by Kira Berger
I shove those thoughts out of my head.
There is nothing I can do about any of this now. Except wish someone invents a time machine within the next two days that lets me go back to change last night before I have to face Duncan on Monday.
On another groan, I turn to my side and curl around a pillow, trying really hard not to hurl. Closing my eyes, I try to empty my mind and go back to sleep. I have no idea what time it is besides knowing it’s too damn early to be awake and feel like this.
I manage to doze off for a little while until I smell bacon. Confused, I wonder for a minute if I’m dreaming, or hallucinating. But the smell penetrates my tired and hungover brain, making me shoot out of bed and run across the hall into the bathroom to heave, vaguely noticing a bucket next to my bed. At this point, I don’t care if someone’s in my house with the intention to kill me but for some weird reason decided to fry some bacon first. Actually, if their plan is to torture me with the smell of grease, it’s working.
“Oh, shit,” I groan into the empty bathroom and flush the toilet. Fuck, I wish whoever is here would get it over with and kill me already. Once my stomach has settled, I slowly stand—testing to make sure the nausea isn’t going to come rolling back in. Moving to the sink, I grab my toothbrush. I figure if they haven’t killed me by now they either aren’t going to or they have a plan to make me suffer from the suspense. I might as well try to feel halfway human until they come to a decision.
After I’m done with my teeth, I grab a hair tie and my brush and commence to try and tame my hair. Looking at myself in the mirror I’m not even shocked by what I see. I mean we’ve all been there after a night out and forgetting to take off the makeup afterward. Mascara and eyeliner streaking down your cheeks, the lipstick reaching up your cheeks trying to merge with said mascara. You always end up looking like some grotesque version of a clown—more It than Ronald McDonald.
Grabbing my face wash, I get rid of all the evidence last night ever happened. Fresh-faced and without the taste of death in my mouth, I make my way slowly toward the kitchen.
For a minute, I debate on whether or not I should get something to defend myself, but then dismiss it. If whoever is in my apartment was really out to harm me they would have done so while I was passed out, or puking my guts out, or making myself presentable. Further, a nagging feeling in my gut makes me think I might actually prefer having a burglar slash killer in my house than who I fear it might be.
Slowly turning the corner to my kitchen, I squeak out loud. What is he doing here? Why, oh why, does he have to be here? I ignore the small voice whispering in the back of my mind, telling me that I misjudged Duncan. That he’s actually a nice guy and not the jerk I thought him to be.
Hearing me, he turns around and shoots me a smile I’ve never seen before. It’s a mixture of gentleness, understanding, and amusement. I wonder what this is all about. Did I say something last night?
“Good morning, gorgeous. How are you feeling?”
“Uh, what are you doing here? What happened last night?” I ask instead of answering him.
“You can’t remember?” He doesn’t seem surprised.
“No, I can’t. Well, I can remember parts of it. Not how I got home though, or why you’d be here.”
Eyeing me curiously, he asks me, “What exactly do you remember?”
“Well, I remember you showing up kind of uninvited.” I smile at him to let him know I’m not mad about this anymore. And if I were to be honest, I’m actually quite happy about it. “I remember dancing with Emma, laughing; we were having a blast. Oh, that idiot getting a little too close—”
“The fucker is lucky you had it handled before I got there,” Duncan interrupts me in a gravelly voice.
Startled, I look at him, trying to read his face. But he has turned away from me, looking at the pan filled with bacon and eggs.
“Well, anyway, I remember going to get more drinks after that…” I try to remember what happened after, but there is nothing. Just a big gaping hole where my memories should be. “Fuck, those drinks weren’t the best idea,” I confess. “Should have listened,” I mutter while admiring the muscles rippling underneath his shirt.
“What was that? Did you just admit you should have listened to me?” He turns and gives me mock-surprised eyes.
“Yeah, there you have it. I should have listened. Live it up, this probably won’t ever happen again.”
“That’s all right. This definitely makes up for last night. Though, you’re quite funny, and honest, when you’re wasted.”
I grind my teeth together in frustration. “I don’t wanna know. Whatever happened last night after I went for that fateful third shot of tequila, I don’t care. I don’t remember so leave me in blissful ignorance.”
“You sure you don’t want to know whether or not you found my dancing skills to your satisfaction?” His smirk is way too satisfied.
What the hell? “Ah, what?” I can’t help myself. I know I shouldn’t ask; I don’t want to know. And yet, I can’t help myself. Curiosity killed the cat after all.
“Well, after that fateful third shot you dragged me to the dance floor, demanding I dance with you so you can—how did you put it?—oh yeah, judge my skills in the bedroom based on my dancing skills.”
“Oh, no.” Kill me know. I can’t believe I went there. I can actually feel myself blush. I mean yes, I’ve wondered what it would be like to have sex with him, but I would have never asked him point blank if I was sober.
“Well, just in case you’re wondering, since you can’t remember, you seemed rather pleased with my dancing skills. Said so yourself.”
“Please,” I beg, this is too mortifying. “Just stop.” I don’t want to imagine what else I might have said to him in my drunken stupor. I mean it could have been anything. From telling him how very much I want to experience his bedroom skills myself, to the real reason why I fled to the States.
Taking pity on me, he changes the subject. “All right. You want some coffee? Aspirin?”
“I’d love some coffee, but I can get some my—”
“I’ll get it, babe. Go sit. I’ll bring it to you.” He leaves me standing there while he moves toward the full pot of coffee. Shows how hungover I actually am since I usually smell coffee a mile away. I’m still frozen in place, watching his ass walk away from me when his next question jolts me out of my lust-induced stupor.
“Black, right? I made it strong, too. Figured you’re gonna need it.”
I slowly move toward the table to sit down, my stomach still slightly throwing its tantrum for me overdoing it last night. “Yeah, both are great. How’d you know?”
“I noticed how you took your coffee the first day of school. Black. And you savored the taste, so I figured it was because you actually liked it and not due to some silly notion of dieting or some shit like that.”
“You noticed?” I blurt out shocked to the core. He’s known me a week. One week and already knows how I take my coffee. I mean sure, for some people this probably doesn’t matter all that much, and it’s not about coffee, not really. It’s about him noticing the little details from day one. And remembering them.
He walks over to the table with the coffee in his hand and a pleased smirk on his face. “I remember a lot more than how you drink your coffee from that day,” he says while setting the cup in front of me. “Like how hard you made me in the middle of twenty coworkers, moaning about the coffee. Or how ever since then I’ve been thinking about what I’m gonna do to you to make you moan like that for me.”
I’m speechless. I’m sitting here, gaping at him like a fish out of water. My brain is too tired and hungover to come up with a snarky comeback. With my defenses down, I can’t easily dismiss his words and they penetrate, even though I don’t want them to. His words and actions of this morning embed themselves into my very being, to the core of me I promised to protect and not give to anyone ever again, and they soothe and start to heal some of the broken parts inside me I thou
ght would always be scattered around the ground.
And he’s not done yet. Leaning forward, one hand braced on the table, he cups my cheek gently with the other. His eyes are soft and full of emotions I don’t have the mental capacity to read, and he runs his thumb softly over my bottom lip. His eyes trace the movement before he meets my gaze.
“And just so we’re clear, while I really want to find out what you sound like when you come, it’s not the main reason why I’m here. I want to spend time with you, get to know you. I want to laugh, smile, rage, fight, be content with you. But most importantly, I want to slay those demons hiding behind your eyes. Banish those shadows and show you that not everyone is out to fuck you over. I don’t know what the future holds, but I know with one hundred percent certainty that I don’t want to miss finding out what my life could be like with you in it.”
“I…” My mind blanks, all thoughts but one have fled. How is someone like him even interested in me? And I’m not thinking this because I’m one of those needy and insecure women. I’ve stopped caring what people thought of me, you either like me or you don’t. Nothing I can do about it either way. But I’ve been an asshole to him since the day I met him. I’ve pushed him away, yelled at him, and called him names. Kept my walls sky high and armed. And yet, despite all of this, he’s here telling me all of this. It seems too good to be true and, for a second, I wonder what’s wrong with him. Distrustful thoughts rear their ugly heads, but for once, I tell them to fuck off and just savor his words. I let them penetrate my soul. They smooth the rough edges of my shattered trust—soothe the hurt and damage my past has burdened me with.
And for the first time in months, I feel a tiny measure of peace and hope. Hope that maybe one day I can put the past behind me, move forward and strive to find happiness.
Hope is fickle though. One minute you’ll be filled with visions of a better future, and the next it will make room for fear to intervene and fuck with your head. What if my past comes back to haunt me, and he’ll be caught up in my shit? How can I trust him? I’ve known him all of a week. Though I have to admit, so far, he’s been showing me he’s trustworthy. I mean he took care of me last night, and if the bucket next to my bed and my empty stomach is anything to go by, it wasn’t just him bringing me home but so much more. But what if he finds out and doesn’t want anything to do with me anymore.
Just when fear threatens to overwhelm me again, Duncan leans closer until he’s all I can see, taking up my whole world for a moment, his hand still cupping my cheek. “I know you’re scared. I can see it in your eyes. I don’t know what happened in your past to condition you to not trust anyone, but if you give me a chance, I’ll prove to you that you can trust me. I won’t ever cheat or lie to you, I can promise you this. Just give me a chance to show you.”
“Okay,” I whisper before my brain can connect to my mouth.
“No taking it back, babe,” he whispers back while taking in my eyes growing big with shock. “For once, listen to your gut.”
I sigh and look away. “My gut hasn’t been all that reliable in the past, Duncan. I can’t trust it.” But I know this is not true. I haven’t been listening to my gut in the past either. I only ever saw what I wanted to see; I put those blinders on and walked through life not noticing what’s going on around me until it was too late.
Duncan just smiles at me. “Now, drink your coffee, and I’ll bring you some food to help cure that hangover of yours.” Without waiting for an answer, he kisses me—quick and close-mouthed—before moving back to the stove.
I sit there for a minute thinking about what he said, about giving him a chance to prove me wrong in my assumption that he’s going to fuck me over and break my heart. I think back over the last week; he has tried to talk to me multiple times, I just never gave him the chance. And the one time he cornered me, I blew up in his face about a misunderstanding on my part and stupid mistake on his—and to be fair, no one is perfect, we all make mistakes.
And throughout it all, he’s never made me feel unsafe, in fact, quite the opposite. Giving me space when I clearly needed it, not forcing me into a situation I would have felt uncomfortable to the point of fearing for my safety.
And last night, I might not remember, but I know he’s the one who took me home, helped me to bed, and quite possibly held my hair back while I puked my guts out. Why else would he be here?
A quick look into the living room confirms my suspicion, there’s a blanket on the couch and one of the pillows from my bedroom. Staring at the dark blue blanket, I ask him, “Did you crash here last night?” I mean it’s quite obvious he did, but I need him to confirm it.
Without turning around, he says, “Yeah, I did. I didn’t feel comfortable leaving you here by yourself. You were incoherent by the time we left the bar and once we made it back here you were getting sick quite violently.” I cringe, poor him having to deal with puke one week into knowing me. “Ah, I was afraid you’d need help at some point, so I decided to crash on the couch just in case.”
He shrugs like he’s trying to downplay his actions. But this is not nothing. Let’s face it, not everyone would have done this—bring home and take care of the stupid drunk girl they barely know. Not without wanting something in return, like sexual favors. And he remembered how I drink my coffee.
This makes up my mind. I might not be sure whether or not I can prevent my past from rearing its ugly head and screw everything up, but in this moment, I decide to give this—him—a chance. Maybe I get my heart broken again, who knows, but I have survived worse.
Getting up from the table, my mind still on all he’s done for me last night and this morning and walk up to him. I wrap my arms around his waist and lie my cheek against his broad back. I can feel his frame jolt when I touch him, like he wasn’t expecting this. Taking a deep breath to gather my courage to say what needs to be said, I give his waist a squeeze before I give him the truth he deserves. I’m not unaware this is the first time I’ve voluntarily touched him.
“Thank you, handsome.” I don’t notice him turning off the stove, but instead keep going. “I know I’ve been a bitch this past week, I can’t help myself sometimes. I’m sorry. But I do appreciate you taking care of me last night. More than you know. And I’m sorry you had to witness me getting sick. Couldn’t have been a pretty sight.” I smile against his back. “But you’re right, I’m terrified of this, of you, of what you make me feel. I can’t place you in a neat little box like everyone else, close the lid, and know exactly what to expect. You don’t fit. You keep smashing it to smithereens, act in a way I don’t anticipate, and that only terrifies me more. I don’t know what to make of you. Men like you don’t exist outside the pages of books. Not for most people anyway. You’re like a unicorn—a mystical creature no one ever sees but we all ultimately wish for.”
He snorts at being compared to a mystical creature, and I can feel his whole body vibrate. “I can reassure you, gorgeous, I am as real as it gets. Been since the beginning.”
“I’m starting to realize this, it’s just… If you wish for something your whole life and only ever encounter a fake imitation of what you truly desire, one day you stop hoping for it. Avoids disappointment. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m not that big of a pessimist, or have only had shit happen to me. I had a good, happy childhood. Filled with love. It’s just been men I wasn’t the luckiest with, but then most women don’t—”
Suddenly, Duncan turns in my arms, the movement cutting off my anxious ramblings caused by the unpracticed act of opening up, and his mouth hits mine before I can move. His hands frame my face while he gives me a kiss unlike any of the ones he’s given me before. This one is deep and wet, his tongue engaging mine in a sinful dance as old as time. My mind goes blank and my body takes over. I move closer to him, my unbound breasts pressing against his chest. And I kiss him back with just as much vigor.
Passion engulfs us. His kiss stirring a fire inside of me I’ve never experienced before, causing me to moan into his
mouth.
With a growl, he breaks the kiss. But before I can protest, he grabs my ass and lifts me off the floor. With a squeal, I wrap my legs around his waist. He turns us and sits me on the counter farthest away from the stove.
With my legs already around him, I pull him close once my panty-clad ass hits the counter until his dick is pressed against my pussy—the only barrier his jeans and my panties. Another moan escapes me.
I stare into his eyes while my hands find their way underneath his shirt, roaming his skin. My breathing is heavy, and I don’t think I’ve ever been this turned on in my life. I can feel how wet I am, and my nipples strain against the shirt I’m wearing, causing me to shiver from the friction.
My breathing starts to escalate at the intensity in his eyes before his gaze drops to my legs. My shirt has ridden up over my ass and is bunched up around my hips. He runs his hands up my thigh, stopping shortly before reaching the spot where I ache the most. He moves my shirt completely out of the way and just stares at me as if fascinated.
For a moment, I wonder if the panties I’m wearing are my hideous but comfortable period ones. But his next words push any thoughts about my underwear out of my mind completely.
“I can see how wet you are through your underwear.” His voice is deep and rough, heightening my arousal, and I get even wetter. Slowly, his thumb moves over me and through the wetness seeping through the fabric.
By now I’m panting, and all I can think of is his dick inside of me. “Please…” I whimper wantonly. I’m not sure what I’m begging for; whether I want him to continue teasing me or if I want him to fuck me and make me come over and over.
“Fuck, you’re even more breathtaking turned on like this. I can’t wait to see what you look like when you come.”
Before I can respond, his free hand moves to my face, holding me still while he kisses me again. This kiss is just as hot and passionate as the one before. I’m so caught up in it, I don’t feel his other hand move until his finger traces my bare pussy lips, causing me to moan into our kiss.
