Then I felt it. The unmistakable hardness of him against the inside of my thigh, scalding through our clothing. I parted my thighs wider and squirmed closer, bringing him directly against me. I lifted my pelvis and thrust my hips, grinding into him.
His lips broke from mine in a hiss. “Shit. Are you sure you’ve never done this before?”
“Please . . . my hands . . . I want to touch you.”
His fingers laced tighter with mine, and I felt his strength as our palms pressed flush together. “Not sure that’s a good idea.”
His breathing was harsh, mingling with my own ragged breath. Every part of me throbbed, ached. “Please. You’ve touched me so much . . . let me touch you.”
He shook his head once, hard.
My voice cracked a little. “Why not?”
This close I could make out the dark ring of blue, almost black, around his irises. “Because you’re like candy in my mouth. I’m already too worked up for you.”
“But you said I can trust you.”
“You can.” His eyes cut into me, intense and stark—like he was willing for me to believe in him. “I would never hurt you.”
“Then let go of my hands.”
After a moment his grip on me loosened. I was free. I filled my hands with his chest, caressing the carved muscle, the ridiculously cut abs. His head dipped, fell into the crook of my neck as if he was gathering strength from some hidden reserve found only there.
My hands dipped farther south, hesitating only a moment at his jeans. My fingers slid inside the waistband. Before I lost my nerve, I unbuttoned him and dragged down the teeth of his zipper just like he had done to mine.
His head lifted and his eyes gleamed bright with warning. “Pepper . . .” His voice was strangled.
My gaze flicked to his and then back down, intent on my goal. “I never touched one before.”
I tugged open his jeans, pulling them down less than gracefully. It proved especially difficult with him on top of me.
“Fuck it.” He flipped off me onto his back. Lifting his hips, he yanked off his jeans himself. Then he was all mine.
Smiling, I leaned over him, my attention moving from his face to . . . south.
He filled out the front of his boxer briefs impressively. I rested my hand over him, feeling, measuring the outline.
He said my name again, part plea, part groan. I ignored him, curiosity, the rush of blood in my ears, overriding the sound.
I flexed my fingers and the bulge grew under my hand. It was emboldening. Before I could change my mind, I delved inside his briefs and wrapped my fingers around him. His head fell back on the bed. “Pepper.”
“It’s softer than I thought it would be.” I bit my lip, reveling in the length of him in my grip.
He laughed hoarsely. “Sweetheart, I’m hard as a rock.”
“I mean your skin.” It was like silk over steel. My hand moved awkwardly, fumbling for a moment before settling into even strokes.
His hand fell over mine, stalling me. “Pepper, you have to stop.”
I looked up at him. “Isn’t this part of my education?”
The tendons in his throat worked like he was battling for control. I guess it should have worried me, but I only felt empowered. Gratified. Not for a moment did I think he would lose control and cross the line. He had my trust.
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
His grip eased off my hand. I was able to move again, glide my fingers over him.
“All right,” he agreed in a thick voice. “Then you should probably call it what it is.”
I glanced up at him quizzically.
“Say it. Dick. Cock,” he supplied. “Don’t be afraid of the word, Pepper.”
My hand stilled. My face burned. I shook my head. “I can’t say that.”
“But you can touch it? Say it. Cock.”
The word sat heavily on my tongue. My hand resumed its movements as I said it slowly, savoring the naughty word, feeling bold and wicked. “Cock.”
The blue of his eyes paled to a pewter. His chest rose and fell with a sharp breath. As if that word alone on my lips aroused him.
My gaze moved from him—his cock—to his face. I didn’t know what fascinated me more. The sight of my hand moving over him or his expression. His eyes were closed. He looked almost in pain.
“Pepper . . . Pepper, stop.” He tensed under me.
I ignored him, squeezing and moving my hand faster.
“God,” he gasped and shuddered, the muscles and sinews in his chest and stomach rippling as his body reached climax.
His breathing gradually evened. He flung an arm over his head. After several more breaths, he muttered, “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”
I rose up over him and smiled. “You had a plan?”
He moved his arm from his face and peered up at me. He tucked a strand of hair back behind my ear. “With you nothing seems to go according to plan.”
Still smiling, I rose to my feet. Snatching up a hand towel, I tossed it to him and then got one for myself.
He wiped himself clean. Standing in my unzipped jeans, I felt some of my earlier embarrassment creep back in. Opening the door to my closet, I picked out a T-shirt and shrugged into it. I stood there then, shifting on my feet and playing with the hem of my shirt, unsure what to do next.
He sat up on the edge of my bed. He hadn’t bothered to put his jeans back on. Clad only in his boxer briefs, he was the embodiment of sex. Gold-skinned. Lean and cut. His six-pack was more like an eight-pack. Ridiculous. The tattoo crawling up his arm and down the side of his torso was the cherry on top of it all.
I swallowed against my suddenly dry throat. “What now?”
“Well. If this was just a fling, we’d say good-bye at this point.”
“Oh.” I nodded. But this wasn’t a fling. It was less than that. It was us pretending. Playing at something more.
He settled a hand on his knee and studied me in that unnerving way of his. “Do you want me to stay over?”
“Do you want to stay?”
The crooked smile reappeared. “If you want me here, say it. That’s what would happen if this were more than a fling. If we were really into each other.”
If we were really into each other. The words jarred me. Stung a little with the taste of him still fresh on my lips. But it was a necessary reminder that this was fake.
I inhaled. “Yeah. Then you should spend the night. Yes.”
I told myself to be confident. After what we just did—what I just did—it shouldn’t be that hard.
“You don’t sound too excited. Remember, not such a turn-on.”
I needed to approach this clinically. This wasn’t personal. It was an experiment. He was a hot, experienced guy offering to guide me through the art of foreplay. I already felt more knowledgeable. I could kiss adequately now. I could do more than kiss now. I might not be a master of foreplay, but I was more than capable. Thanks to Reece I was ready for Hunter. My belly clenched thinking about that, wondering if I would like making out with Hunter half as much.
I gathered my night bag from the shelf by my closet with shaking hands, rattled by the realization that I was enjoying my time with Reece far too much. I was enjoying him. This had not been the plan. “I’ll be right back.”
I dove across the hall and washed my face and brushed my teeth, scrubbing until I tasted the coppery tang of blood in my mouth. Stopping, I rinsed my mouth out. Lifting my face, I stared at my reflection, marveling at this girl I had become. Someone about to share her bed with a guy who wasn’t Hunter. It was hard to conceive.
When I entered the room, he was under the covers, looking relaxed with one arm tucked under his head. I turned out the lamp, plunging the room into a wash of gray. The light creeping in through the blinds saved us from total blackness.
I kicked off my jeans. He held back the covers for me, and the shadow of his lean body looked so delicious and inviting against the stripes
of my sheets.
I slipped in beside him. A sigh escaped me as he pulled me flush with his body, spooning me. The warm, smooth skin wakened my nerves all over again. His maleness, his size, his strength made my breath shaky.
Electricity buzzed along my nerves. Those parts of me that were heavy with aching a little while ago warmed back up all over again.
His arm wrapped around my waist, his hand resting on my stomach. He pulled away for a second to gather my hair and drape it over my shoulder so it wasn’t in his mouth. I felt his breath on the back of my neck. God. The aching was back. I squeezed my thighs together as if I could assuage it. How was I supposed to sleep?
“This Hunter guy—” he started.
“Yes?” I asked in a small voice.
“If he runs out after you mess around, then it doesn’t mean anything to him. You don’t. Understand?”
I winced, reminded that I had done that to him the other night. “I’m sorry that I—”
“I’m not saying this to make you feel bad for bailing that first night, Pepper. I’m just telling you because I don’t want some guy, Hunter or anyone, to ever use you.”
His breath fanned my nape. I knew his lips were close. Unable to help myself, I rolled onto my side and studied him in the gloom, our noses practically touching.
“Thanks for doing this.” I almost added “thanks for caring,” but that might be assuming too much. I swallowed those words back.
He laughed lightly. “I’m not totally selfless here, Pepper. I enjoy you. Clearly.” His hand brushed my cheek, the fingertips a soft graze. Flutters erupted in my belly. My cheeks burned hotter thinking about my hand wrapped around him.
“I enjoy you, too.” I kissed him then, and this time it was different, slow and sweet and tender. Of course it didn’t stay that way. None of our kisses ever did. It built, deepened. Blood rushed in my ears. I cupped his face and wrapped an arm around his neck, aligning my body to his. After a moment, we broke for air.
Panting, he rested his forehead against mine. “We should try to get some sleep.”
I laughed a little at that. Sleep wasn’t happening. At least I couldn’t see how.
“Come here.” He tucked me against him, pulling my head down to his chest. I listened to the faint drum of his heart. His hand threaded through my hair, his fingers softening when he hit a snarl. “You have beautiful hair.”
I smiled against his chest and then turned my face slightly, self-conscious that he could feel my silly grin against him. That he would know how pleased I was at the compliment. “I can spot you a mile away with this hair. It’s like candlelight. A thousand different colors.”
“A poet bartender,” I murmured, settling my hand against his upper chest.
“Sweetheart, every bartender is a poet.”
“I guess you get to see quite a bit of the world from behind the bar.”
“I see enough. I saw you.”
Still smiling, I started to relax against him. The glide of his fingers through my hair began to lull me. “Tell me more,” I encouraged, my voice sleepy and soft.
His voice rumbled through his chest. “You just want to hear me say that you’re beautiful, is that it?”
I swatted his arm. “Noooo.”
“You know you are. You don’t need to hear me say it.”
My smile slipped. “Why would I know that?”
“Uh. Look in the mirror. Watch the eyes that follow you when you walk into a room.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that. The idea oddly discomforted me. My fingers traced lazy circles on his chest.
“Hunter won’t be able to resist you. I don’t know how he has so far.”
I stilled against him, my fingers freezing.
Anger flashed through me. Why did he have to bring Hunter up right now? When we were like this? It just felt . . . I don’t know. Wrong.
“Thanks,” I murmured. Closing my eyes, I willed myself to sleep, to escape my annoyance, escape him. Of course, I was too wound up with irritation—and an aching awareness of him at my back—to have a hope of falling asleep. I was stuck, probably awake until we both got up in the morning.
That was my last thought before my eyes fell shut like lead weights.
Chapter 19
I wait in the bathtub for the noises on the other side of the wall to stop. The voices fade away eventually, and I count to ten, waiting for Mommy to come and get me. She doesn’t come. So I keep waiting and start counting again. This time to twenty.
I hug my knees to my chest and settle back against the blanket lining the tub, hoping I won’t have to spend the night in the bathroom again.
I squeeze Purple Bear, my fingers playing along his soft, well-worn little arms. They used to be plump, full of stuffing. Somehow the stuffing had vanished so that the arms were just flat little appendages of purple fabric now.
The door opens and I peek out from behind the curtain, eager for Mommy, hoping she’s come at last to invite me into the bed with her.
Only it’s not Mommy.
A man stands there, his hair long and wet-looking. His plaid shirt hangs off his narrow shoulders. It’s unbuttoned, open down the front. His soft-looking belly is as white as the bar of soap sitting to my right.
He approaches the toilet, his hand fumbling with his zipper, and I jerk back into the tub, hoping he’ll hurry up with his business and leave. Mommy’s guests never stay long. I must have made a sound though. The shower curtain screeches on the rail as he yanks it back.
He looms over me. “Well. Who do we have here?”
I shrink away, clutching Purple Bear in front of me.
His knees crack as he kneels down beside the tub. “You Shannon’s little girl?”
I nod once.
His dark eyes travel over me, studying my bare legs poking out from Mommy’s T-shirt. He leans forward and peers inside the tub like he doesn’t want to miss any part of me.
“Not so little, eh. You look like a big girl to me.”
His fingers curl around the edge of the tub and they remind me of a corpse, long and thin, white as bone. Several rings flash on them. My gaze fixates on one in the shape of a skull.
If possible I hug Purple Bear even tighter, my arms squeezing around his soft little body. Mommy said he would always protect me. That Purple Bear would keep me safe whenever she wasn’t with me.
“What’s your name?”
“Where’s Mommy?”
“Sleeping.” Two bony fingers stretch out and brush my knee. I whimper and jerk my leg back.
He grins brown, furry teeth at me.
I open my mouth, ready to cry for Mommy, but his hand slams over my mouth, cutting off my voice. My air.
There’s just the foul taste of his hand. And fear. . .
I woke with a choked sob, vaulting upright in bed. Strong hands were instantly there, seizing my arms, and I cried out. Turning, I hit at the body beside me.
“Pepper! What’s wrong?”
The voice didn’t penetrate. I was still trapped in that bathroom, a musty palm suffocating me. Mommy! Mom!
“Pepper!” The hands shook my shoulders. “Pepper. It’s just a dream. You’re okay.”
I blinked against the murky, predawn air. “Reece?”
“Yeah.” He swept the hair back from my face. “Some dream there.”
I nodded.
His thumb brushed my cheek. “You’re crying.”
I released a shaky laugh and dabbed at my cheeks with the back of my hand, feeling the moisture there. “Must have been something I ate.” How could I have been so dumb? The dreams always came without warning. I knew that. I should have known this could happen.
“Something you ate gave you a bad dream?” I heard the skepticism in his voice. “What was the dream about?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You called for your mom.”
My heart clenched. Physically hurt inside my chest. “I did?”
“Yeah.”
Yeah. I ca
lled for her all right. That night. And later. The night she dropped me off at Gram’s I cried. I screamed for her. “What else did you hear?”
He studied me, his eyes gleaming in the gloom. “Want to talk about it?”
“No,” I snapped before I could stop myself. “I don’t want to talk about when my mom abandoned me. Left me on my grandmother’s doorstep like I was some rolled-up newspaper.”
He didn’t move. Just held still, hands searing imprints on my shoulders. “That happened?”
Yeah, I thought. That happened. And other stuff that I would never talk about with anyone. I never had. Mom abandoning me? That was no secret. I could give him that little insight into my colorful history. But not the rest.
I nodded, my voice lodged somewhere in my throat, refusing to surface.
He tugged me back down on the bed, his arm wrapping around me. I stared out at my room washed in the soft purple of morning and wished that his arm didn’t feel so good holding me. It wasn’t supposed to. That wasn’t part of the plan.
“Now you know about my dysfunctional family.”
He was silent for a few moments, his hand drawing small circles on my arm. “I understand a bit about dysfunction.”
I turned to stare at him. “Okay. Your turn.”
He groaned. “Do I have to?”
“C’mon. I showed you mine. You show me yours.” It mattered for some reason. Logan had already revealed a lot, but I wanted to hear it from Reece. I wanted him to confide in me.
“Let’s see. You know my mom died when I was eight.”
“Yes.”
“Well, she died because she overdosed on Tylenol. Not on purpose. She had these migraines . . . I remember seeing her pop a few that day. Well, turned out she took a few too many. A lot actually. Her liver shut down in her sleep. She didn’t wake up the next morning.” He uttered this all matter-of-factly, but I saw in his eyes the anguish he kept banked. What had that been like for him? Waking up and finding his mom still in bed, unmoving. Dead.
“Oh my God.”
“My old man was never exactly the warm and fuzzy type before that, but after . . .”
I nodded, understanding.
Foreplay: The Ivy Chronicles Page 17
