And that is something I can’t handle.
My instinct is to flee, but I can’t move. I simply cannot make myself leave the protective cocoon of Dawson’s embrace, and I don’t want to. My confusion and fear aren’t strong enough to push me out of his arms. It’s a bad dream, a nightmare, and it’s fading quickly.
I stop crying after a while, and I let myself be safe in Dawson’s arms. His mouth brushes my temple again, and then the curve of my ear. He settles a blanket around me, and his hands skate up and down my arms and across my back and shoulders, keeping me soothed and warm.
I yawn, and Dawson shifts beneath me, cradles his arms under my knees and around my shoulders, stands up with me. I’m sleepy, emotionally, mentally, and physically exhausted. Dawson’s shirt is soft cotton and smells of him. He’s warm, and his muscles shift under my hands as I cling to him, like stones beneath silk. I let my head settle against his chest and absorb the feeling of comfort, of being cared for. It’s so unfamiliar. Ever since Mama died, I’ve felt alone. Unloved, unnoticed.
He carries me up the stairs, down a long hallway and up three more stairs, through a pair of open French doors and into a cavernous master bedroom. The bed is the only furniture besides a huge flat-screen TV on the wall opposite and a pair of nightstands on either side of the bed. He carries me to the bed, leans against it, and sets me down.
My heart stops, and my breath catches in my throat. I’m tense all over.
And now here’s Dawson, this god, this iconic movie star, this all-too-real man, and he’s paying attention to me. As if I mean something to him. As if he wants something from me that I don’t know how to give. I don’t even know what he wants, honestly.
Well, that’s not true. I do. He wants sex. I know this. I see it and sense it. It’s in the way he touches me, in the way he kisses me. I know it, because that’s what men want from me. It’s what he wants from me. And I don’t know how to give it. But I get the feeling he also might want something else from me. Something more. But that’s not his style. Nothing I’ve ever heard about him has said he wants anything from a woman he’s involved with but sex.
All this runs through my head as he grabs at the pile of throw pillows neatly arranged on the bed and tosses them to the floor two at a time. Then he reaches under the pillows and tugs the blanket down until it’s stopped by my body. “Slide under,” he says.
I tuck my legs beneath the blanket and lie back into the pillows, watching Dawson like a hawk. Is this where it happens? Now? In his room? My heart is pounding, but I’m still barely breathing. My fingers clutch at the edge of the blanket. Dawson moves across the room toward a pair of closed French doors, which he opens to reveal a closet larger than two of the dorm rooms at USC put together. There’s an island in the center with a marble countertop, and an actual sitting area complete with a deep leather chair. Dawson peels his shirt off and tosses it into a nearby hamper, and then his shorts. He’s in nothing but a pair of tight black boxer-briefs. My throat closes, and my fingers curl into fists at the sight of him. He’s…nothing short of glorious. The muscles in his back are clearly defined, rippling as he moves. His shoulders are like slabs of granite, and his arms thick and bulging with muscle. I simply cannot take my eyes off him as he opens a drawer, pulls out a pair of gym shorts, and turns toward me as he shoves one foot through and then the other. He tugs the shorts up, but not before I catch a glimpse of the front of him. Of the bulge in his underwear. My eyes are drawn there, almost instinctively.
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I blush and look away quickly, but he saw me staring. The corner of his mouth tilts and tightens into a small quirk of a smile, quickly gone. He moves toward me, and I’m tense once more, staring at the ridged field of his abs and the narrow column of his waist, the inward cut of muscle where his hips guide inward to his groin. My mouth is dry as he approaches. I’m not breathing, not moving, not thinking. I’m totally panicked.
He sees it in my face, and raises his hands. “Relax, Grey. ” His voice is a low, soothing rumble. “You need to sleep. I’m just going to hold you. If you’d rather not, I can sleep in one of the empty bedrooms. ”
Just going to hold me. I’ve never slept in a bed with a man before. Not ever, in my whole life. My dad used to tuck me in as a little girl, but that stopped around nine or ten. I don’t know what to say, what to think, what to even want. I’m scared, exhausted, and nervous.
“I don’t want to be alone,” I murmur. It’s the only true thing I know right now.
He carefully slides into the bed beside me, then curses when he realizes the overhead light is on. He gets up and turns it off, and the room is enveloped in sudden shadows. A slim sliver of lesser darkness carves across the room from the doorway, but all else is pitch black. I’m not afraid of the dark; I’m afraid of my confused welter of emotions regarding this man.
The bed dips, and I feel the warmth of his nearness. I hear him breathing. His hand touches mine, and our fingers tangle.
“Are you okay?” he asks. “For real?”
I don’t answer right away. It’s a serious question. “I don’t know. I don’t know how to feel. It was…terrifying, and so sudden. He was in the club. He was the last customer there, and he asked for me. He was…so drunk. Maybe on drugs. I don’t know. He was creepy. He wanted a dance, and he got all mad when I wouldn’t take my shirt off. I—I don’t usually do that, you know. If I’m on the floor, I’m wearing the shirt. I only take it off when I do stage dances. It’s basically nothing, that shirt, so it kinda makes the customers act crazy. Like, they can see, but not totally, and it’s different. ” I’m not sure why I’m telling him this, but the words are pouring out, and I can’t stop them. “I couldn’t do it, being totally topless all night. I hate it enough as it is, but…the whole shift? Ugh. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. The customers like the mystery, so Timothy lets me wear it. It’s my thing, and I enforce it. I only take my clothes off on the stage or in the VIP rooms. Not that it makes me being a stripper any better, but…it helps, I guess. ”
It makes it easier that I can’t see him, that he can’t see how hard this is for me to talk about, although I’m sure he can hear it my voice.
“So you hate it? Being a stripper?”
“God, yes. So much. Every—every single time I do it, I hate it. ” I shudder, and his fingers tighten around mine. “I—I throw up, pretty much after every stage dance. ”
“Did you throw up after I left, that first time we met?”
I shake my head, then realize he can’t see the gesture. “No. You…that was different somehow. I don’t know why. ”
He doesn’t say anything for a long time. “So he got mad that you wouldn’t take your clothes off for him, and then left and waited outside for you?”
“I guess so. Hank made him leave when he got too upset. I thought he was gone. I went to my car…your car, I mean. ” I shudder again, remembering. “I should’ve…I should’ve listened to my gut. I had this bad feeling, but I ignored it. I didn’t want to seem silly. ”
“Listen to your gut,” Dawson tells me. “Always listen to those feelings. ”
An awkward silence follows. I don’t want to talk about what happened anymore; I just want to forget.
“Why were you there?” I ask. “I mean, how did you happen to be there, right then?”
Once again, Dawson pauses before answering. “I wanted to talk to you. I figured I could catch you after your shift. ”
“What did you want to talk about?”
I realize now, perhaps belatedly, that the brief pause before answering is a Dawson thing. He thinks before replying, puts together his thoughts and how he’ll say them. “You confuse me. ”
This isn’t what I expected him to say. “I…what? What do you mean, I confuse you?”
“You’re a contradiction, Grey. I can’t figure you out. ” He rolls toward me, and my eyes have adjusted enough to the darkness that I can just barely make out hi
s features and the glittering hints of his eyes.
His fingers trace my hand, my wrist, gentle caresses and slow exploration. I barely notice as his touch slides carefully up my arm, barely notice as he shifts closer to me with every breath.
“I’m not that tough to understand,” I whisper.
He chuckles. “To yourself, maybe. You’re you. You know everything about you. But to me, you’re a complete contradiction. You mess me up. ” He’s grazing my upper bicep, and now my shoulder over the T-shirt, rubbing my back. I like this. Too much. I couldn’t stop it if I tried. “You seem…innocent somehow. You mentioned growing up sheltered, but you closed down when I asked about it. You exude this effortless sensuality, but it’s—I don’t know, it’s not sexual, somehow. Like, it should be, considering what you do, but it’s not. It’s sensual, this weird mix of innocence and raw beauty. I just…I’m not explaining it right. But then, you’re a stripper, and you hate it. I could see it. You don’t belong in that dirty club. And…you and me. That’s the most confusing part. I don’t know how to handle you. I want you, that’s no secret at this point, I think. I want you so bad I can taste it. I can taste your skin. I’ve seen you, and I’ve gotten these little teases of touching you. But…I want all of you. Yet as soon as we get close to things happening, you bolt. ”
His hand is kneading the muscles of my back, around my spine, down to my waist. My heart begins to thump and pound madly as his touch nears the small of my back and continues downward.
“You’re such a mystery,” he says, inching his body closer to mine. I can smell him; I can feel his breath on me, intimate. “I think you want me, but I can’t tell for sure. And if you do want me, I get the feeling you don’t want to want me. And, not to sound arrogant or whatever, but there are probably millions of women who would love to get even five minutes with me, yet you consistently run away. I don’t know what you want, and I don’t know how to find out what you want because you’re closed off and touchy and don’t answer questions. ” He says all this gently, as if I might take offense.
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And honestly, it’s hard not to.
“I’m not trying to be difficult, I just—”
“Tell me one true thing. ”
“I want you, and you’re right that I don’t want to want you. You scare me. ”
“Why?”
“Because you’re…so much. You’re Dawson Kellor. You’re…you’re Cain Riley. You’re the man every woman in America wants. You’re the man every man in America wishes he was. ” I’m so glad for the darkness. I can speak truth in this darkness. “I want you, and it scares me, because I don’t know what to do with it. How to handle it. I don’t know how to be around you. ”
“Just be you. ”
“It’s not that easy. I don’t—I don’t know who I am. I don’t know what I am. ” My voice catches, and I swallow hard. I’ve cried too much, and I won’t do it again. I refuse.
Dawson doesn’t answer, but this isn’t a pause—this is the silence of a man who knows nothing he says will make it okay, so he doesn’t say anything. It’s perfect.
After a long moment, he tugs me closer and murmurs, “Let me hold you. ”
I’m still, totally tensed now. “Hold me?”
“Yeah. Just hold you. No pressure. It’s not going anywhere. Just be in the moment with me. ”
“Okay…” I don’t know what he means. I’ve never been held, except when he’s comforted me while I cry. Which, it seems, is the majority of our relationship thus far.
I feel him smile, somehow I sense his amusement at my hesitancy. He slides his arm underneath me, pulls me closer, and now I’m cradled against his bare, warm chest. My head is pillowed in the hollow where arm becomes chest, and I can vaguely hear his heart beating, and his hand is skating over my shoulder blades and down to the gap where his oversized T-shirt has rucked up to bare the skin of my back. I’m pressed all along the length of his body. I find myself tracing the grooves of his abdominal muscles with one finger, and I’m just breathing. I’m not thinking, not trying not to cry, not worrying about bills, not doing homework, not stripping my clothes off. I’m just…here.
It’s absolute heaven. My eyes prick and my chest contracts, but I breathe through it.
“This is okay, right?” he mutters into my hair.
I nod. I can’t get words out, so I don’t bother trying. I’m overwhelmed by the peace I feel. He holds me, and doesn’t try to kiss me or touch me.
Sleep takes me, and it’s the best I’ve slept since my mother died.
Chapter 11
The smell of coffee wakes me up. Sunlight is bright on my closed eyelids, and I’m warm. At peace. I drowse in the comfort. There is no worry. I’m no one, just a content blot of warmth floating in nothingness.
Suspended in time where nothing matters.
And then coffee-scent wafts over me, and I drift upward to awareness. At length I open my eyes and see the white space of Dawson’s bedroom, the black screen of his trillion-inch TV, a long sliding glass door with opened blinds letting in a gloriously brilliant day and a breath-stopping view of Los Angeles.
And then the most glorious view of all: Dawson in nothing but a pair of gym shorts. His calves are tanned with a scar running diagonally across his left calf, a puckered line of lighter skin. The scar humanizes him somehow. He’s not polished and gemstone perfect. God, I got a glimpse of his body last night, but now he’s moving with feline grace through his bedroom with a huge mug of coffee in his hand, and his body ripples with each motion. There’s a slight dusting of dark hair on his chest, and a thicker trail of black hair leading from his navel to under his shorts. The sight of his nearly naked body sends shivers running through me, sends quavering spears of heat into my belly. It makes me feel…hot, inside. It makes me feel entirely feminine.
Dawson sits on the bed near my knee and smiles. He has a plate in his other hand, a toasted plain bagel with a generous slathering of cream cheese. I sit up, and my stomach rumbles as I smell the bagel.
He’s brought me breakfast. In bed. And he’s done it shirtless.
Women of America, be jealous.
I snatch half of the bagel off the plate and inhale it, washing it down with swallows of coffee. I burn my tongue, but it doesn’t register. I burn my tongue on my coffee every day.
Dawson is watching with a slightly stunned and bemused expression. “In a hurry?”
I set the bagel down slowly, wipe the corner of my lip with my thumb, and then lick the cream cheese off my thumb. I catch Dawson staring at my mouth, and I blush.
“No,” I say, fighting embarrassment. “I’m just…I’ve always eaten like that, I guess. Especially in the morning. ”
“It’s cute. You act like the bagel is going to run away from you. ” He laughs at my further embarrassment. “Don’t slow down on my account. Just relax. ”
“Relax?” It’s an alien concept.
“Yeah. ” He takes the mug from me and sips some coffee, then hands it back. “Just…chill. Take today and spend it with me. Doing whatever. Just hang. ”
I’m disoriented. “What day is it?”
“It’s Saturday. It’s a little past eleven. We both slept in. Usually I’m up by six, but I slept in today. ”
I gasp. “Eleven?” I haven’t slept past seven in years. “It can’t be eleven. I have a paper to finish before work tonight. ”
His eyes darken and harden. They’ve been the soft, muted hazel of his at-ease mood, and they instantly shift to the stormy almost-blue of building anger. “When’s the paper due?”
“Tuesday. But I have another paper due Wednesday, and a test Monday, and I work all weekend, so I have to get it done—”
He silences me by shoving the other half of the bagel in my mouth.
“Yeah, no. You’re done working there. ” His voice holds a note of command that has me bristling.
“Wh
at? What do you mean, I’m done working there?” I’m talking through a mouthful of bagel, and I swallow it and set aside the rest. “I don’t like it, but I don’t have a choice in the matter. That’s my job. It’s how I survive. If this internship works out, Kaz will hire me full-time, but I can’t quit until then. I have tuition due…Wednesday, actually, along with room and board for my dorm and food plan. I can’t…I can’t just quit. ”
“Yes, you can. How about we make it a condition of the internship? Would that make it easier?”
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“No!” I scramble off the bed, away from him, putting the massive California-king bed between us. I’m a mess of emotions that I can’t begin to sort out, not with him right there, watching me, calm, quiet, determined, beautiful, and all man. He distracts me from my own anger. “You can’t just demand that I quit my job. It doesn’t work that way. What, you’ll pay my bills until the end of the internship, and then what? What if things at Fourth Dimension don’t work out? I’m supposed to just—just depend on you? I don’t think so, Dawson. No. ”
“Don’t you want to quit?” He’s maddeningly calm.
“Yes. More than you could ever possibly comprehend. But I can’t. ” It comes out “cain’t. ”
“Sure you can. You can make the choice to trust me. Let someone help you. ”
“I’m not a charity case. I can take care of myself. ”
He stands up and paces away. Even his back is sexy and seductive and hypnotic. “I know that, Grey. Goddammit. I’m just trying to—”
“To what? Tie me to you? Make me one of your booty calls?”
He whirls, and before I can blink he’s across the room, around the bed, and has me pinned to the wall with his body. His eyes are blue, angry, hot. His body is hard and huge and he’s breathing heavily, and his hands are on my arms and his mouth is inches away. “I’m trying to be kind. ” He hisses the words. “It’s called generosity. You hate what you do, and I hate you having to do it. I can take away your problems, Grey. You just have to let me. ”
“I can’t. ” I have to look away from him. I can’t bear to meet his eyes, can’t take the intensity.
Except I look at his mouth, his lips, the pink tip of his tongue running over his bottom lip, and I know what those lips feel like, taste like, and I… I want that again. Even in the midst of my weltering boil of emotions, I can’t help the confused desire I feel for him.
“You can. You just won’t. Big difference, babe. ”
“Don’t…don’t call me ‘babe,’” I say. “I’m not your babe. ”
“You could be. ” He drops this bomb calmly.
“I…what?” My eyes flick to his, stunned.
“I said: ‘You could be. ’”
“What does that mean?” I wish I had the fortitude to move away from him, out of his embrace, away from his touch.
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