by Jane Anthony
It’s a fucking metaphor for my life.
I try to plan everything out to the last letter. Micromanage every situation and skew it to my own will. I can never just be. The only thing that makes that inner voice go away is Jesse. He rights all the wrongs inside me.
The doorbell pulls me from my silent reverie. My pulse jumps. I’m not expecting visitors, and only a small handful of people can make it past the gate unannounced.
Jesse.
I throw open the door, expecting to see him on the other side, but my hopes deflate when it’s not him. “Asher,” I whisper.
“Can I come in?”
Asher steps into my foyer, his dark hair mussed, and his chiseled jaw covered in a thin layer of dark stubble. It’s been weeks since we spoke, but it’s not from his lack of trying. Gray circles sit underneath each eye. Asher’s always sublimely put together. I’ve never seen him look so disheveled.
My mouth goes dry. “What are you doing here?”
He rubs the back of his neck, gnawing on his cheek while I chew on the tension seeping through his every pore. “You won’t answer my calls. I needed to see you.”
I blow out a frustrated breath. “Why are you making this so difficult?”
“Wren.” The desperate way my name slips off his tongue melts my willpower. I move aside, allowing him farther entry into the condo. He shuffles awkwardly in, jamming his hands in the pockets of his slacks. What’s left of his suit clings to his lean frame as if it’s been tailored just so. He must have come straight from the office.
I watch him move through my home, my gaze tracing the epic lines of sculpted muscle that used to make my panties wet and my mouth water. He was perfect, and Jesse ruined him. I’m so confused. Asher is rich and handsome. He’s everything I should want, but no matter how much my brain tries to convince me that he’s the smart option, my heart still belongs to someone else. I can’t help it. My love for him came without warning. I wasn’t given the choice.
“How have you been?” he asks with a casual flair, but the strain in his voice is evident. Hurting him was the last thing I wanted to do, but I did it anyway. There was no future for Asher and me. It was a relationship that was going nowhere fast, and I’m tired of feeling unworthy of his love.
“Fine.”
My chest tightens. I hover near the table, waiting for him to say something in return.
“I have a strict plan for my future, Wren, and I always saw you as part of it.”
“Oh,” is the only reply I can muster.
“Oh? That’s all you have to say?” Hurt flashes across his face. “My family has never been affectionate. Their love has always been implied. I realize now the mistakes I’ve made. I should have been up front about my feelings for you.” My gaze follows his path as he rounds the counter and comes to a stop next to the small, round table. “I can’t lose you,” he grumbles, combing his hand over the swath of dark hair that tumbles over his forehead.
“I’m sorry, I just—”
He lifts his palm, closing his lids to the sight of my brush-off. “Let me finish.”
“Okay.”
Pulling out a chair, he gestures for me to sit, then waits to do the same as I settle into the wooden seat next to him. Jesse randomly pops into my head. He was with me in Ikea the day I bought this set. He traipsed up through the maze they set up to keep patrons flowing through the entire store, pointing at items he thought would look nice. It just reiterates the fact that I made the right decision. Jesse’s the first person I think of when I wake up and the last person on my mind before I fall asleep at night. What kind of relationship would Asher and I have if I’m constantly thinking about another man all day? Jesse’s in my blood. He’s a part of me, my past, my future. My entire present. There’s no room for anyone else.
“I treated you badly. I see that now. I didn’t give you the attention you needed, the affection you crave. But if you give me another chance, I promise I’ll do better.” Leaning forward, he takes my hand in his, the pad of his thumb sweeping across my fingers. “Do you still care for me?”
“Of course I do. I can’t just turn it off, Ash.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.” He reaches into his pocket as he slides off the chair and lowers to the floor. “I want you to know right now that I’m serious about us. And I’m committed to a life together.” My stomach sinks as he extracts a little wooden box.
“Asher . . . don’t.”
But before the statement’s left my mouth, he’s snapped it open. My jaw goes slack. Fractals bounce off the enormous emerald-cut stone. It has to be at least three carats, maybe more. The clear gemstone pulls me in. I hover over it, my mouth agape, my heart racing in my chest.
“Marry me, Wren.”
CHAPTER 17
Jesse
DIM LIGHT CASTS a glare over my sketch pad as I streak my pen across the surface. Alone, I’m lost in the lines and curves, drowning myself in waves of ink while Eddie Vedder croons from the boom box across the room.
I lift my leg, perching my bare heel on the dark blue cushion. This was my favorite place to sit when I was a kid. It’s larger than an armchair, yet not quite a loveseat. It’s more like a chair and a half with a broad, deep seat and thick pillow back. I stole it from the living room when I moved back in. This was meant to be my thinking chair. The place where I’d find the artistic break that skyrocketed me into fame. Wishful thinking, of course. Six months later, and I still haven’t created anything worthy of human consumption.
A knock on the door breaks my concentration. I lift my head for the first time in hours, my gaze strolling to the clock near my bed. At ten o’clock at night, I’m not expecting visitors.
Another soft knock pulls me off my chair. I tug up the waistband on my jeans to conceal the band of underwear slipping out from underneath and pad to the door. A sharp wind blows through the room as I pull it open, bringing with it the scent of burning wood from a nearby fireplace. It rustles the leaves and kicks up the smell of oncoming snow and late-autumn desolation.
Wren stands at my door shivering as another gust blusters through. The light glitters on tearstained cheeks as she steps from the shadows of my covered doorway. Orange tendrils dance around her face. She pushes them away and secures them behind her ear, but they only fall out again.
“Can I come in?” she asks with a sniffle.
“Yeah.” I push open the door all the way and wave my arm across the wide-open space of my basement bedroom.
Light lashes stick together above each sparkling green eye; the skin around them is puffy and damp. She walks across the threshold with tentative steps, her gaze darting around the depressing space. “So, this is your room, huh? Nice.”
“You okay, Bird?”
“You got anything to drink?” She sucks back the emotion clawing up her face as she dawdles in the doorway.
“Uh . . . yeah.” A few small steps are all it takes to get to the mini fridge near the corner of my room. I open the freezer compartment and pull out the fifth of Jack Daniels chilling inside, grabbing two glasses from the shelf above with my free hand.
“This is a really cool setup. I like how you have the makeshift kitchen over here. It’s like . . . your own little studio apartment.”
She takes the glass from my hand and gingerly sits on the corner of my bed. Her wandering gaze freaks me out. She’s never been inside the house, my shame keeping her from going any farther than the yard. Now she’s in my pitiful excuse for a room, leaning on my bed like she fucking belongs there. The emerald comforter makes her eyes pop, fierce and feral, but the angst inside them steals the lust brewing inside me. Something isn’t right.
“Bird?”
She catches my eye. “Yeah?”
“Why are you here?”
She lifts the glass and stares into the mouth as if she’s searching for the answers to life inside the bitter, cheap whiskey. “I just don’t want to be alone tonight.”
A layer of goose bumps breaks out on my
skin. I feel them skitter down my body from top to bottom as my heart pumps a mad rush of blood. The chair creaks under my weight as I sit facing her. “Asher?”
She nods. Looking down, she lifts the sketch pad sitting on the edge of my bed. “Still blocked?”
“Hard to be an artist without inspiration.”
In the dark room, her skin glows pale against her vibrant hair. “I know what you mean,” she replies, flipping the page. “I know there’s a story inside me. I just don’t know what it is yet. It’s like I have all these words jumbled in my brain. I can see them so clearly, yet when I attempt to extract them, there’s nothing there.”
“Wow.”
Her gaze snaps to mine. “What?”
“I’ve just never had anyone understand it the way you do. Sometimes, it’s like you’re in my head.”
“Kim doesn’t understand you?”
“She tries.”
Silence falls. Wren pushes back on the bed, crossing her legs in front of her, thumbing mindlessly through the sketch pad as I sit and watch.
“Can I ask you a question?” she asks after a while.
“Yeah.”
“Would your girlfriend be upset if she knew I was here with you right now?”
I shrug. “She knows we’re friends.”
“Yeah, I know, but . . .” She trails off as she flips another page. My stomach twists. Cocking her head, she drops her attention to the lines of pencil below. It’s nothing really. A crudely drawn sketch of a young girl standing near a locker with a shy smile sitting on her lips. Wren peeks up under light lashes. “You drew me?”
“I did.”
“Why?”
I look down at my feet, too embarrassed to match her gaze head on. “Yours is the only face I’ve ever been able to draw by heart.”
She traces the graphite lines of her own face staring up at her from the stark white paper. “Can I have it?”
The mattress dips as I rise from the chair and kneel on the bed, reaching for the pad. “This one’s mine.”
“Will you draw one for me then?”
With a short nod, I sit back in my chair, the pad on my lap. “Bend your leg up.” Doing as she’s told, she slides her foot across my bed until it’s flat on the unmade comforter. “Now rest your elbow on your knee and bring your hand up like this,” I request, lifting the back of my hand to my chin. She follows my movement and falls into pose exactly as I want.
Narrowing my gaze, I take in the smooth lines of her face, the elegant sweep of her nose, and hairpin bow of her lips. I don’t know why. I could paint her face with my eyes closed, every freckle exactly as it sits on her cheeks and forehead. The impeccable arch of each eyebrow an exquisite complement to her jade eyes. Wren is as close to perfection as a person can get. Beautifully flawed and absolutely priceless.
I tear the page from my book and hold it out. Tucking her legs beneath her, she leans in to take it. “That’s it? A few quick swipes of your pencil is all I get?”
A slow smile creeps across my lips. “I only break out the real art supplies for my nude models.”
“You mean the ones from your class?”
“Yeah. Except they’re usually guys.” When I turn to drop my pad on the dresser, a wisp of movement catches my eye. I turn toward it just in time to see Wren’s shirt flutter to the floor. I stare as if it’s something profound. Her pants soon follow.
The breath hitches in my throat. “What are you doing?”
Slowly, I tear my gaze from the pile of clothes.
Wren Irwin is naked in my bed.
I’m face to face with the body I’ve been dreaming about since middle school. I hate to admit the number of times this exact fantasy played out in my head, my eyes closed, my fist tugging my cock until I’m grunting her name aloud.
“I’m sure you’re no stranger to the naked female form.”
“No. I’m not,” I muster, my voice thick and riddled with want.
When she meets my stare, her eyes are lit from within. They flicker and burn, twinkling with impish glee. I like it far too much. She isn’t mine. She never was, no matter how badly I wished for it. Timing is everything. We always seem to miss the mark. But it doesn’t stop my body from reacting to the sight of her sprawled on my bed, posing just for me.
But I’m a professional. She’s my model. It doesn’t have to be more than that.
“What do you want me to do?” Her breathy whisper floats through the air, and my dick hardens immediately.
“Take your free hand and pull your hair up off your shoulders.” Unable to tear my gaze away, I fumble across my dresser for a stick of charcoal as she carries out my order. “Lower your chin but turn your face toward me.” I step forward and adjust the tiny tendrils falling around her face.
I lick my lips and stand back. With her arm clutched across her breast, the sheet waterfalls down her slender frame as she rests on her knees. My quivering fingers grip the kohl as it basically moves on its own, bringing her to life on the page before me. Every easy line and willowy curve. The hooded lids that cover her heated gaze as I use my middle finger to soften the harsh edges and make her pop off the page.
What it doesn’t show is the racing of adrenaline and the flutter in my chest. Need ricochets through me at lightning speed. I look down at the figure on the page, my body bursting with excitement and the high that comes from creating something beautiful. “Lie down,” I growl, hurling my sketch pad to the floor. It skids across the smooth concrete, but I’m already up on my feet, heading for my canvas.
She falls to the bed, the mattress bouncing below her.
“Drape your arm across your chest and twist your hips to the left.”
When she settles into place, I crawl onto the bed to tweak her position. Hovering above her, I fan her hair across the pillow behind her and rest her free hand next to her temple. That damn pulse still taps in her neck. I’m paralyzed by the sight of it, the faint smell of her perfume making me dizzy.
She turns her head until she’s facing me head-on. “Do you think of us, Jess? About what we could have been like together?”
“Fate had other plans for us.”
Hot breath beats against my lips. If I kiss her now, I know I’ll never stop. I’ll need to taste all of her. Every last inch until she’s trembling and wasted, murmuring my name the way she was always meant to. She’s supposed to be mine, but fate is a heartless bitch.
But my fingertips linger on her skin longer than they should. Her back arches as I travel down the length of her side and catch under her knee to bring it to position. A small black splotch peeking out from under her pink panties catches my eye. A fading circle with squiggly rays of raven sunshine, a stupid doodle I left on a note in her locker after hearing “Black Hole Sun” by Sound Garden.
With my thumb, I lift the lacy edge. “When did you get this?” I ask, caressing the ink with the pad.
Her lashes flutter. A meager moan slips between her lips before answering, “Eighteenth birthday present to myself.”
My cock strains inside my jeans as I stare down at the tiny tattoo on her hip. My art permanently etched into her perfect skin.
“Just a little piece of you, deep inside me.” She runs her hand to the back of my neck and pulls herself off the bed.
The urge to take her in my arms comes on so strong it steals away all traces of doubt. I lean into her, feathering my lips against hers, tasting her sweet mouth with tentative little licks. “Is this wrong?”
“It feels too right to be wrong,” she mewls.
A possessive growl rumbles in my chest. I’m on her in an instant, pinning her back to the mattress. Our mouths collide. I feel her gasp against my tongue, her body growing rigid beneath me. Her hands dive into my hair, holding me closer as her lips move against mine, trying to keep up.
She purrs my name as my needy lips travel to her neck. I shouldn’t want her this badly. I shouldn’t ache with this need every time I see her, but I can’t fucking help it. We belong toge
ther. She knows it. I know it.
Why are we fighting it?
“Fuck, Wren. I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you.”
“I wanted you, too,” she breathes, using her feet to push my pants down. “God, I’ve wanted you since the second you walked into the diner. I don’t want to wait anymore.”
My body lingers over hers. I want so much to rip the sheet from her, to slink her out of those goddamn panties, but I need to make this good. I need to make sure this is the most memorable moment of her life.
I’ve waited so long. Too fucking long.
“Wren,” I murmur, leaning in closer, feeling her breath hitch, and I’m aching to steal every whimper and moan like a goddamn thief. “Are you sure?” My question causes her to pause. She meets my hungry gaze. I expect her to tell me no. I want her to push me off and tell me to go to hell, but she doesn’t. Instead, she twines her arms around my neck and pulls me in closer.
Our mouths whisper over each other’s, her warmth stealing mine, and I close the distance. I can no longer wait to taste her. And the moment my tongue sweeps along hers, I’m lost in the flavor that is the woman I’ve wanted all my life.
My cock is rock solid, aching for more, needing to be inside her, but I need to take this slow. With my free hand, I shove the offending material of the sheet from her body and settle between her legs. She instinctively wraps those lithe limbs around my waist, her heels nudging my ass, pressing me against her heat, and I can’t stop the growl that rumbles through my chest.
Jesus, she’s heaven in hell.
“Jesse,” she whispers my name. The need drips from the word, and our gazes lock. “Please, just . . . I need you.” For too many months, I’ve stepped back when I felt myself lose control with her, but the moment she begs, I’m lost to her.
“This . . . I can’t go slow,” I warn her, knowing my desire for her is incomparable to anything I’ve ever felt. I kneel up, pulling her with me, and my deft fingers work the clasp of her bra. The moment it slips from her shoulders, I’m met with her perfect tits. Fuck.
