by J. Kenner
"Hunter," I gasp as I cling, limp and sated, to him. "Oh, god, I love you."
He tilts my chin up, then kisses me sweetly. "Happy Valentine's Day," he murmurs. "And surprise."
Chapter Seven
"So this whole thing was a ruse?" I ask.
I'm naked on the bed, and Ryan is drawing designs with chocolate fondue on my body, then slowly licking it off. "Pretty much," he says, then sucks on a chocolate covered nipple. "I do love chocolate on Valentine's Day."
I moan and force myself to focus. "No working today? That was never a thing? Damien was in on it? Moira, too?"
"Mmm hmm." He drizzles champagne into my belly button, then sucks it out, making me squirm with pleasure.
"So Moira doesn't really have an internship?"
He looks up from where he's now trailing a chocolate covered strawberry straight down from my belly button. "No, that was real. That's why we set this whole thing up in Chicago."
"And your mom?"
"Still coming to LA on Thursday," he says, lightly tracing the chocolaty end of the strawberry along the folds of my labia.
"And--"
"Kitten? Shut up."
I lick my lips. "Yes, sir," I say.
He takes a bite of the strawberry he's been using to stroke me, his eyes hard on mine. "Delicious," he murmurs after he's swallowed. "Of course, now I'm thirsty."
He lifts the flute of champagne, but instead of drinking it, he drizzles it over my sex then takes a sip as the bubbles pop and fizz on my sensitive skin.
And then, while I'm still writhing from that sensation, he drinks the last from the flute, then closes his mouth over my cunt with the champagne still in it.
He teases and sucks and the feeling of the cool, tiny bubbles combined with his hot, hungry mouth is beyond amazing.
My clit is still sensitive, and before I know it, I'm flying again, this time thrust into heaven on a champagne high and Ryan's magic tongue.
"Good?" he asks, kissing his way back up my body once I've returned to sanity.
"Very," I say.
"Tired?"
I am, but no way am I admitting it. "Never," I say, and he smiles.
"Liar. But that's okay. I'm happy to wake you up. I have plans for you all night, you know. I intend to make the most of every hour of Valentine's Day."
"Do you?" I roll onto my side and snuggle close.
"Mmm," he says agreeably. "As a matter of fact, I have something for you I think will kick this day off right."
"Day?"
"It's well past midnight, kitten. A brand new day."
"Oh. Well, in that case, I can't wait to see what you have in mind." I prop myself up on my elbow and watch as he sits on the edge of the bed and tugs open the side table drawer. I start to joke that he got me a Gideon Bible, but even at this angle, I can see that whatever he's reaching for is important to him, so I bite my tongue. I remember our conversation on the beach, and a wave of emotion crashes over me with such power that I can't even identify it. Anticipation? Apprehension? Joy? Euphoria?
I don't know, and I only stay here frozen in this moment, as he pulls out a black velvet bag that's roughly the size of a book. He puts it on the bed, opens the drawstring, and begins to withdraw a familiar piece of pounded metal formed into a choker-style necklace.
"It's my necklace." It's a statement, but it comes out as a question. "It's the collar you bought me in Vegas."
"It is." He pulls it the rest of the way out. The pin that holds it closed is fastened in the back, so that the collar is a perfect circle. He's holding it at the front, his hand covering the small loop of silver, which is where a leash attaches.
I think about the night he bought that collar, not to mention all the other nights I wore it for him. Memories of being at his mercy. Of being pampered. Of losing myself in the sensual delight of giving myself over completely to him. To Hunter.
I swallow, my body on fire all over again, and not from champagne. "It's been months since I wore this," I say. "Why'd you bring it tonight?" I rise up onto my knees. I'm naked and I'm wet, and I lift my chin, giving him my neck. "What do you want me to do for you this Valentine's Day? Sir?" I add, playing the game.
"Close your eyes, kitten," he says, and I comply without question. I feel the brush of metal against my skin. The enticing click of the pin locking it on.
"I do like the way you look in it."
I lick my lips, but I keep my eyes closed. He hasn't told me I can open them. "You know I'm yours, sir. You don't need the collar. Whatever you want from me, it's yours. No questions asked."
"This is what I want," he says, and he takes my hand and lifts it to my neck, then presses my fingers to the leash-loop on the front. There's a thread tied there, and I trace it down until my fingers reach a ring--and my heart skips a beat.
"Go ahead," he says. "Tug it off and open your eyes."
It's tied with a loose knot that comes free when I give it a tug, and when I open my eyes I'm holding a stunning diamond solitaire.
I freeze--I just flat out freeze. And though it feels like an eternity, I'm sure it's only a heartbeat that passes before I gasp with surprise and lift my free hand so that my fingers are pressed against my lips. "Ryan."
He eases off the bed, then drops to one knee. Gently, he takes the ring off my palm, and holds it out to me. "I know you're mine, Jamie. Will you be my wife so that the world can know it, too?"
"I--" I make a small little gasping sound, then brush an errant tear away. My heart is screaming for me to cry out yes, yes, a thousand times yes.
But my head is whirring too fast. Images of my mother--so happily married and now separated--twirl in my head. Was all that happiness just an illusion? Was it never real? And if it was real--if she felt once how I feel about Ryan, then how could she and Daddy have ended up where they are now?
"Ryan, I--" I draw in a breath. "You planned all of this so you could propose?"
He doesn't speak, but the answer is clear enough on his face. Love and hope...and when I say nothing else, a hint of worry.
"It's just...it's all so much," I say. "So wonderful." I keep talking--words keep spilling from me. But not the word he wants to hear. Not the word I want to say. Because I do want to say it. I want to shout it. Yes. Yes, Ryan, yes.
And yet I don't. I stay silent, my words trapped behind a blanket of fear embroidered with the shock of my mother's words: separation.
"Jamie." He takes my hand, then rises so that he can sit on the bed next to me. Then--very slowly and very carefully--he says, "What's going on?"
"Nothing," I say automatically. I stand up, then go to the closet and slip on the hotel robe.
"Nothing," Ryan repeats, eyeing the robe up and down.
"I just--I just don't want to move too fast."
"Uh-huh." He pours himself a glass of champagne and tosses it back before turning to face me straight on. "Did I imagine our conversation on the beach last Sunday? The one where you said you were ready?"
"No! Of course not!" Guilt washes over me, cold and gray. "But I get caught up in these warm, fuzzy feelings and I forget that--well, I forget that things can turn harsh."
"I see," he says, and right then it's his voice that sounds harsh.
"No," I say, blinking back tears. "You don't see at all. Because you don't know what happened. You don't know that things did turn. And now everything is all lopsided and wrong."
"Wrong," he repeats dully as he crosses to the window, then looks out at the darkened city. "So what are you saying? That you don't love me?"
"No!" I scramble off the bed and go to him. He's taken off his shirt, but he's still wearing his jeans. I stand behind him and press my face to his back, my hands on his hips. My fingers are in his belt loops, and for a moment I just hold on, looking at our reflection in the window. "I do love you," I promise. "It's just--oh, hell. I don't want to talk about this today. But my mom's in Hawaii."
He looks at me like I'm nuts.
"They're separating." My v
oice snaps like a rubber band.
"Oh, baby." I see his face visibly crumble. "I'm sorry. That's horrible."
I draw a deep breath, so relieved that he gets it. "Yes, exactly. So you see? It's not that I don't love you...I do. I just..."
"Just what?" he presses, and the relief I'd been feeling vanishes.
I bite my lower lip. "Ryan, they're... I mean, my mom and dad..."
"We're not your mother and father," he says. "And I understand that you're confused and angry at your parents, and maybe I should just back off. I don't know." He runs his fingers through his hair, then steps away, forcing me to let go of his jeans or follow like a leech. I let go.
He turns around to face me, the city to his back. "The thing is, I get you, Jamie. I really do. I get you. I've supported you. I love you. But most of all, I've waited for you."
"Ryan, I--"
He holds up a hand, cutting me off. "I've followed the path you laid because I didn't want to push you. But Jamie, I'm done. I'm officially pushing now." He drops to his knee again. "I want you to be my wife. Not my girlfriend. Not my roommate. My wife."
"Please. Just--" Panic rises in my voice, and I touch the collar. "You already know I'm yours."
"Do I? If you'll wear a collar, why won't you wear a ring? Are you only mine when we play? For the good times? For the rush?"
"No!" The protest whips out of me fast and immediate.
"I want a woman to stand by me through it all," he says. "When things get hard and messy. I want a family, Jamie, and all that goes with it." He draws a deep breath. "I came here today because I want that with you. And I thought you wanted it, too. And if that's not going to happen, I want to know. I want to know now, Jamie."
I swallow, my emotions boiling inside me. Anger, fear, frustration. But damned if I can tell if I'm frustrated with him or with me. I hear myself speaking even before I have time to plan out what I'm going to say. "You want to know?" I repeat. "So you can move on?"
He doesn't answer.
"Dammit, Ryan, you can't just dump this on me. Not after the day I've had. What I learned about my parents."
"I'm sorry about your mom and dad, I really am. But we're not them. Their problems aren't our problems." His eyes lock on mine. "Not unless you make them our problems."
"We should talk about this."
"We've talked this to death over the years, Jamie. I'm done talking. Fuck." He grabs his shirt off the floor and pulls it back over his head.
"So that's it. You're just laying down an ultimatum?"
He pauses for a while, then he nods slowly. "I want to live my life with you, Jamie. I want to have kids with you. I want to grow old with you beside me. And I want you to be my wife. Not my girlfriend. Not my partner. My wife. If that makes me old-fashioned or a son-of-a-bitch, then I'm sorry. But that's what I want. Hell, it's what I need."
"We don't need a wedding to be happy," I say. I can hear the plea--and the panic--in my voice.
He just looks at me. Then I see his throat move as he swallows. When he speaks, his voice is even and calm, like we're talking about where to have dinner. "I'm going back to LA. If you change your mind, call me when you get back."
Oh, hell no.
"Screw that," I say, my temper flaring. I shake my head then start gathering my own clothes. "If anyone's leaving it's me." My bag's still packed. I can throw my leggings and T-shirt back on. I'll catch a cab and I'll get the fuck out of there.
So what if it's three o'clock in the morning? I figure there must be a six o'clock flight back to LA. I intend to be on it.
Yup. Unless Ryan stops me from walking out that door, I'm going to be on the first plane out of this city.
"So I'm going," I say, snagging my T-shirt on the collar as I pull it over my head. "You stay. Help Moira. Do whatever."
I wait, because of course he's going to tell me to stay, too. And we'll sleep and then talk about this like sane people in the morning. Because this is not the kind of thing that can break us up. We both want to be together, and that's the real bottom line. Isn't it?
But all he does is nod. And all he says is, "If that's the way you want it, then okay."
I gape at him. "That's all you have to say?"
"No." He takes a step toward me...and then continues past me into the bathroom. "Leave the collar on the bed."
Chapter Eight
When I wake up in my own bed, it's almost five o'clock on Wednesday. Which means I slept through Tuesday, Tuesday night, and much of Wednesday.
Obviously, I was exhausted after drinking with Moira Monday night, then surviving my drama with Ryan in the wee hours of the Tuesday that was also Valentine's Day, then waiting in the airport. And it's not like I got any sleep on the actual flight home. Damn turbulence.
I tell myself all of that, but it's not exhaustion that kept me sleeping for so long--it's the fact that I just wanted to curl up and escape.
Escape my thoughts. My fears.
Escape the fact that I hurt Ryan.
Escape the little bubble of anger that rises up every time I think about how he's laying this all on me. He's not even giving me time. I told him about the bombshell my parents dropped--and he knows how much the thought of marriage has always freaked me out--and even so he's demanding a decision right now. This very second. He's not even willing to just hang with the status quo for just a little bit longer.
But even that's not really what has me knotted up inside. Do I want more time? Sure. Do I wish that Ryan had cuddled me close instead of pushing me away? Absolutely. Am I totally annoyed with him because of that? Hell, yeah.
Mostly, though, I'm mad at myself.
And that's why I've been sleeping. So that I can escape that horrible, insecure part of me that refuses to say yes when I so desperately want to. Because I do want to. I want the happily ever after. I want it with Ryan.
But I don't know how to get there. How to get past this icy, debilitating fear. I want to--oh, dear god, I want to--but haven't got a clue how to push through, and every time I try, the cloying fear of failure and pain and loss pushes me back down all over again. I know it's stupid. I know it makes no sense. And know I should just be able to buck up and push past, and yet I can't.
I. Just. Can't.
And so I'd slept. I'd slid away into dreamland. Into a place where I didn't have to think or feel or do.
I'd run away--from Ryan, from myself.
And I hate myself for it.
Before I'd fallen into oblivion, I'd called Nikki. She hadn't answered, and I hadn't left a message. Now I check my phone, just in case she's called me back.
Or in case Ryan has called.
But there are no messages, and so I push myself upright in the bed, swing my feet off the side, and then just bend over and breathe.
I'm sitting like that--trying to decide whether I should get up to eat, go take a shower, or just fall back asleep in bed.
I'm still debating when my phone rings and I snatch it up, not even bothering to look at the screen. "Nikki?"
"Um, no. It's Moira."
"Oh." I cringe because until now I hadn't thought about how bitchy it was for me to just walk out. "Listen, I'm really sorry I bailed on you. I didn't--"
"It's okay," she says. "Really. I just--oh, hell, I just wanted to call and say that I don't know what exactly happened between you and Ryan, but you guys are great together, so I really hope you can fix it."
"Thanks," I say. "I--I hope so, too." That's probably the truest thing I've ever said, even though I don't know if we'll ever manage. Because fixing it means fixing me. And I don't know how to do that.
"And, well, I hope you're still coming to Mom's birthday dinner. I don't think Ryan's said anything to her about well, there being trouble between you guys. And I know she'd really love to see you, and--"
"I don't know, Moira," I say. "I just--"
She cuts me off with, "If you haven't talked to him since Chicago, you should."
"I haven't," I admit. "I've been--well,
honestly, mostly I've been sleeping. Oh, Christ, Moira," I continue, because I'm full up and it's all just beating against me, and I have to get it out and tell someone. "I'm scared. And I don't know what to do. And I love him, but--"
"Then come," she says gently. "Come be part of the family."
"I'll think about it," I promise. And I will. I'll think about how awkward it will be. And I'll think about how much I want Ryan, a man who's given me an ultimatum that I can't meet. And I think that dinner will be torture, and how the hell can I do that to myself?
So I'll think about it...but I know damn well I won't go.
I'm still thinking about it Thursday morning as I sit in make-up before my morning slot at the anchor desk. And I'm still thinking about it after we go off the air and my producer tells me I look distracted.
"I've caught a bug," I lie. "It'll pass."
She frowns. "Look, just take Friday off. You're already off this weekend, anyway."
"You're sure?"
She nods. "Nothing personal, Jamie, but you look like hell. Go get some rest and come back next week healthy, okay?"
"Thanks," I say, not feeling the slightest bit guilty that I'm getting out of work by claiming I'm sick. I am, after all. I'm love sick...
I'm in my car heading home when Nikki calls me. "I saw that you'd called, but you didn't leave a message," she says after I've connected the call through the car's speaker system. "At first I thought maybe you accidentally called me, but I know you, James. And you haven't called or texted since I saw you on Sunday."
"Um, so?"
"So we haven't gone that long without talking to each other since high school. Something's wrong. Something you don't want to tell me. So tell."
I grimace. "Best friends can be a pain in the ass."
"You're welcome," she says, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I laugh.
I tell her to hold on while I get on the freeway, and then I tell her everything. Not just because she asked--and not just because I know she won't stop bugging me until I do--but because I have to talk it out with somebody.
"I can't go to Mrs. Hunter's birthday dinner," I say after I'm done laying it all out. "It's not fair to Ryan. And, well, I think it'll hurt too much to see him and then walk away again."
"Maybe that means you shouldn't walk away," she says gently.
