by L. B. Dunbar
“Come on,” I tease, and Tricia peers at me over her shoulder. She’d changed into her robe, and I’m curious what’s underneath, but I fight back the urge to question her about it. She shifts, and I pat my thigh. She’s hardly spoken since the hug in her kitchen and she doesn’t say a thing as she folds to her side on the nasty couch cushions and places her head on my upper leg. Without thinking, my fingers comb through her hair, brushing the long locks behind her ear and then stroking down the length. Her hair is silky and straight and soft, just as I’d thought it would be. While I’m trying to soothe her, I find it calms me to spread my fingers through the fine locks and stroke to the ends. Her lids eventually close, and she relaxes against me.
I can’t remember the last time a woman did this with me.
I can’t recall if I’ve ever been in this position.
It feels a bit domestic. Waiting for my sister. Woman sleeping on my thigh. It’s almost . . . peaceful, if I don’t think about the fact that Tricia is against my leg because her ex was on the porch, most likely realizing she has people living with her, especially me, a man he doesn’t know.
Does he understand we’re only roommates?
Then again, he saw me kiss her, throwing out a challenge. It’s been weeks since that happened, and I promised myself it wouldn’t happen again. I’ve kept that promise. Then she kissed me the other night, and I’ve been ornery ever since. I said I wouldn’t get involved, yet here I am, combing her hair, liking how it feels, and wishing I could carry her up to my bed.
I’m in so much trouble.
When Lena comes in, Tricia doesn’t move. My sister catches my eye after noticing my fingers in Tricia’s hair. She offers me a cheeky smile.
“What?” I whisper.
“I got your number, big brother.” She tips her chin at me like the girls back home years ago, and I pray my sister isn’t one of them. She’s so rough around the edges, but she doesn’t need to be. Not here.
“You got zero,” I remind her, but her eyes drift to how I’m touching Tricia, as if I can’t stop my own damn hand from moving through her silky strands.
“I like her,” Lena whispers, and I look down at Tricia. I like her, too. I’ve been trying to avoid her because I like her. I can’t be around her chatter and her charts and her plans. It’s too much. I’ve tried to separate as best I can but tonight? Tonight, I had to give in.
A promise.
Man, I am as good as my word, and now I am screwed.
“I’m going to bed,” Lena says, and I lift my phone to watch it flip to midnight. Looking up at my sister, she glances back at me, bracing for a fight.
“Did you have fun?”
She shrugs, holding the bannister, preparing for flight up the staircase. “It was all right.”
“You doing okay with the kids at school?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she says, narrowing her eyes at me.
“People being nice to you?”
“Now you sound like her,” Lena says, nodding at Tricia and chuckling at the comment. Could be worse, I think. I could sound like Rina, not caring about another person’s feelings. My ex was a piece of work.
“Worse people to sound like,” I reply.
“Sound like her again.” Lena chuckles. We hold each other’s stare for a second. She’s eighteen years younger than I am, but there is no denying we are siblings. We share the same silvery eyes, jet-black hair, and angular cheekbones.
“Thanks for being home when she asked.”
“I did it for her,” Lena says, defending herself, and I get it.
“I know you did. I’ll tell her.”
Lena nods again, and I say, “Good night.”
The sentiment surprises my sister almost as much as thanking her did, and without a word back, she takes the stairs up to her room.
I sigh in relief. At least we didn’t fight.
Lesson 16
Headaches need proper attention.
[Tricia]
I woke when he stopped stroking my hair, embarrassed that I’d fallen asleep on him.
“Lena’s home,” he quietly tells me, and I sit upward, my head rushing.
“What time is it?”
“Just after midnight but she was home with a minute to spare,” he says.
“Lys won’t really have to do double laundry,” I reply as if laundry is the most important topic.
“I wish she did. I hate laundry.” His lips slowly curl into a smile, and I take comfort in his grin.
“Well, most of mine is delicate, so I prefer to do it myself.”
His eyes widen at the comment and fall to the gape in my robe. It slipped open, almost to my waist, revealing my silky sleepwear. I put on the sexy slip after seeing Trent outside the window to remind myself I’m safe. I don’t need to cover up any more bruises or marks because I don’t have them. I can wear what I want. The robe is an extra layer of security, but that’s more protection from Leon. I don’t need to prance around the house in my self-reassuring nightwear.
“Like that?” Leon asks. His eyes drop to my chest, and I peek down at the silky material covering my breasts and the lace running down the middle of the nightie.
“Yes,” I whisper, gazing back up at him, curling my fingers into the couch cushion. I balance on shaky arms as I look at my roommate.
Leon licks his bottom lip. “I don’t think I could do your laundry.”
“Why?” I question, finding it an odd statement.
“If my fingers ever get to touch that material, I want it to be while it’s on your body, and then I want it off.” He speaks to my breasts as he talks. Hesitantly, a finger lifts and strokes down my neck to the top of the lace.
Can’t. Breathe.
He doesn’t even like me. He’s told me I’m not his type. Not to mention, he’s full of snark and his sass, and he always disappears as soon as he can when we are home together.
I swallow hard as the rough tip of his finger lowers over the lace and skims between my breasts. My chest heaves, and my arms tremble. I want him. I want him to mean what he said in the kitchen. I’ll always be safe with him here. I’ll always be safe with him, period.
“I promised I wouldn’t touch you unless you asked.” His lids lift lazily, a question in his statement. Do I want him to touch me? Am I ready for this step? I hesitate too long.
“I should head to bed.” His finger retreats leaving a trail of heat while his voice drops. He licks his lip again. I try to steady my expression even though I’m crestfallen at his rejection. It takes everything in my power not to launch myself at him and beg him to take me to his bed. I want to feel his body against mine like he held me in the kitchen. I want to absorb his warmth against my cold skin. I want him to kiss me with more than a brush of his lips, but I don’t move.
“Good night.” I nod, agreeing with him. He should walk away. I’m not good for him. He doesn’t need my Trent drama. Besides, I’ve never mastered the art of seduction. I don’t think I could ever do casual sex. I worked so hard not to draw Trent’s attention after a while that I fear I’ll never bring a man close to me again. A strong, patient man is going to have to make the moves on me, and those moves will need to be tender and gentle. Leon Ramirez seems anything but.
+ + +
“What’s wrong?” The sound of Leon’s voice behind me makes me flinch, not so much from the gruffness but the volume. My head is killing me.
“Headache,” I mutter. I don’t roll to look at him over my shoulder, keeping as still as I can, cupping my hand at my temples and shielding my eyes from the light. I’m on my bed, and I can’t get my room dark enough from the afternoon sun. I should be at work, but I had to leave early.
“Lys sent me a text and said you left school,” he explains before I can ask what he’s doing here. He should be at work too. As for me, I couldn’t stand the pressure, and by eleven o’clock, I needed to leave before my head exploded. I’m only missing one afternoon class and my planning period, but I don’t want
to think about any of that. I just want to lie here, pray for the pain medication to kick in, and hope for someone to lop off my head.
“It’s bad?” he questions, and I’m still wondering what he’s doing here, why he’s asking me, and why he cares.
“Shouldn’t you be at work?” I question, fighting the throb at my temples as I speak.
“I was worried.” My shoulders sag at the sweetness of his words, even if he doesn’t really mean them. He’s been nothing but distant since Saturday evening. He’s a walking contradiction, but I’ve decided the sexy comments come naturally to him. He called me baby. He calls me pretty lady. Flirting must be like second nature to him, so I remind myself he isn’t actually flirting with me. He’s just unconsciously sexy. I’m surprised he hasn’t brought home a girl or two, but that would be extra awkward. It’s also a relief he hasn’t. I don’t think I could handle him being flirtatious with another woman. Forget hearing him have sex with her on the other side of the wall we share.
These thoughts are too much for my head, and I don’t respond to his concern. I just want to sleep, though I know it won’t happen. My brain is literally pounding, and I succumb to the pressure, biding my time until it passes.
Something thumps behind me, as if someone dropped an item, and I want to kill Leon. When another thump occurs, I consider the ways to murder such a big man. Suffocation by pillow. Poison in his enchilada.
A subtle unzipping of something brings my attention back to my room. Is he still in here?
The bed dips at my back, and a hand comes to the side of my head.
I twist, looking over my shoulder, but my eyes pulse. The pain intensifies. “What are you doing?”
“Relax,” he whispers. “Let me rub your temples.”
What? “What?”
“When I was young, my mother would get these headaches and she would lie on the couch, telling me to massage her temples. I could get an entire cartoon-worth of television time if I kept the volume low and my fingers moving.”
His fingers move, methodically pressing small circles on the side of my head. The pressure he applies feels nice, so I rotate back to my prior position, facing the covered window and closing my eyes.
I don’t ever really sleep when my head hurts like this. I just doze, giving in to the weight of my body pressed against the mattress. I didn’t think I could sleep, especially with Leon behind me, touching me so intimately, but I drift into a peaceful bliss for a bit.
When his fingers stop massaging, I’m too relaxed to move, and I wait for him to shift away from my bed. Instead, his head comes closer to mine, his breath brushing my hair, and an arm loops over my waist. A blanket covers me, but I haven’t undressed from my school outfit. Eventually, Leon’s arm tightens a bit, and his front presses against my back. I should ask him what he’s doing. I should tell him to get out, but the comfort of him behind me and the tender massage to my temple has me feeling like mush.
I sleep for a while and wake to find Leon still at my back.
Abruptly twisting, I startle him. His lids flip open, his eyes searching my face. He lifts his head a second to take in my room, and then he blinks. His arm still rests over my waist. Staring up at the window across the room, he exhales.
“I used to look out my window into this room,” he admits, and my mouth falls open. He cranes his neck to look at me still watching him over my shoulder. “I saw you.”
What did he see? Me undressing? Me naked? Did he know sometimes I touched myself looking over at his window?
“I saw you, too,” I tell him, my voice groggy from sleep. I hold his eyes with mine, and the corner of his mouth crooks upward.
“What did you see, pretty lady?” he asks with a hint of knowing in his voice, but I won’t admit what I saw. Him undressing. Him naked. Him touching himself one night before the window.
As he pops up to lean on his elbow, his quick movement causes me to fall to my back. His arm remains over my middle, but the blanket covering me has drifted to my waist.
“Tell me what you saw,” he commands, his voice soft as his eyes search my face. I lick my lips and bite the edge.
“Sometimes you were dressed,” I admit, and his unbalanced grin grows.
“And sometimes I wasn’t?” he adds. His eyes move to my throat, and his hand covers it, holding his palm in place while I swallow. “You have nothing to be afraid of with me.”
He’s so wrong. I have everything to be afraid of, especially with him. I want him in ways I shouldn’t. My chest rises and falls. I don’t respond to his declaration as his flattened palm moves to my sternum.
“How is your headache?” he questions, his eyes on his hand at my breastbone. His fingers spread, and the heat from his palm warms my already sleep-dampened skin.
“Better.” My voice rings with surprise because I am shocked. I actually do feel better.
“Good,” he whispers. His fingers spread, dipping into the material of my dress, which has loosened while I slept. A hint of my bra is exposed, and his hand moves lower, resting in the valley between my breasts. The achy globes are small, so the gap between them is wide. Each tingles with anticipation, hyperaware of the edge of his hand brushing tender skin simultaneously.
“Did you ever see me get off over there?”
“What?” I choke while watching his face. He keeps his eyes focused on the back of his hand. He flips it, his knuckles coasting lightly up and down the skin between my breasts, forcing my dress to spread open.
“Answer me, baby,” he quietly demands, and I swallow again.
“Once,” I whisper.
His eyes leap to mine and hold. “Only once?”
“Well, I’d seen you walking around in there a bunch of times, but one time, in particular, stands out.” The window night.
He smiles down at me, pressing the heel of his hand at the material covering each breast, brushing it side to side, forcing the cotton to slide to the side and open wider. The front clasp of my bra is revealed, and with a pinch, he has it undone.
“I promised I’d wait until you ask for my touch, but I’m thinking you won’t, so I’ll ask you, instead. Is this okay?” My breath hitches as his hand continues to move methodically. The cups of my bra spread farther apart, catching on peaked nipples. My chest rises and falls under his heavy steel gaze. The heat of his palm makes me shiver. I’m ready to beg him to touch me.
“What did you think when you watched me?” he inquires, and I’m coming out of my skin. I can’t tell him what I thought, but the images return. His vigorous tugging. The strength of his arm. The length of him silhouetted in the window. And how I want all of it.
My eyes close, and I swallow.
“That good, baby?” he mutters, his hand lowering. He watches as more flesh is revealed with each movement of the heel of his hand against my sensitive skin. His fingers lower to my belly and then skim upward. My dress falls completely open. My bra pops over the nipples with the next deep inhale, exposing everything to him.
I softly gasp as his palm coasts over one breast, tweaking the firm nub. He cups his hand, wrapping around the swell, and squeezes. My back arches. Heat rushes to my belly.
Oh God, he’s going to make me come just from touching me like this.
His fingers move to the other breast, repeating the motion.
“You have the prettiest titties,” he says, and I giggle at the word. I try to move my arm, but he shifts so his mouth takes one breast, pinning that arm to my side. My free hand clutches the blanket near my waist, and my lids lower. He takes his time rolling his tongue over one achy globe, sucking at the entire swell and then nipping at the ripened nipple. He swallows the globe again before pulling off with a pop. When he moves to the other one, and he looks at me, eyes hooded as he watches my reaction while taking me in his mouth once more. The intensity of those silver eyes. The spark in them. Knowing what he’s doing to me. I can’t look. It’s too much.
My hand rests near his shaft, and I turn it in a way so I can
cup him over his zipper.
“Not yet, baby,” he warns me, using his hand to remove mine. He slips up to his elbow, perching above me so he can slip his hand further down my middle, disappearing into the loosened dress material near my waist and dipping into my panties. “I bet you’re already wet.”
He’s teasing me, but when his fingers curl over my mound and press against sensitive flesh, he gets his answer. My back arches again, my head tipping back with the slightest brush of his fingertips across the tight hood. The soft touch reminds me of the night he kissed me, or rather when he didn’t kiss me, but it was still the best meeting of lips.
Tears prickle at my eyes. I can’t handle a swipe. I don’t want a skim. He needs to touch me, and as I return my back to the mattress and prepare to tell him to do so, we hear his name.
“Leon?”
Shit.
“Shit.” Leon jumps from the bed, rubbing his hand at the length bulging in his jeans. He scoops up his jacket and boots from my floor and heads to my door. Holding still a second, he listens. Then he opens the door, slips around it, and looks up. With a wink and a smile, he shuts the barrier, and I curl into myself, tugging the material of the blanket up over my middle. I squirm as my legs wrestle and rub against one another.
He was so close. I was so close, and my body hums with need. It’s never felt like this. Not with Trent. Not with anyone. My skin is on fire. My sex enflamed. I need . . . more.
I decide a shower is my only hope. I need to trigger this release. My body vibrates as I walk to the bathroom. Even walking is turning me on. I can’t hear Leon speaking to his sister down below. I hear nothing but the thumping of my heart in my ears and feel the matching pulse against my sex.
With the shower on, I’m undressed in a minute, and I step into the tub, tugging the curtain around me. I stand back, letting the water rush over my hair, and caress my body. My hands swipe over my face, wiping away loose drops and then coast down my body, covering one breast at a time, until eventually, my fingers swipe over the sensitive hood, as tender and gentle as Leon did. It won’t be enough. Placing two fingers together, I rotate the tips of them over my clit. Adding pressure, I close my eyes, and then . . .
