Okay, now my stomach does that fluttery thing, but this time because holy shit. “That would be nice.” I sit down on the bed, run my hand along the bedspread, the cool surface calming, and look at him. “I need to tell you something. About why I freaked out like that.”
He takes a moment to look at me. “Sure.”
“But let’s order food first.”
So we pull out the menu and place our orders. We settle on the bed, sitting cross-legged across from each other. I take a deep breath. “I was a bulimic.”
Conor straightens his spine but remains quiet. I like that he’s not acting all shocked and immediately asking questions. He gives me his full attention, knowing I have more to say.
Before, the urge to share had been strong, but I’d stomped on it. Too afraid. Now I let that urge free, because Conor’s been understanding even when he didn’t know—setting the table, being considerate inside and outside of the bedroom.
I look to the side. “I was on the fast track for Olympic trials for the US sailing team back when I was in junior high.”
“Well enough. And something happened, I take it?”
I smooth my hand across the comforter and make a starfish pattern. “It wasn’t something I actually wanted, but I don’t think I fully understood that then. It was something my mom wanted, and so, by extension, I did too. To please her. And she saw my chance at the Olympic team as the financial golden ticket. She raised me by herself.”
“Where was your da?”
I glance at him, already steeling myself for the standard pity, but I see only curiosity, and maybe a touch of sympathy. “I don’t know. And since I never had one, I don’t really miss one?” I shake my head. “That’s not quite right. I do in an abstract way. I wonder what it would have been like having one. But it was always just my mom and me. She has a…strong personality.”
He chuckles. “That’s not surprising me.”
“Yeah, well, I wasn’t me then.”
He cocks his head to the side.
Yeah, okay, that sounds odd. “What I mean is—how you see me today is not how I was then. In fact, it’s because of what I went through, and had to do to heal, that I am the way I am.” I edge closer on the bed, stalling. “And it’s…it’s also why I freaked out on you. I was a bit of a doormat as a preteen.” I look at him and wince.
His forehead wrinkles, his eyes confused. “I can’t see you being much of a doormat.”
I wave a hand to the side. “I was. I let my mom overwhelm me, and her desires came to be mine. Therapy helped me realize all this and that I’d also been trying to conform to a certain body type I thought I should have with a swimsuit on. I was always in a swimsuit. Well, anyway, to deal with the stress, I’d eat. It was another girl at school who showed me the trick”—I air quote—“of throwing up after eating a lot. At first, I only did it if I ate too much. But then I wanted to slim down and…you can guess the rest.”
I was always chasing after my mom’s body shape. She was tall and lean like a super model. And I didn’t look anything like her. Since getting healthy, I can now see our resemblance, of course, but as a kid, I felt like the ugly duckling next to the swan. Brown-haired and chunky next to her ethereal blonde.
Conor takes my hands. “You’re saying you made yourself unhealthy.”
I swallow. “I did. So much so that I failed the trials.” His strong, warm hands ground me.
“Sure, and how did you break free of the cycle then?”
I take a deep, shuddering breath. “That was a wakeup call. I got help from a counselor at my high school. But the real headway came when I broke ties with my mom and moved to Sarasota, to start my life over basically.”
We’re interrupted by a knock on the door, and we take a break while we set out our food, designating the middle of the bed as our table.
After a few minutes, Conor wipes his mouth and sets his napkin down. “You’re a fine thing, you know. Utterly incredible.”
“Because I broke off with my mom?”
“Because you found in yourself the strength to do what you were needing to get yourself healthy. I would never have guessed you had food issues in your past. You enjoy your meals as far as I can see.”
I look at our plates and smile. “I do. That was part of my recovery, learning to have a different relationship to food than just seeing the calories. It wasn’t easy, but I learned to take joy in the food itself, and to listen to my body and trust it. It’s why I don’t eat on the run either.”
“You set the table and turn off the telly.”
I squeeze his hands, grateful I don’t need to explain. I also feel a rush of warmth because, even before he knew any of this, he didn’t make fun of me for setting the table and instead was sweet enough to incorporate it already into our meals together. My body’s also asking for something else—a special dessert—so I leave room in my stomach.
“Exactly.”
“I’ve always seen you, in a good way, mind, as having bollocks of feckin’ steel.” He grins and takes another bite of his burger.
I snort. “Why do guys think balls are tough anyway. One good smack, and you’re down for the count.”
“I’ve given that some thought.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“Bollocks are an important topic, mind. I’m thinking it started precisely because they’re so vulnerable—takes a lot of guts to put your pair out in full view where they might get lamped. Hence ‘balls of steel,’ as you Americans say. But over time, the lads started assuming having a pair made them tough, which it doesn’t.”
“You might be onto something.” I look into his eyes. “And I’m sorry for freaking out. I think what it did was show me how far I’ve come, though. Part of me hadn’t quite shifted to understanding I was recovered. I had to put up such a shell around me so that no one could ever control me like that again, that I kind of got messed up on its purpose. I think I started feeling as if I had to be tough all the time—that I couldn’t ever give up control, or I’d get overridden again.”
“So when I…”
“So when you bought tickets for me to visit my mom after I said I didn’t want to…”
“I wasn’t trying to control you, yeah. To be honest, I was thinking maybe you were too proud to be asking for money.”
“I know that now. But at the time, I just saw it as someone else ignoring my wishes and steamrolling over me.”
He opens his mouth.
“Wait. I need to finish.” I take a big breath. “I think in my mind, I thought in order for me to stay healthy, I could never cede control to anyone. But you helped me see that I was quite capable of standing up for myself. And I think I’m ready to admit I’m healed enough that I don’t have to be so vigilant about being tough all the time.”
“Ah, g’on. Just helping you—it makes me happy, yeah. We can stay the night and fly home in the morning.”
I shake my head. “I’m going to see my mom. You helped me see, too, that I was acting out of fear. Deep down, I think I was afraid that I’d backslide if I saw her again. But I need to do this. I need to see her, because if I can see her and remain healthy, I need to.” And then I finish on a whisper. “She’s my mom.”
Chapter 20
Conor
I’m floored by everything Claire’s just been telling me. I knew she was tough. The best kind of tough. But I hadn’t realized how hard it’s been for herself to get to where she is.
I’m also feeling rather lightheaded, because we’re here in the hotel, talking, and we’ve not fallen out.
Claire peeks up at me. “You know how I said that I’ve learned to just eat what my body’s wanting, without questioning it or judging it?”
I nod.
“Well, I have a craving,” she says, her eyes going a little sultry. My dick pops against my zipper.
“Yeah?” I clear my throat because that came out a little strangled. “Yeah?”
She purses her lips, and her eyes get a wicked-arse gle
am. “Yes. For dessert.”
I curse my thoughts for heading in such a direction. Right after she told me all about her bulimia and her mother. My dick has no business getting its hopes up like this, that she’ll be riding me soon.
She reaches for the hotel phone and hits a button, looking at me as she waits for the line to pick up. She says to me, “You like chocolate?”
“Yeah, you?” I’m doing my best to earn a fucking award for being supportive.
“Good.” She raises the mouthpiece after a second. “Yes, one chocolate cake please. Thank you.”
She hasn’t broken eye contact the whole time, even now as she lowers the phone.
“Awesome,” she says. “Because I have plans for that cake.”
Could be because we just had a heavy blathering, but we go on talking about the other times we’ve been in Denver. One of which was when we came here as a team to play Denver’s Gaelic football and hurling teams.
There’s a knock on the door. I take our used tray and tip the guy and bring in the cake. It’s one of those fancy slices, with shaved chocolate on top of the chocolate icing.
“On the bed?”
She nods.
I climb on the bed, passing her a plate and napkin roll and taking mine. I set the cake in the center.
She looks up at me. “Can you lie down?”
“Lie down?”
She nods. There’s a wicked gleam in her eye, which I’m liking.
She pulls the plate holding the slice of cake out of the way and scoots our plates farther apart. She pats the center of the bed. “Right here.”
Of course I comply. I have an idea of what she intends, but I don’t want to make assumptions. Heart thudding, I stretch out full length and flick my gaze up at her. She lifts the cake and studies my body laid out before her like I'm her personal banquet. She tugs on the hem of my T-shirt, and I yank it off.
“What are you doing, Claire?”
“Me? Just setting the table.”
“Setting the—?” I stop because she tips the cake right onto my stomach, the cool frosting hitting my skin and making my abs clench. I grin. “Wicked girl.”
The scent of chocolate fills my nose.
She stretches out beside me, but with her head level with the cake. She props her chin on her hand, and her feet kick into the air, lazily swinging backward and forward. She pokes her finger into the icing and scoops up a dollop, catching my gaze. Slowly she brings her finger to her mouth and sucks the tip free of chocolate.
I groan as all remaining blood rushes to the lad, which is growing hard as a fucking rock, fighting against the denim of my jeans for freedom.
She dips her finger back into the icing and this time drags her finger up my chest, painting a trail of chocolate up to my nipple. The icing runs out before she makes it there, so in she dips again and places a dollop on each nipple. I suck in a breath at the cool smooth texture, already anticipating her lick to remove it. Bloody hell.
My hips buck, and she giggles.
She breaks off a chunk of the cake and reaches up until her fingers touch my lips. I part them on a groan, and she tips the bite into my mouth. I close my lips around her finger and suck it clean, while the burst of rich, decadent chocolate cascades across my tongue. A hint of cherry follows after.
Already, she’s teaching me to revel in the various tastes of food. “Mmmm. Fuck.”
“You like?”
“Not a bit of it. More like loving it.” Never thought I’d see food as sexy.
She breaks off another bite and, holding my gaze, puts it in her mouth. Then she leans up and circles her tongue around a nipple, lapping up the icing. I shudder. Jaysus. She does the same with the other. Then she rasps her tongue across and sucks it clean, and now I’m fisting my hands at my sides, because fuck, that feels savage good.
She tips another bite into my mouth, and before I can lick it inside, she’s crashing her mouth onto mine, and we’re both devouring that morsel and each other. My lad is now so hard I fear for its life.
She pulls away and licks her lips.
“Claire, you’re ending me.”
She grins. “You like it.”
“Fuck, yeah. How could I not?”
She laughs again. Then she inches down my body, cleaning up the icing she painted across me earlier with her wicked tongue.
She props her head on her hand again, and with her free hand, she unbuttons my jeans and lowers my zipper. She looks up at me and raises a brow. I nod like a feckin’ kid being asked if he wants candy. I think I know what she’s asking, and I’m more than ready for her.
To eliminate any doubt, I lift my hips. She sits up on her knees and yanks my jeans down, taking my butt-huggers with them, while I’m toeing off my trainers. When she gets the jeans to my calves, I help her by kicking them free and then yank off my socks.
She tosses my jeans to the side and changes her position, this time laying her body perpendicular to mine so her head is right by… I glance down. And then thump my head against the pillow and close my eyes briefly. Right by my lad’s head.
I open my eyes again, though, because there’s no fucking way I’m missing another second of this.
She scoops some of the rich cake onto her fingers and smears some on the crown of my cock. It jerks, and I groan. She takes another scoop and slides it into her mouth, her tongue licking up stray crumbs across her lips. Then she places another in my mouth. By now the cake is barely discernible as a slice, but it speaks to how moist the cake is because it’s not just a pile of dry, broken crumbs all over my stomach and the bed.
She takes the last ridge of icing left and paints it down my cock. Then she leans down, and I hold my breath. She catches my gaze, her eyes twinkling, and then at the last second, she switches her trajectory and eats a bite of cake straight off of my stomach. My whole body tenses as her tongue laps up a second bite there.
“Want the last bite?” she asks.
All I can do is nod.
She scoops it up and places it on my mouth, with her lips just a second behind. She closes her lips around mine, and we share the taste of that chocolate cake together, and I’ve never tasted anything better. Angels in heaven, have mercy on me.
The delicious morsel is soon devoured, and my hands are in her hair, holding her head in place as we taste, nip, stroke, and it’s driving me wild.
She breaks away and licks her lips.
Then, Jaysus, she scoots down, licks my stomach clean, and I tense. Sure enough, she strokes that devil of a tongue down my lad, and my hips lift off the bed. I let out a groan.
Then she grips my base and pumps it, holding it up like it’s her own personal, chocolate-covered ice cream cone.
She takes her time cleaning every last bit of icing, and it’s all I can do not to paint the ceiling with my cum, because, yeah, it feels like I’d reach that high. My hands are in tight fists, and every single muscle is tensed.
I glance down. “Clean enough,” I growl. And pull her up by her shoulders.
“You’re still sticky.” She looks as if she’s pouting, and my dick does a little kick of appreciation.
“They make these brilliant things called showers, yeah. My vote is we hop in. Together.” I drag my eyes up and down her body. “Because I’m thinking you’re dirty yourself.”
Her eyes flare with heat. “I think I’m dirty too. And sticky. Down there especially.”
I groan and jump out of the bed, practically running into the adjoining bathroom. It’s a monstrous tiled step-in shower with a glass wall and a large showerhead. Oh, and it must be Christmas, because there’s a separate handheld showerhead.
Footsteps follow me inside, and as I open the door and lean in, her warmth kisses my back, and then her sumptuous body presses against me. Correction. Her naked skin presses against me.
I twist the handle and put my hand under the spray. “How are you liking it, macushla?”
“Hot and hard.”
My dick jumps, and I laugh.
“I was meaning the water.”
Her voice is all innocence. “I was talking about the water, big guy.”
She reaches her hand in, and we get the temp just right. I step inside and stand under the spray. She’s not inside yet, and I peek an eye open.
Claire’s grabbing the little bottles off the sink counter. Oh yeah. “Good thinking.”
She steps inside, her eyes flashing with heat, and closes the glass door behind her. I place my hands on her hips and step us around in a half-circle until she’s under the spray. She leans her head back, letting the water soak her hair, and the rivulets of water are running down all of her delicious curves. The water’s doing exactly what I want to do—exploring every inch, caressing her skin.
I smooth my hands up her waist and turn her so her back’s to me and her face is out of the water. I grab the bottle of body wash and squirt some into my hand. “Where are you dirty, macushla?”
She hums and pushes her bum against me. She takes my hand with the body wash and runs it down her smooth belly and into her short curls. I wrap my other arm around her chest and pull her tight against me. Fuck, she feels savage good—all warm, wet skin. I flick her clit and brush my fingers against her folds. “Yeah. I’m thinking this area needs extra attention.”
“If you say so,” she breathes.
With the body wash and her own arousal, she’s slick as a seal, and I flick and rub until I find the right combo of speed and pressure that has her gasping. She splays her hands against the tiles and pushes that round bum of hers into me as I finger fuck her. It’s all I can do not to slip my cock into her, but we haven’t had a conversation yet on no condom, and I’ll be buggered if I’m stopping to ask about tests and birth control.
With my free hand, I grab the handheld showerhead and turn it on. As she’s writhing against me and my hand, I direct the pulsing spray on her pussy, and she cries out.
Her orgasm overtakes her, and she’s milking my fingers. Her knees buckle. I drop the showerhead, letting it bang against the tile, and wrap my arm around her waist, holding her up while I keep fingering her, drawing out her orgasm. Hiking her up against me, I nibble her neck and slowly ease up with my fingers.
Deserving It Page 11
