"Arms up." His voice is thick and sends a shiver of delight right down my spine. I oblige, resting my wrists on the top of my head. I'm about to ask him if he has a condom when he reaches into his nightstand drawer for one.
He brings his hand in for a sneak peek, and I tremble as his fingers slide against what's waiting for him. Wrapper tears open. A sigh parts my lips as his warm hands come over my hips again. Thoughts are a desperate blur of anticipation, unable to wait a second longer to—
A moan rips through me as he plunges inside of me. No longer a tease, right when it matters most. I melt in relish from the delicious burn—he's unbelievably hard and I'm nearly bursting at the seams from him.
Owen fucks me there, against the wall. Holding and anchoring my weight on his arms again, his strokes long and steady. With a taunting slowness that I'm beginning to recognize from him. The burn drives me insane. But I can tell it's what he wants. He likes to watch me squirm under him, likes to see my body angling for more, quivering and begging for him to take me with everything he's got.
"Faster," I breathe out.
He picks up his pace, hands securing my hips in place. The frantic tempo is enough to send me clinging to the very edge of control. The sounds of his hard pounding echo loud around us.
"Can you take it?"
"God, yes." I'm breathless and trembling, the euphoric pressure building until it almost hurts to feel this good.
I'm overwhelmed by the way his body commands every inch of mine, making me delight in the midst of the building flurry of sensations. He plays me like an instrument, with complete control and confidence, stroking me in ways that make me whimper.
"Don't stop," I moan. "I'm close."
But he does stop. He spins me around to face the wall, wraps an arm under my breasts as though he knows I'm dizzy with pleasure, and pushes inside me again. "Damn, your ass is beautiful," he says.
He groans as I twist my back, pressing my lower half into him, and he sinks even deeper, still. And when he begins pulsing in and out of me, I shut my eyes and beg him to make me come.
"We're not done until the only word you remember—" he whispers, low and dangerous, matching his next words to each thrust. "—is my name."
Holy Fuck.
The power behind his voice, the tremble in his tone, vibrates right through me. I nearly come right then. When he reaches his other hand around to stroke my clit with his rough fingers, I let out an anguished cry and my knees buckle under me.
"Come for me," he growls.
The orgasm pounds through me with his next thrust, setting off every nerve ending in my body as I breathe out the only word I know.
Owen. Owen. Owen.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The hammering in my chest slows as we lie back on his bed. Owen brings a hand behind his head, his other remains on the small of my back as though ensuring I remain where I am, on top of him.
A comfortable silence falls over us. Satisfied. And gives way to small talk a few minutes later. He makes me laugh without trying and we tease each other about unimportant things.
At some point, I veer off topic. "I never thought I'd say this, but I'm dreading Christmas," I say. "Bad."
"And why is that?"
"Not looking forward to facing the real world that comes after it's over. Looking for a job, a place." I drag my lips over his jaw as I speak, slowly taking in his scent, feeling it stir desire in the deepest parts of me. Owen lets out a small groan at the way I bear my weight on him until his newly forming erection pushes back against me right where I want it most.
"You don't like living with your sister?"
"Huh? Oh, no. I don't live with Lex. I'm just visiting until after Christmas. Then it's back to San Francisco."
Owen pulls me back slightly until our eyes meet, lips turned down. "You…live in San Francisco?"
Dammit.
"I thought—didn't I mention that?"
"No. You didn't."
A beat.
"Are you upset?"
"That you're leaving town in a few days? Or that I didn't realize this was a one-night stand?" He pauses then adds, "I don't do one-night stands."
How cute.
I bury my face in the crook of his neck and whisper, "We can do as many night stands as you want."
"I'm serious, Emily."
I prop myself up on an elbow to view him properly.
"I want you," he says, running his thumb over my swollen lips. The pause in his speech is punctuated by his hard-on, still pressing against me. But his voice floods with the wrong kind of conviction. "But not like this. Not when you're leaving right after and I don't even know when I'll see you again."
I can't help but smile at how endearing he sounds. Twisting my voice into an Australian accent, I say, "Here we have the Male Monogamous, thought to have gone extinct over two hundred thousand years ago—"
"Very funny." And in one move, he nudges my body off his and sits up on the corner of the bed, back toward me.
I'm surprised by how upset he seems and am unsure of what to say. I stare at the ropey muscles of his back, admiring the sexy hollows and contours, more pronounced as he pulls on his underwear and shirt.
"I'm sorry," I finally manage. "I don't mean to poke fun. It's…I didn't realize I forgot to mention I was only in town for a little while."
"Don't worry about it," he says, evenly. "It would've been nice to know. That's all."
"Would it have changed anything?"
He stands to zip up his pants, looking down at me, eyes drinking in the sight of my naked skin. And I'm burning for him again, relishing in his admiration and refusing to shy away for a second, letting him see every inch of me where I sit on my heels.
"Probably not," he says with a small, resigned smile.
I like this man. A lot. I can't remember the last time I've liked a guy this much. I hate that the universe dangles him in front of me now, knowing damn well my life is somewhere else. Knowing we could never be anything more. Because, as much as I enjoy his company, I can't get into a long distance relationship. It wouldn't be fair. He wants more than I can give him from five hundred miles away, with so many aspects of my life needing serious repair. And honestly, I want more than the distance could give me, too.
He should know this. The sudden strain in the silence between us is building because he doesn't know.
"For the record," I say, "if you lived in San Francisco, I'd monogamize the hell out of you."
"Did you just make up that word?"
"Oh yeah. I'd monogamize you so hard…"
He grins, gazing at me for a second before holding out a hand to help me off the bed. I glance at the time on the clock and wonder when his son is getting back home.
"I should get going," I say as I pull my dress back on.
"You're leaving?" He sounds dissatisfied.
He brings his body close to mine and runs his hands down my sides as though to smooth out the wrinkles of my dress, knowing damn well what his touch does to me.
Our faces are nose-to-nose, and an almost palpable enthrallment tinges the air between our lips, drugging me with each breath I take.
I want him. And though I'm sure he wants me, too, Owen pulls his hands away from me pointedly and pushes them into his pockets, instead. A small, silent gesture indicating he isn't inclined to give into another romp.
It's like he's afraid it would only add to his disappointment of me leaving. Or maybe he, too, is aware his son might be on his way back.
"I should head back to my sister's place," I say, my lips nearly grazing his as I speak. "Take a cold shower. Hump my pillow—I do it every night, so don't flatter yourself."
His mouth pulls up. "Before you go, let me find the picture you wanted."
He leads us back to the living room. I sit on the sofa again and watch as he retrieves one of the boxes stacked over the bookcase. He sets it down on the table in front of me.
"Is this where you keep them?" I ask.
He nods
and sits beside me as I start looking through the box. It's full of photographs. Some Polaroid, most print.
"Oh my God!" My hands snatch up a picture and laughter erupts from within my chest.
There's a young boy with a bowl cut. His eyes barely visible behind his bangs, though his sour expression is etched over his entire face. Judging by his outstretched hand, he doesn't want his picture taken. I wouldn't want my picture taken either, if I wore that awful outfit.
Owen snatches the picture from me, half smiling. "It was spirit week. Mismatched Monday. Remember?"
I nod. I do remember. The week before homecoming was referred to as spirit week. The school had a schedule to encourage students to dress in a nonsensical fashion. Mismatched Monday. Nerdy Tuesday. Pajama Wednesday.
I look through the other photos. They seem to be of Owen's friends. Fresh faced kids, smiling for the camera in ridiculous poses. A few with Owen in them, arms extended out. I spy the background of the photos, recognizing the halls of our school, see some familiar faces in there.
"This is hilarious," I say, flipping through. I freeze on one picture. Owen goes instantly quiet beside me, he tries to grab for the photo, but I turn from him, bringing it out of his reach so I can examine it further.
At first glance, it seems to be a photograph of the school's hallway, students at their lockers, some walking past. But it isn't a random shot. It is composed as to draw the eye to one subject in particular. A girl, in front of an open locker, face angled toward the camera but her expression far away. Her friends stand nearby and judging by the satisfied looks on their faces, they're engaged in a salacious conversation.
But the girl reaching into the locker stands out because her lips are turned down. Perhaps it was only for an instant, perhaps long enough for Owen to snap this picture. This girl dropped her guard and allowed the sadness to creep onto her face. But I know when she shuts the locker door, her face will lift with a grin that will fall short of her eyes.
"When did you take this?" I ask.
"Who knows." He reaches into the box to shuffle through the pictures, quickly. "Here it is." Owen places another picture over the one I'm holding, his fingers switching the photographs in my hand. I don't resist, but it takes me a few seconds to bring the new picture into focus.
The new picture in my hand is of the cheerleading squad, in the middle of a stunt. I recognize myself immediately, flying in the air in perfect form. It was my first time doing that stunt at a game. I can tell because the person spotting me was a girl who left the squad a week later. I remember how excited I was about the routine even though there was no one in the stands for me. Not my mother, because she didn't give a shit. Not my sister, because she had picked up a night shift three days a week and couldn't miss work. Her job was the only reason I could afford the expenses of the squad in the first place.
I'm aware that Owen's watching me and I get the sense he expects a positive reaction. Rearranging my expression, I tap a finger on the photograph and say, "Can I keep this?"
"Of course."
I reach over to my purse and slide it inside the book. "Thanks."
When I sit up again, I feel uncomfortable. Why did I want to take a trip down memory lane? Why did I think these memories would be anything but irksome? When I think back to that time in my life, I see smiles and laughter and carefree attitude. But when I think back to what was happening in my life at the time, I remember disappointment and heartache and emptiness.
"Strange to think, isn't it?" Owen says from beside me. "How long ago this was. How young we were."
I look at him and feel suddenly defensive. The irrational fear comes over me that he planned this moment to make me feel exactly these things. That he aimed to remind me of how awful I was and how little I've changed. That this is his revenge on me, for not noticing him. For making him feel invisible.
What he doesn't know is that I felt invisible too.
Even with all those eyes on me. Not a single person saw me.
"What's wrong?"
He seems genuinely confused by whatever expression he glimpses on my face. I pull my lips in for a beat then rise to my feet again.
"Bad memories. Anyway, I really should get going."
I left my phone in my car, so before we leave his apartment, Owen scribbles his number on a piece of paper and tucks it into my purse.
"Don't lose it," he tells me.
"I won't."
We're silent as he walks me to my car. A glance in his direction reveals his expression remains questioning from my reaction to the photograph. When we reach the parking lot, we stop to face each other.
Before I can say anything, Owen takes my face in his hands and claims my lips in a kiss. An intense, bittersweet, wildly tender, goodbye kiss.
Time slips from its natural flow and all the sensations his body drove through mine in the heat of passion bubble to the surface again. I already miss his touch and his hands have yet to leave me.
He pulls away and waits for me to say something, and though my lips part, I can't think of a single word. I smile at him, trying to convey in my silence all the things I can't think to say.
He lets his hands fall to my waist before dropping to his sides. "Goodnight, Emily."
I wonder if he likes the sound of his name on my lips as much as I like hearing mine from his.
"Goodbye, Owen," I say, taking backward steps to my car to keep my eyes on him for a few seconds longer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
It's Christmas and like any product of divorce, I need to split my day wisely. I'm not referring to spending time with my father, of course. I wouldn't know him if he passed me on the street.
My holiday will have to be a strategic juggle between the two women in my life. Lex and my mother. My sister doesn't speak to our mother. They literally cannot have a conversation without it ending in a scream fest. It's something I've had to truly come to grips with recently.
I've come to accept that some relationships are toxic. Trying to maintain them for the sake of it is like allowing a disease to eat away at you when you hold the antidote. For Lex, the antidote is a communication blackout. For me…well, I haven't figured one out yet. And, as I sit in my mother's living room, I'm terrified there isn't one.
Guilt crawls around my stomach as I take in the dirty baseboards, the scuffmarks on the walls, and the worn carpet with stains layered on it. It disgusts me to sit here, on this couch, not knowing what's happened on it or why the room smells faintly like mold even through the pungent smell of cigarette smoke.
When I moved her in here, the apartment was decent. Nothing extraordinary, but at the very least it was clean. My mother's presence here dirtied up the place like vines crawling up walls, turning them into something else. Something wild and unkempt.
I watch as she opens the gift I brought for her, pulling the ribbon until it unravels before peeling back the wrapping paper. When she pulls out the picture frame, her face arranges into an automatic smile.
"Wow!"
She brushes a finger over the glass, tracing the image. It's one that I pulled from the album I found in Lex's storage. A picture of Lex, my mother, and me, all sitting at the edge of the fountain in Balboa Park. My mother looks good in the picture. Healthy.
Though I don't remember the picture being taken—I was a toddler—I'm certain my father was behind the camera. I've never been able to find a single picture of him. I think because my mother destroyed them all.
It's strange, but on some level, I feel this is the only family portrait we have. And it being out on a sunny day, in one of my favorite places in San Diego…all of it grounds me to the thought that things weren't always bad. We were happy once. We were a family.
"I didn't get a chance to get you a present," my mother says.
"It's fine, Mom. I just wanted to see you."
We all have areas of our lives we need to tend to from time to time, pulling the weeds before they grow to be a bigger mess. My mother is that for me. It's no
t that I don't love her. God knows I do. Some might argue she doesn't deserve it, I'd argue that's exactly why I have to. Because no one else will.
I ask her how she's doing and she fiddles with her hands in her lap. Her fingernails are uneven, chewed down to their beds, a sign that she's been fighting her demons.
She tells me she's been going to meetings. The guy she's dating is getting sober, on court orders, before being allowed to see his daughter again. That's motivated her to do the same, out of fear he will leave her.
For my mother, her own daughters weren't enough motivation. The ones cleaning up her vomit. The ones picking her limp body up from the cold, tile floor of the bathroom. Living in filth and opening the refrigerator to find it empty. Hiding under the bed when she and her latest boyfriend got into a blow out fight, and we were sure he would kill her.
I know I shouldn't fixate on her reasoning behind wanting to get better. I should just be happy she's trying. But it stings to think that all the times I cried at her feet as a kid weren't enough to motivate change in her. Yet the fear of losing a man is.
Of course this visit is a huge let down.
What else did I expect?
I nearly flinch when my mother puts a hand to my cheek. Her touch tugs at my heart in an awful way. I feel sorry for her. Really, deeply sorry for her.
Because even when she thinks she's changing, she remains exactly the same.
Lex and I spend Christmas with Julia's family. Her house is loud and energetic—not because of the kids running around, either. The adults are rowdy, their laughs hearty, and their voices carrying throughout.
There's not enough room for everyone at the table, so we eat buffet style, instead. Lex is in a better mood than she has been in recent days, but every once in a while, I can tell her thoughts carry her somewhere far away from the rest of us. I know she's thinking about Leo. She's missing him. I pretend not to notice, partly to save my sister the embarrassment, and partly because I'm not prepared to face the trickle of understanding coming over me of what it feels like to miss someone.
Entice (Hearts of Stone #2) Page 11
