re both doing okay emotionally. He’s melancholy and pensive sometimes, yes. But he hasn’t yet been depressed to the point where I’d feel compelled to intervene the way he did with me.

  I move to the kitchen, avoiding his eyes because there are tears in mine. I can’t let them fall. Because I know that for all his outward strength, he could still shatter, yet he treats me as if I’m the one who could break.

  I go through the motions of making him a cup of coffee, giving us both time to settle. He takes it black, so it’s simple to prepare, but I put care into it anyway, warming the mug with hot water from the instant tap before I fill it.

  “How’s the painting coming along?” I ask, because I know his art is an important part of his life, and it can either be a wedge between us or something we share.

  “I’m nearly done with it.”

  “Oh? That seems quick . . . ?” I shake my head. “What am I saying? I have no idea how long it takes to finish a painting.”

  He smiles when I hand him the coffee. He’s on the other side of the quartz-topped island, and I’m sorry there’s something between us. I’m sorry for so many things I don’t say.

  “It’s come together a little quicker than some others, especially considering the size, but I’m inspired.” His lips curve against the rim of his mug, and his eyes gleam with silent laughter. “I’m also relying on the work to keep me off your doorstep and my hands off you.”

  “Oh.” I take a deep breath. I’ve been aware that a clock is ticking somewhere, counting down the moments before we reach a turning point. It’s good to know the timeline isn’t completely arbitrary, but I feel as if I’ve wasted the breathing room he’s given me by not moving things forward in some way.

  “You know, Teagan, you can always say no, and I’ll keep on waiting. You’re worth waiting for.” His gaze is tender. “But I have to ask: Is there something I can do or say to make going to bed with me less . . . daunting?”

  His insight astonishes me. “Do you read minds?”

  “I’m just paying attention.” He takes another sip, his throat working on a swallow.

  I never realized how sexy attentiveness could be. Garrett notices everything, and he uses that information to try and build a bridge between us.

  “This matters: you and me,” he asserts. “I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to getting us started. It’s no secret how much I want to have sex with you. But more than that, I’m looking forward to what happens after I have sex with you. Small things, like drinking coffee without my shoes on because we’ve just rolled out of bed together, and bigger things, like moving this wall between us out of the way so you’re not half–turned on and half–freaking out every time I kiss you.”

  With a sigh, I lean back against the sink.

  Garrett stares at me, his face serious. “I don’t want to take that step if it’s going to fuck things up somehow. So you tell me what’s holding you back, and I’ll see if it’s something I can smooth out.”

  My fingers curl around the lip of the countertop behind me, gripping tightly. “Roads aren’t always smooth, Garrett. It’s dealing with the bumps that worries me.”

  “If we keep talking to each other, we’ll be fine.”

  “But we aren’t really talking, are we?” I rejoin. “We’re walking on eggshells instead.”

  “I’m ready to talk. Are you?”

  “No.”

  He laughs, and it’s a rich, smoky sound of delight. “What am I going to do with you?”

  “No idea, but I know what I’d like to do with you.” My arms cross over my chest. “I think we need to get out of this little bubble we’ve been dancing in. You know, let some air in.”

  “Sounding good so far. What’s your plan?”

  “Have you been downtown yet? To Pike Place Market specifically?”

  His brows lift with interest. “Can’t say that I have.”

  “Can I tear you away this afternoon and take you up there? We can shop for some tasty things to put together a charcuterie board, then come back here and watch a movie.”

  He sets his mug down, places his palms flat on the countertop, and leans across so that we’re eye to eye. “Yes. Absolutely.”

  His enthusiasm makes me smile. “Okay.”

  “And just to be clear: you can pull me away from work any time you want. Don’t ever feel like you can’t. I know I made that mistake before, putting my art above everything else. My priorities were all wrong.” His fingers stroke along my jaw. “I can’t promise not to fuck up, but I can promise to learn and do better.”

  I set my hand over his, laying my cheek against his palm. “I can’t say how much I can change. I’ve kind of . . . mapped a route, you know? I’ve told myself that sticking to it will keep me from getting lost.”

  “Don’t look now,” he whispers, “but I think you’re already recalculating.”

  My mouth opens to dispute
that, but he puts a finger to my lips, one eyebrow raised in silent challenge. “Coffee and kisses every morning,” he points out. “We’re going on a date later, which you invited me on. Deal with it, Doc. I’m just irresistible.”

  Dropping his hand, he grabs the mug and finishes off his coffee.

  “Is that right?” I shoot back, enjoying his teasing. It makes me happy to see him happy. Just as it hurts me to see him hurting.

  “All signs point that way.” Garrett rounds the island and takes his cup to the sink. “When we watch that movie later, bet you won’t be able to keep your hands to yourself.”

  “You’re on. Twenty bucks.”

  “A thousand.”

  “What? That’s crazy.”

  He sets the washed mug in the drain and faces me. “You stick to your twenty; I’ll stick to my thousand.”

  “Forget crazy. That’s cheating.”

  “I prefer to think of it as added incentive.” Hooking an arm around my waist, he pulls me in for a smacking kiss. “I’m going to run off some sexual frustration now. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Come get me when you want me.”

  I wrap my arms around his waist. “Don’t forget to stretch and warm up before you start sprinting up the hills.”

  He hoots, grinning. “Yep, you definitely veered off course at some point.”

  Garrett heads out the door.

  I already miss his energy and warmth.

  I stand in front of the mirror, biting my lip and shifting from one foot to the other. I can’t decide if I should wear the clothes that were just delivered or stick with something already in my closet. I ordered a new top and shorts with one-hour delivery, but I can’t decide how I feel about the resulting outfit.

  On the app, the top looked like a boatneck hemmed to petite length. In reality, it’s completely off the shoulder, and—thanks to the low rise of the denim shorts—my midriff is bared more than I expected. Still, the top has long sleeves, and the alternating pale- and dark-green-striped material is more cute than sexy.

  It’s the lack of a strapless bra that’s really throwing me off. I don’t own one, and since the top didn’t look shoulder-baring on the app, I didn’t think to buy one. Not that I’m busty enough to absolutely need one. It’s just that nipples can advertise the lack of a bra as much as jiggling can.

  And this makes twice that I’ve deliberately dressed up for Garrett and gone braless.

  With a growl, I give up. “I’m wearing this,” I tell my reflection. “It’s not like I’m building false expectations. I’m going to end up in bed with him at some point no matter what.”

  It liberates me to admit that out loud. I sit at my vanity, pull open the drawer, and look at my sad collection of makeup: tinted sunscreen, a tube of mascara, lip gloss, and an eyeliner pencil.

  Fact is, I stopped caring what I look like a long time ago, and making an effort to be presentable is just that: effort. When I’d had my medical practice, I made sure to look as flawless as possible. How else could I expect my patients to trust my aesthetic sense? Those days are gone.

  It amazes me that Garrett finds me so attractive. Still, I want to impress him, at least a little. Throw him for a loop, as Roxy so eloquently put it.

  By the time I’m done, I’ve used all the steps of the ECRA+ system on my face and neck and applied the sunscreen, eyeliner, mascara, and gloss. I french braid my hair straight back to keep it out of my face.

  I’m out the door and bouncing up the steps to his house before I can tweak my appearance any more. My well-worn Converse are a casual touch—I’m definitely not trying too hard in that department—and the new outfit inspires confidence. But it feels weird to have the wind on my shoulders and back. And undeniably sexy.

  After ringing the doorbell, I try to stop hopping up and down. I shift the shopping tote I brought with me from one shoulder to the other, even though the only items inside it are my keys and phone. Garrett shouts at me to come in, so I open the door and enter. I’m walking toward the living room when he rounds the corner from the hallway, stopping me dead in my tracks.

  I’m used to seeing him in black, but his T-shirt today is navy, which looks great against his tanned skin and tattoos. His jeans are a faded blue, and his black boots are a canvas for drops of paint.

  I give him an appreciative whistle. The man is seriously, dazzlingly hot. I can grumble about it all I like, but he’s got every reason to be as cocky as he is.

  My smile fades when he keeps on walking toward me, his jaw set in a tight line and his gaze intensely focused. Like the first day he appeared in my neighborhood, he’s on a collision course with me, and I take a step back instinctively, my pulse kicking into overdrive.

  “Don’t you dare move,” he warns, his voice deep and throaty.

  I’m in his arms a moment later, and his mouth is on mine. My tote hits the floor with a definitive thud. Garrett lifts me effortlessly, bringing me up to eye level. I wrap my legs around his waist, appreciating the leanness of his hips and the firmness of his ass. My arms twine around his shoulders as my head tilts to deepen the kiss. His warm hand slides up beneath the back of my shirt, making me squirm before I break the kiss with a breathless laugh.

  “That tickles!”

  Garrett’s smile is indulgent. “Sorry.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “I really am. Unintentionally tickling you broke up the kiss before I managed to sneak-walk you to the bedroom. How about we ditch the city and hit the sheets instead?”

  I laugh. “You have a one-track mind.”

  “Not my fault.” He sets me down. “You damn near gave me a heart attack walking into my house looking like sex on legs.”

  “My goal was to avoid embarrassing you in public,” I say wryly. “You shouldn’t look so good. Or smell so good.”

  “Since I’m hoping to keep you on the hook, I think I’ll continue maintaining myself and showering regularly.” He looks me up and down. “Cold showers.”

  He sighs, then runs a hand through his hair. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “No, I’m good.”

  He smiles and collects my tote. “Let’s go, then, Doc, and show each other off.”

  9

  “Are you driving or am I?” Garrett asks as we head out his front door with our hands linked.

  I can’t describe how it feels to have his hand in mine. What a comfort it is to me.

  “Um . . .” I smile sheepishly. “Maybe I should have mentioned that I don’t have a car.”

  His brows lift. “Are you kidding?”

  “What would a born and bred New Yorker do with a car?”

  “Well, you’re not in New York, are you? And there has to be a mega-shit-ton of New York drivers, or there wouldn’t be so many cars in the city. Do you have a driver’s license, at least?”

  “Of course. Just because I don’t own a car doesn’t mean I’m not capable of driving one.”

  “How do you get around?”

  I shrug. “Rideshare, if I have to go somewhere. But I can get ninety-nine-point-nine percent of whatever I want delivered, so . . .”

  Shaking his head, Garrett leads me to the Range Rover. “That can’t be cost-effective.”

  “Depends on the value you place on your time. Also, the cost of insurance, car payments, the possibility of getting in an accident or injured, the ecological footprint of manufacturing—”

  “All right, all right. I get it.” He opens the passenger door for me. “For future reference, I’m right here. If you need something, let’s go get it.”

  I climb into the cab using the deployed footstep and settle in. Having an excuse to spend more time with Garrett is fine by me, but I can think of sexier activities than shopping.

  I get a swift, hard kiss to the mouth; then he shuts the door, rounds the hood, and slides behind the wheel. Above us, a panoramic moonroof lets in the sun, and Garrett grabs a pair of black aviators out of the center console. When he pushes the ignition button, music blares,
and he quickly lowers the volume.

  Using voice command, he directs the navigation to take us to Pike Place Market. Once we’re set, he turns the volume up, although not as loud as before.

  “Can I?” I ask, gesturing at the touch screen.

  “Help yourself.” Looking over his shoulder, he reverses, then starts up the driveway.

  I sync my phone to his system, then scroll through the podcasts until I find a true-crime series I’ve been interested in.

  Garrett looks at me, but all I can see is my reflection in his shades.

  “Is this okay?” I ask, showing him my screen so he can see what I’ve selected. “Or we can talk. It’s just that . . . I don’t listen to music much anymore.”

  Grabbing my hand, he lifts my knuckles to his lips. “Yes, it’s okay.”

  Okay lasts until we make it to Pike Place Fish Market, the famous stall where cheerfully efficient guys toss heavy fish to one another. Located under the iconic neon Public Market Center clock in the heart of the Market, the sidewalk in front boasts Rachel the Pig, a bronze statue of a piggy bank that is endlessly photographed, and crowds of hooting observers watching—and recording video of—the fish flying.

  Garrett is carrying my tote, now much heavier thanks to a bottle of wine, salumi, nuts, dried fruit, tapenades, crackers, and cheese, all from wonderful DeLaurenti, and a caramel apple dipped in dark chocolate from Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory.

  I’d taken him by Pike Brewing Company, then through the Atrium, where he saw the wooden Sasquatch statue (whose genital bulge has been noticeably manhandled too often) and the giant metal squid statue hanging in the air above it. We strolled past shops featuring First Nation art, Mexican crafts, graphic T-shirts with silly slogans, Asian imports, pharmacies, and everything else imaginable.

  Everything was still okay . . . until we stepped outside and got swallowed into the crowd.

  I’m highly conscious of the laughing children climbing all over Rachel, their oblivious parents too focused on the fish sailing through the air. The noise is deafening, orders and prices being shouted over the buzz of loud conversations in a variety of languages. Someone nearby hasn’t bathed in a while, and two men to my left seem perilously close to duking it out. When a mother brushes past me to retrieve her child, her voice shrill with impatience and irritation, I can’t breathe, and my heart races. My throat is tight, my eyes burning with dryness.