by Tarin Lex
“February fifteenth,” I say around a mouthful of omelet. Not sure how or why I remember the exact date of the accident that spun Ren’s world worlds away from him, but I do. Not that he’s reminded me, or anyone else. He won’t talk about it. I know he has a scar on his back, but I don’t even know if that’s healed all the way. It’s not a part of him I get to see.
“That’ll be the one-year anniversary,” I add, clearing my throat.
“It wasn’t his fault,” Hope says what we’re all thinking. What we’re always thinking. “I wish he’d let go of the burden and realize that.” Her expression is as sad and withdrawn as if it had happened to her. Hormones, I guess. The pregnancy is sort of amazing to watch. Lately Hope seems to feel everyone’s emotions as if they’re her own.
Dad shifts toward me and pins me with a graphite look. He probably doesn’t mean for his eyes to look so cold and hard and scrutinizing, but that’s how I see them. Sometimes guilt makes us see everything differently. “Aren’t you supposed to go over there today?”
“What?” I ask, at the exact moment I realize it’s the third Friday of the month. I’m supposed to clean his house on first and third Fridays. “Oh!” I exclaim. “I almost forgot!”
And I’m late already. Crap. I inhale the rest of my food and set the plate in the sink. I pass the mirror—I look like hell, but Ren’s seen me like this before. I brush my teeth, finger-comb my hair, and get dressed in whatever. I may be shoulders-deep in my manuscript now, and nose-over-knees in love with the man, but I’m also officially out of a job. I have to go there.
I have to see him.
Six
Ren
How many days does it take to fall out of love with your best friend’s barely legal daughter?
I’m not sure yet. More than five. Maybe a hundred. Maybe a thousand. It isn’t a thought I should entertain.
I’m unshowered and untrimmed, but caffeinated, sketching potential new designs at the round, two-person table in my humble breakfast nook by the bay window that looks out into dense, evergreen woods. We haven’t had much snow yet, but after the new year I’m sure that view will be stark-white. Every few minutes I take a break to spoon an uninspiring glob of oatmeal into my mouth. God how I miss her hot, homecooked meals. Nothing tastes the same now. The doorbell rings and I move to answer it with an irritated groan.
When I peer through the peephole my heart scuttles up with dedicated speed, and clings to my throat. Speak of the angel… It’s Khadija, bundled against the late-December wind, holding her purse and little bucket of cleaning supplies. Is it third Friday? Guess I forgot. And that means next week is Christmas…
I swallow my heart, it drops to my gut. Christmas. First Christmas without them.
I open the door to let her in. “Hey.”
“Hey.” She smiles, and lifts her bucket an inch. “I’m here.”
“Come in.” I step back. She steps in. I close the door and turn toward her. For a single guy who’s only been home for five days, most of those spent at the shop, you’d think it’d be tidier than it is. I usually clean up before she comes over. The sink and trash are overflowing, there are food containers spread over the countertops, clothes on the floor—some of them clean, I think—and a dozen half-empty cans of La Croix dotted throughout. I cringe at the sight. “You don’t have to.”
Khadija’s already set down her purse and bucket and doffed her coat. She’s in the kitchen, pulling out trash bags from under the sink. Her long brown hair is tied up in a high messy bun, and she’s wearing those goddamned glasses that somehow make her peanut butter eyes seem slightly bigger when she swivels her face to look at me.
“Yes, I do”—she grins—“and I want to.”
Christ. I want her. She probably doesn’t mean to torture me in her olive-green linen pants and tucked-in black tank. The shirt has a scooped neckline that shows her collarbones and the nape of her neck. It isn’t revealing otherwise, neither are her pants, which are tight at the ankles but loose everywhere else, billowing out slightly wider at her hips. The outfit isn’t skin-tight and very little skin is exposed. I’m certain she isn’t trying to turn me on at the sight of her. She could wear a paper bag and my dick would still contract.
“Come over here and help me,” she says, holding out one of the plastic bags. “Just get the recyclables, at least.”
That’s new. I’m happy to do it, I admit I’ve been a slob this week, but she’s never asked me to help before. I take the bag. Our gazes meet for a moment as delicate as gossamer. It isn’t fair that she’s the most beautiful thing I have left, and I can’t have her.
“I’m kind of in a hurry,” she says, crisply. “Start in the bedroom while I clean out here?”
“All right.” I head toward the master suite. What’s she in a hurry for?
“If the sheets need washing, please take them off!” DJ shouts from the kitchen, then turns on the faucet before I reply.
Sure, I can help. I will. But…now who does she think she is? Not like I’m not paying her. I realize I still owe her for her…time. ‘Thousands,’ she’d said. Fine. And probably more than that for getting her fired from her job. I only feel a little remorse over that. If it means she can never work there again, whatever she wants is worth it to me to give to her.
I strip off the sheets and pile them neatly on the floor. I stride toward the open bedroom door and lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms. I level my gaze at the angel washing dishes. “Deej!” I call, in a low, loud voice that makes her jump. She shuts off the faucet as she whirls to face me.
“Yeah?”
I tick my chin at her, and narrow my eyes. I don’t mean to rake her form with such an indulgent gaze as I do it, but I do. She can hate me for it, if she wants. “You think you can just walk in here looking like that and start barking orders at me?”
DJ smiles. “Do you think I can?”
Little devil. “Yes,” I admit. I raise an eyebrow. “What are you in a hurry for?”
She blushes a little, her smile becoming reticent. A date? A new job? My heart pumps hot blood to tight fists tucked into folded arms.
“I’m writing a book,” she says, quietly.
“A book?” My hands relax. “That’s fuckin’ cool, Deej. What’s it about?”
She gives her head a little shake. “I’m not ready to tell yet.”
“All right.” Totally get it. A work in progress is a sacred thing, meant only for the artist. I smile and nod in solidarity, and something else. A feeling that balloons like pride.
“Ren,” she says, and I realize I’ve just been staring at her.
“If you’re mad at me,” I tell her, “please, don’t be. I’m…sorry.”
“No.” She takes off her rubber dishwashing gloves, lays them over the sink, and strides toward me. There’s a look on her face I’ve never seen there before. That seems to be happening a lot, lately.
“I know I still owe you,” I say as she comes closer to me. “I have cash—”
She pulls a face. “For cleaning your house?”
“That. And…” I let my voice fall over the edge.
She keeps coming until she’s all the way in front of me, intoxicating me with her scent—lavender and dulcet, sticky honey. Fuck. I’m in trouble.
“You shouldn’t pay me for that,” Khadija says in a low, sweet voice. It shouldn’t have happened. Before I can utter that, she adds, “I liked it too much.” That makes two of us.
I frown.
She frowns.
She reaches up to touch my chin, nearly stopping my heart. “Are you sore, here?”
“No,” I lie. It is still a little bit tender. Her fingers can stay right where they’re at.
She smiles brightly, her eyes darken and shine like hammered gold. “You’re…hairier than usual.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Her soft little hand descends from my jawline, down my neck, settling over my chest for one heartbeat, then trailing lower, lower, sending
warm waves of carnal desire spiraling down in the wake of her touch, making my dick harden and pulse.
“Careful,” I growl.
“Ren.” She flicks her gaze up toward mine, her chin angled down so that her eyes catch mine from over the top of her glasses. “I don’t want to be careful with you.”
Fuck. Me. A low groan unfurls from the back of my throat when her sneaky skittering fingers pass the waistline of my sweats and graze down the length of my shaft. My erection twinges against her palm, as if in greeting. I watch her swallow as her eyes go wide. I grab the doorframe for leverage with one hand, my other hand reaching out to cup her cheek. “I don’t know whether I should toss you out of this house, Deej…” My knees nearly buckle when she strokes down to the head and rakes it lightly with her fingernails. “…or take you inside that room and toss you into bed.” I happen to know she’s never gone all the way before, and she’s towing me dangerously close toward begging her to be her first. I tip my head backward, issuing a deep sigh at her brutal, brutal torment. DJ grips my rod, lifting up on tiptoe to press her soft warm lips into the hollow of my throat, and my dick twitches, hard against her palm, seeking her out, when she issues a throaty purr that sends the agony of anticipation straight to my hard, swollen cock. Is she testing if I’ll come like this? I just might. Khadija’s mouth is open and hot, searing my neck as she nips and licks and then slides her lips up to my ear.
Stop. Stop this now.
“Do that,” I implore, “lower.”
Her whispered breath makes my balls clench with need. “Take me to bed, Ren.”
Khadija
I’ve never seen Ren look so savage, not even the other night, and it makes me wonder how I must look. Since I feel like I’ve never wanted anything more in my life than this moment with him. His pale green eyes darken like moss after it rains. You’d think I’d be used to a man’s lust-filled expression, the loitering gaze he proffers my form, but this is different than any of those guys I danced for. Strangers. This face is tortured, eyes smoldering with desire, and with something else. I feel that too—Love.
I slide my hands up to his chest. He doesn’t take me to bed yet. He doesn’t even kiss me. These slow, primal caresses and hesitant looks are tantalizing and all-consuming.
“You know I can’t really do that,” he says, mournfully.
I shake my head. “I’ve always known I loved you, Ren.”
He tilts his head, smiles down at me, a little one that’s halfway sad. “I love you, Angel. That isn’t even a question.”
“Then ask me a question.”
“Do you remember when we first met…you said you were going to marry me.” He laughs, softly, moving his hands up my neck and into my hair. I tip my head back a little, yielding to his touch, as his fingers work the hairband from my bees-nest of a bun and all of my hair comes tumbling down. “You weren’t even ten years old,” he says, sliding his hands down the length of my hair, gently tugging the knots loose with his fingers between the strands, giving me shivers.
“I’m older now.”
“Indeed.”
I reach up higher to circle my hands around his neck, gluing my gaze to his. “And I’m still going to marry you.”
He grasps all of my hair in one hand. I nearly forget to breathe when he tips my head back against the doorframe and presses his other thumb to my lips. “Don’t say things like that,” he whispers, his eyes flashing even darker. “You don’t know who you’re playing with.”
Without even thinking, my tongue peeks out to swipe along his finger, and his eyes widen, his gaze fastened to my mouth as I taste him. “I’m not playing, Ren. And I know exactly who you are.” I lean a little closer to him, still holding my hair in one handful, his other hand on my neck gently coaxing us even closer.
“I lose control when you look at me like that.”
“Like this?” I whisper, suddenly breathless as I hold his passioned gaze, letting everything I feel for him show on my face, in my eyes. All the ways I know him, am comfortable with him, love him in ways that exceed just friendship, or just sex. But there’s sex in my expression too. I love him into the marrow of my bones, and I’m wet to my knees with desire for him. I want to tear off his clothes and jump into his chest and sling my legs around his waist.
“Fuck,” he strains the word and pins my lips to his. It isn’t gentle like before. His mouth covers mine, coaxing my lips apart, his tongue delving deep as he releases my hair and grips my waist, drawing me over the threshold and into his room. It’s dim in here, lit only by a single glowing incense and the open curtains, enough pale light to kiss his charcoal-stained furniture and black bedspread, pictures of his family, and the splashes of artwork that adorn his walls. Ren trails backwards farther into the room, then sits down at the foot of the bed. His hand slides down from my hip to the back of my thigh, pulling me down into his lap until my chest is flush with him, my legs straddling him. A whimper escapes me as my body settles over his and his massive hard-on pulsating between my thighs, causing my entire body to quiver with electric little drumbeats. Holy. Wow.
I grip his shoulders for support. “Hey, stranger,” I breathe into the stillness when our lips part for an ephemeral breath.
“Khadija,” he groans my name, and grips the back of my neck tighter, his fingers curling in my hairline, teasing the delicate little strands, his full wet lips blazing hot on mine. My body instinctively seeks his out, like it never has before, my thighs spreading wider over him, wanting to feel more of him. Needing him. Ripples of longing tremor through me as I move against him, my hips swinging a slow arc over his cock, loving the feel of him growing even harder beneath me. Little earthquakes of yen rock through my core, damp, mindless heat pooling low at the apex of my thighs, where my yearning for him seems most concentrated. I rub harder, a futile attempt to quench my desire. Ren breathes out a coarse word. His lower hand moves languidly from the back of my thigh, over my ass, to the small of my back, holding me firmly against him, possessing me. He puts words to my very thought. “You’re mine, Deej.”
I press both hands to the back of his head. “I’ve always been yours.”
Seven
Ren
I’m going straight to hell after this, but right now I feel more alive than I can ever remember feeling. DJ’s body is supple and warm and fits against mine like my favorite Danner boots. I’ve seen her wear nothing but a thong I’d wanted to chew through to get to her center, but when she says she’s mine as she leans back slightly, smiling, tugging indolently upwards on the hem of her black cotton tank, it feels like the first time I’ve ever seen her take off her top. The first time I’ve ever seen any woman undress.
My fingers twitch to stop her halfway but my dick jerks harder, and wins. I’m not stopping her. I’m not stopping till we’ve had every fucking inch of each other.
I can see her nipples poking through the cotton fabric, then the bare curve of her lower breasts. She’s not wearing a bra underneath. She pulls the tank top over her head, revealing in the light of day the most perfect tits I’ve ever seen in my life. Round, firm, bronze mounds with tantalizing tips begging to be touched, kissed, suckled till I’ve had my fill. “Christ, Deej.” She angles her head back as I reach for her, cupping two perfect handfuls. I lean in closer to lick a craven circle around one nipple before sucking it into my mouth, nipping her gently between my teeth. Her sudden gasp and the tightening of her tip makes my blood pump faster. She arches toward me, bucking her hips and mewling like a kitten when I sweep my tongue over her chest, seeking the other nipple, ravishing her measure by measure. Stroke after stroke. “Beautiful. I love to watch you lose control.”
Her hips cinch harder to mine, making me dangerously close to exploding already. She exhales another sultry sigh. I lift her up and toss her onto the bed, as promised. She giggles, but I don’t find it very funny. She stifles more giggles with a finger to her lips. I stand over her, frowning as I rake her lithe, hourglass form once again, from her halo of
dark brown hair to her cute little bare feet. She smiles, demurely, her eyes roving from mine to the hard, proud staff beneath my sweats. I choke on a breath. This girl…this woman…will be the absolute end of me. I narrow my eyes at her once more, holding my gaze to her honey-brown orbs when I reach for her pants and tug them off at the ankles. Her thong catches on the waistband and slides down along with her pants, exposing the apex of her thighs with heart-rending, tortuous ease. I still. I catch sight of her thin slick folds and tight little nub and it takes every ounce of strength I have not to dive into her center and steal a taste of her warm, syrupy flesh.
My heart pounds in my chest as I give myself a moment to take in her flawless skin and soft curves. “Angel.” It’s the only thing I can think to say.
“Slayer,” she says, “now it’s your turn.”
“Happy to oblige.”
I take off my t-shirt, sweatpants, and then my boxers, hypnotized by her eyes and the way her breasts move up and down with each of her breaths. When she wets her lips with her tongue I become completely unhinged for her, mentally and physically. At the foot of the bed, I lower my face toward her feet. I start at her toes, proffering soft kisses and sucks, working my way slowly up her legs, between her thighs, tasting her pussy in one long, slow lick. She’s as sweet as I thought. Sweeter. And soaking wet already. “You’re decadent,” I tell her, reverently. She shudders and moans, obliterating any thoughts of patience and gentleness I had before now. I prowl my way higher, grazing my tongue over her soft belly, between her breasts, up along her bared throat. She drags her nails down my spine as I find her mouth with my own, our tongues crashing and dancing together. I reach down to pet her soft, slippery center, all the way up her narrow slit to her silken clit, and she purrs, her legs slinging around my hips and cinching our bodies closer.
