by Everly Lucas
Maybe Andy’s wrong and what she really needs is to be challenged, just like he’s always challenged me. Shaking my head, I remind myself that whatever he or I might want when it comes to Claire, we’re not likely to get it. At least, not anytime soon, from what I can tell.
She gives me a half-hearted smile as we walk to the staircase, ready to head out after having finished the loop around the top level. The toe of her sandal catches on a loose seam in the carpet, hurling her forward, about to tumble down the stairs. Right as her hand catches the railing, I catch her.
With one arm across her chest, between her breasts, and the other banded around her waist, I pull her body safely to mine. Her heart pounds against my forearm, the beat quick and heavy with fear. We’re both panting through the adrenaline rush of her near-accident, our upper bodies moving in time with each other.
She leans her head back on my chest, her eyes closed and her lips pressed together in a tight line. All color drains from her already pale face as she trembles. She’s scared to death. Whether it’s from almost falling or from being in my arms, I can’t tell. But I need to calm her, distract her.
Once my breathing is less erratic, I whisper into her ear, “Je ne cesse de penser à toi.”
She stops moving—her body, her lungs, and, for a second, even her heart. I’d say the distraction worked.
My unwilling arms release their hold on her, and I take a step back. When she turns to face me, her blue eyes are wild.
“What did you just say?” she asks in a small, breathy voice.
“Oh, just something about clumsy redheads,” I deadpan, waving it off. When her lips curve up in an amused smile, my serious expression slips.
Our nerves have made us delirious, and we both crack up. But my laughter gets cut off by the lump in my throat as I remember how it felt to hold Claire. If her soft curves were pure ecstasy with our clothes on, I can’t imagine how she’d feel without them. How my hard cock would feel nestled between the soft, round globes of her ass. How the heat of her body would set off a fire inside me.
I have to stop that line of thought, now, before I start tenting my shorts like a damn teenager.
Creepy skulls, creepy skulls, creepy skulls…
Like a fucking charm.
I clear my throat. “You up for some ice cream?”
Her face lights up. I take that as a yes.
Nine
Claire
Disappointment floods me as soon as I wake up Sunday morning, before I even open my eyes. Instead of being at Ben's house, on his big, fluffy bed—like I was at exactly this time last week—I’m suffering in the suped-up sauna that is my apartment. Warm, damp air covers me like a blanket, my skin sticky all over. I roll onto my stomach to let the fan dry the sweat on my back, but all that does it cement my grossness to my skin.
Looks like sleeping in is not on my agenda for today. With a groan, I slide out of bed, switch on the dehumidifier, and drag myself into the bathroom for a cold shower.
Steam is the antichrist.
With my wet hair secured in a crown braid and nothing on but boy shorts and a loose tank top, I grab every cleaning supply I can find. My weather app tells me the temp shouldn't get past eighty-five, which means this is a rare open-window day. Thank goodness for that, because this place could use some serious airing out.
I’ve been a lazy bum lately, so the apartment is long overdue for a deep clean. I can survive the heat, but I will not live in squalor…for more than a couple weeks. Plus, cleaning is busy work. Cleaning will distract me from overanalyzing my thoughts and feelings. Not to mention Ben’s every word, gesture, and facial expression from yesterday. Nope. Not gonna do that. Gotta focus on the task at hand.
I start with the pile of dishes in the sink, but as I touch the soapy sponge to a glass, my mind wastes no time drifting to the way Ben’s entire face lit up the moment he saw me.
We’d agreed to meet in the garden outside the museum before heading inside. He’d arrived before me, and when I spotted him through the wrought iron fence, I decided to hang back and watch him. His hair was down, and he must’ve run his fingers through it at least five times before shoving both hands in his pockets. Then he sat on one of the benches, only to jump back up two seconds later.
As entertaining as his nervous ticks were, I realized then that I missed his smile. It had been almost a whole week since I’d last seen it, and I couldn’t stand waiting another second. Ben’s smile is just that beautiful. And the one he gave me when I stepped through the gate…
I place the glass on the drying rack. If I keep daydreaming like this, I’ll be cleaning all damn day. Abandoning the rest of the dishes, I grab the broom, instead. Maybe if I’m moving around, I’ll be less likely to zone out. Maybe. And it does work for a while. That is, until my brain conjures up the memory of being held tight by Ben after tripping on the stairs.
I have to stop what I’m doing while my heart dislodges itself from my stomach and travels back up to my chest, where it belongs.
It had all happened so quickly, my brain didn’t even have time to process it. But my body sure did.
He was everywhere all at once, surrounding me and inside me, heating my blood. His body was strong and hard and safe, and it made me feel like a woman—like a sexual being who craved another—for the first time in way too long.
Lust raced through me, concentrating between my legs. I wanted him so badly, my body shook with the effort it took to not turn around and kiss him. Feel his lips on mine. Taste him on my tongue.
And the crazy part? For a split second, I didn’t want to run.
Then those lips were at my ear, whispering some sexy French words I wish I knew the real meaning of—I have a feeling he was lying about the clumsy redhead translation. His voice was low and soothing, but it still broke the moment.
I was relieved when he put space between us. I was relieved he knew I needed him to.
My phone whistles on the counter, and my heart kicks into high gear when I see Ben’s name on the screen. I can’t unlock my phone fast enough, and I laugh as soon as I read the text.
Prescient: prophetic, basically.
Here I was, trying to chase thoughts of this man from my mind. Be productive n’ shit. Then he had to go and be adorable.
Asshole.
i knew that one :P gimme another
Well, now you’re just being greedy, young lady. You’ll get another tomorrow, and it’ll be far more obscure.
I promise to never disappoint you again.
you haven’t, yet. i doubt you ever could.
Looking at the text I just sent, I’m surprised by how much I mean it.
Based on my ex and some past friendships, it’d be hard to deny I’m terrible at seeing bad people for what they are until it’s too late. Evil is easy to hide with the right smile and a few pretty words.
On the other hand, Ben has kindness seeping from his pores. His warmth and compassion dictate everything he says and does, so, basically, he’d have to bite his tongue and hold perfectly still for the rest of his life to be able to hide the fact that he’s a good person. Which is why, despite having spent only two days with him, I’m sure he could never disappoint me. If he ever did, it’d be unintentional, and he’d be the only one upset with himself.
I’ve been holding back, showing him the same surface-Claire I show the rest of the world. It’s just what I do. If I allow any cracks to form in my armor, people might see the mess that lies beneath. Then they’ll run screaming—or worse, they’ll want to help me. But how can they do that, when even I don’t have a clue how to help me? Life is easier for everyone involved when I keep the mess safely tucked away.
But something about Ben Cohen makes me want to give him more of me than that. Or, at least, try to.
After a couple minutes with no reply from him, I set my phone on the counter and grab the broom…only to abandon it when I hear the whistle again. His text simply says, You’re an angel.
And there goes
my heart, again. Only this time, the wayward organ gets stuck in my throat.
Angel. That’s what Andy said Ben called me when he first saw me. I wonder if he’d still think of me that way if he got to know beneath-the-surface Claire. I can’t explain why, but he’s the first person I’ve wanted to let try to help me heal, because the alternative—him running from me—is unthinkable.
Ugh! Why does my brain have to keep going there? I’m not a bad person. I know this. So why am I so disgusted with myself? And why am I so convinced I’ll disgust others?
I wasn’t planning to live like this forever, secretly hating myself and not-so-secretly afraid of the opposite sex. Someday, I’ll find the courage to see a therapist. Talk to someone about my problems. But facing your psychological demons is a scary undertaking.
Only now I have something that scares me even more—letting Ben slip through my fingers. If he can continue to be patient with me, I can put in the effort and trudge through my emotional minefields.
So, I have a plan. Now I just need to follow through with it.
Easier said than done.
Ten
Ben
“Hold up,” Andy says, grabbing the iPad we’re streaming from and pressing pause, not even five minutes into the episode. “So, not only does this chick get super strength and fuckin’ fast reflexes, but her pussy sucks guys’ souls right outta their dicks?”
Claire lobs a piece of popcorn at his head from her spot on the couch, which is on the opposite end from where I’m sitting, just like the last time she was here.
Andy’s lounging on a bright orange Lucite arm chair he’d brought up from his apartment as soon as he found out Claire was staying for dinner. He knows as well as I do she would rather sit on a bed of rusty nails and risk tetanus than squeeze onto the couch with the both of us.
Besides, there’s no room. Cannoli took up the spot between me and Claire the second she sat down, and the little opportunist hasn’t moved his chin from her thigh the entire time. I swear, Andy could not have picked a more perfect dog for himself.
“Shut up and pay attention,” she scolds. “It’s not about her vagina—it’s about their love.”
“Love? Really, Peach?”
Rolling his eyes, he flicks the popcorn back at her, hitting her right between the eyes. I’m about to tell him to grow the fuck up, but Claire laughs her irresistible laugh and pops the salty projectile into her mouth. I’m not the least bit jealous Andy’s the one who made her laugh and not me. Not at all.
“No way, babe. It had to be the pussy. It’s always the pussy. Maybe if that pretty boy vampire had wrapped it up, this shit wouldn’t’ve happened.”
“Say pussy one more time, and I’ll punch you in yours.” I form a fist and crack my knuckles to punctuate my threat. “Also, he had no reason to wear a condom. He can’t exactly get her pregnant or give her an STD.”
I don’t feel a deep need to dissect the finer details of Buffy the Vampire Slayer—I just want in on their conversation. Being the third wheel is always awkward, even if none of those wheels are fucking each other. But if anyone’s going to be the extra wheel in this scenario, it sure as hell won’t be me. I saw her first, damnit.
When exactly did I turn into a five year old calling dibs on the last slice of cake? Next thing you know, I’ll be licking Claire to stake my claim.
Of course, now all I can think about is licking her. While she’s distracted with rummaging through the bowl of popcorn in her lap, I allow my eyes wander over her body, trying to decide where I’d mark her with my tongue.
The cut of her loose cotton tank top is modest, by anyone’s standards, exposing only the very top of the swell of her breasts. If I lick her there, would it excite her? Would she moan at the first touch of my tongue to her sensitive flesh?
Her jean shorts aren’t too short, but she’s sitting cross-legged, so the cuffs have rolled up, putting the milky skin of her inner thighs on display. I could lick right at the denim’s edge, just inches from what I imagine is the sweetest tasting pussy on the planet.
Or I could just kneel in front of her, peel those shorts off her long legs, and run my tongue up her hot, wet slit. Then I wouldn’t have to imagine how sweet she tastes—I’d know.
In my mind, my face is buried between her thighs, lapping at the gates of Heaven. Every synapse firing off in my nerves and all the blood in my veins feels like it’s headed straight to my dick. The damn thing strains against my jeans like a wild animal rattling the bars of its cage.
Fuck, I want this woman.
An obvious throat-clear breaks into my inappropriate trance, and I rip my gaze from Claire’s creamy skin. Even Cannoli lifts his head, as if he too were caught thinking forbidden, perverted thoughts.
Andy raises one dark eyebrow at me and tilts his head to the side, just a fraction of an inch. After taking a second to assess me, the corners of his lips twitch.
This has to be the most subtle reaction he’s had to anything, ever. And thank fuck for that, because if Claire had been alerted to my ogling, she might’ve left.
Andy escorts me out of my fantasy by continuing our moronic vampire discussion. “He was alive back in the 1700s, right? Maybe he contracted syphilis or scurvy or—"
“Scurvy’s not an STD, dumbass.” Talk of diseases having successfully deflated my erection, I stand, gathering our plates and two pizza boxes—now empty, largely thanks to Claire’s impressive appetite—and take them to the kitchen. “Plus, he’s dead, so his body temperature is too low for any virus or bacteria to survive.”
“You fuckin’ dork. ‘Temperatures below such-and-such degrees create a hostile environment for blah blah blah’,” he says, mocking me in a poindexter voice. If he were closer, I’d deliver that punch to his pussy I promised. “Alright, fine, he’s disease-free. But who says he can’t put a baby in her? That twink from Twilight knocked up his woman, didn’t he?”
Claire emits a choking sound that’s quickly masked by a cough, and her brows shoot up to her hairline. A split second later, she’s schooled her features and forces a handful of popcorn into her mouth, but she can’t cover up the humor dancing in her eyes. It lights them up—lights up her whole face—and I vow that from now until she gets bored with me, I’ll do everything in my power to keep them lit.
And hey, if acting like an idiot with Andy amuses her, she’s in luck. He and I are going on close to two decades of shared idiocy. We’ve mastered the art of making asses of ourselves.
“Yeah, but since he’d never had sex before, his sperm stayed cryogenically frozen in his balls,” I counter. “I’m guessing Angel got around while he was still soulless. And even if he could’ve impregnated a woman, he was evil, so he would've killed her before the pregnancy stuck.”
“Whatever. If you’re gonna get wet, put on a damn raincoat. Now he’s gonna go slaughter a whole bunch of people, all because the d-bag dipped his raw wick in the wrong kiddie pool.”
By some miracle, I’m able to follow that mess of words that don’t fit together.
“Are you done now, or are there more metaphors you’d like to mix?”
He jerks his closed fist at the side of his mouth, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek.
Suck a dick. Got it.
“Let me break this down for you, since you’ve never slept with the same woman more than three times.”
“Harsh, man.” Andy has the gall to look offended...for all of a second before he can no longer hold back his grin. “I’m just messin’ with you. What were you sayin’ about my superior sexual prowess?”
“I was saying, of course you suit up every time—"
“Fuckin’ right, I do,” he says with a sharp nod.
“—because you can’t trust a woman you’ve only known for however long it takes you to get her into bed.” His mouth pops open, and I hold up a hand to stop him from speaking. “Dude, I know your record. Do you really think Claire wants to hear the Legend of Sixty Seconds?”
His head whip
s in her direction, his cheeks reddening. He loves bragging about this part of his life so much, he must have forgotten she’s in the room.
Her soda bottle hovers in front of her lips, just shy of making contact. She shakes her head no, but her eyes are wide as saucers, so I’m guessing she’s a little intrigued.
Andy turns back to me, his self-satisfied expression dropped. “What’s your point, Cohen?”
“My point is, you don’t know what it’s like to be in a loving, committed relationship, with a level of trust that allows you to remove that barrier.” At least, that’s how it should work, in theory. My ex loved me and was faithful—as far as I’m aware—but she turned out to be the least trustworthy person I’ve ever known.
“Love and commitment don’t come with guarantees,” Andy says, referencing my past relationship without divulging any details in front of Claire. Much appreciated. “And that’s immaterial—"
“Immaterial? What, are we arguing a case?”
Come to think of it, it feels like we are. Without realizing it, I’ve gone from simply wanting to make Claire laugh to being fully invested in winning this ridiculous argument. Andy and I have never competed against each other. Never. We’re such opposites, there’s never been anything or anyone we both wanted enough to fight over. Especially not a woman.
Now there’s Claire.
I wonder if he even knows that’s what’s going on here, or if he feels the foreign tension between us. It’s possible I’m the only one thinking of this as a competition over the gorgeous woman in the room with us.
Of course, I am. Andy’s never fought for a woman in any way, shape, or form. He’s never needed to put effort into it, whatsoever. And here I am, a pathetic asshole arguing about trivial shit and attaching way too much meaning to it. Fantastic fucking friend I am.
