by Pamela Ann
I did understand. What had happened in the living room was a result of hysteria and the inability to channel my emotions properly. One of the things I despised about myself was how I processed disappointment. It usually resulted in mood swings, vindictive and unsystematic spurts of hurt and anger. I was in the wrong, even if my emotions were justified. Regardless, forming apologies took longer to process, partly in fear I would get too impassioned. Therefore, the best solution was to mince my words effectively without appearing too invested in the subject.
“I’m sorry for snapping at you, and I meant it when I said I understood your reasons behind the decisions you made.” There I was, halfway through; I could do this. Yay, mature version of me. “Honestly, I don’t blame you, not at all. This is all on me … for growing up thinking you’re the only man I’d ever be with since I was eight years old. It’s my fault for always holding out hope, so much so that it blinded me from the truth, from what’s really going on. And after all these years, that idea has been irrevocably crushed. So I need some time away to fully digest everything, but you’re reluctant to give me the headspace, and in return, I snapped.”
“You’ve known you wanted to spend the rest of your life with me since you were eight?” He was flummoxed, ignoring the rest of what I had just stated.
“Some girls like to spend their time with Barbies, video games, glitter, and frills. I liked to play pretend. Whenever you and Jackson were preoccupied with doing boy stuff, I would go to the tree house and act as if I was a wife preparing the house for you to come home. Didn’t you ever wonder why I kept asking you to come up for some milk and Oreos?”
“I had no idea.” His expression remained unchanged, bewildered by my confession.
“Well, now you know.” Bizarre, but maybe this was my process of letting go of the past—by confiding the secret I had held for far too long. By uttering the words, it was as if I were releasing myself from that juvenile fairytale. I felt appeased. “It’s fine. Let’s just consider this water under the bridge now. I’m sure it can get weird sometimes, but we’ll eventually get used to it. Like everything else in life, practice makes perfect.”
“What water? I—you can’t seriously believe that we’re done discussing this. You were eight years old, carrying on with the thought …” The quizzical look was still apparent on his gorgeous face.
“It’s not up for discussion. What else is there to say other than I was pathetic enough to believe that you’re God, and I was crazy in love with you?” I huffed out, roused and overemotional. I had said my piece through injured pride. There was no chance of us nitpicking any of that. Besides, there was no point in it. “You want to have a ‘discussion’ about that? Are you fucking kidding me?” My crazy psycho was peeking through, and I could feel my body becoming hot, overheating from this never ending madness. “Are you so curious you want to laugh at my stupidity? Because let me fucking tell you—”
“Shut up!” he bit out, his chest heaving, eyes wild, flashing at me in frustration, in turmoil, in dazedness.
Swiftly running a hand through his hair, he appeared out of sorts before diverting those riveting blues on me for a mere second. It took a breath, a moment before he unexpectedly lowered his face and fiercely kissed me with everything he was feeling, as if each kiss had a tale, its own explanation for why he was conflicted. I could feel him fighting with himself, though his lips proved otherwise. It was a kiss so potent I felt drunk. As much as I felt for him, I couldn’t match his hunger, his need. It was as if he wanted to consume me, devour me, and annihilate my entirety like a predator would to its captured prey.
I trembled, feeling so out of my depth, my meager experience unmatched by his expertise. My ears rung. My heart exploded into a million shards. Fireworks burst behind my closed lids as the kiss deepened, his chest pressed against my sensitive buds.
“Chloe,” he spoke in a strained voice.
I was about to yank his lips back to mine, but they found other places to scrutinize, seeking out my neck, the outline of my breasts. And just when I was loving the feel of him paying homage to them, I quickly realized what was happening. His face was between my legs, ardently determined.
His tongue made a quick, powerful swipe on my clit, temporarily parting my folds, wetting them. The sight the tip of his tongue toying with sweet button and that hungered look like he was about to devour my pussy alive … It made me come undone. He used his tongue in slow, circular motions, hypnotizing me with its technique and precision. Past delirious, I shifted my hips, abruptly lifting them just as powerful tremors travelled and quaked, throbbing on the particular spot.
His ministrations were deliberate, heightening my senses to their pinnacle, so the moment he decided to halt, I craved it like a junkie. Everything was calculated. He gauged my body’s reaction, knowing when to slow down but never stopping.
He tightened his hold on my thighs, locking them down so I wasn’t able to escape the unforgiving onslaught of his fervent tongue, mercilessly flicking my clit at such a speed it wasn’t given a reprieve, a chance to pause, to recover from tipping over the edge, delivering me to sweet oblivion.
Gasping for air in the wake of nirvana, I felt my body hum, alive like never before and unquestionably insatiable. After leaving a soft kiss atop my mound, he then began to slowly creep his way toward me, reaching for my cheek, caressing it softly as he gazed down on me.
“Feeling much better?”
Not quite. I needed more. I needed him. Desperately.
“Almost,” I whispered, smiling at him as I tried to feel him through his pants, but he shifted his hips so I couldn’t reach it, frustrating me further. “Stop being such a tease. Let me touch you.”
“We can’t have sex, Chloe. My decision hasn’t changed.”
Then why would he put me in a precarious position, leaving me wanton and vulnerable? He wasn’t playing fair.
“Please … just this once.” I grazed his chin with my lips, trailing along his jaw until I reached his ear.
His body was tense, like he was against me doing such things to him. But since he didn’t voice his displeasure, I thought it enough encouragement to carry on.
“Fuck me however you want. Fuck me like you did that model in your bed.”
“No, and for future reference, mentioning another person will kill a guy’s mood,” he muttered, immediately rolling off of me so fast the absence of his body’s warmth left me bereft.
His cold tone snapped me back in place, making me realize I had showed too much, given too much without getting anything in return. I was just someone he wanted to mess around with for fun. It probably boosted his ego to see me undone, ready for his command while still he kept me at arm’s length.
“Note taken. Thanks for the advice. I’ll make sure not to get carried away. It’ll come in handy for the next guy.”
His head spun so quickly to face me it made me lose my breath. “Dare to bring another man in this bed, and you’ll see what getting carried away really means!” he seethed with unmistakable disdain, lacing his words with an underlying threat.
He could fucking try.
“I can bring whomever I want. This is my bed. You don’t see me complaining about your models.” My hands were shaking so much I was surprised I contained myself from slapping his cheek.
“I won’t be doing much of that … as long as you promise me the same.”
Obviously, he would take his women elsewhere, while I would have to settle with going over to the guy’s house if it really came to that. However, I didn’t want to be put in position where I couldn’t bring anyone over to my place just because Drew Cavendish had said so. It was beyond absurd. And what was even more surprising was the very fact itself that he was dead serious about it.
“Am I not allowed to have a healthy sex life like the rest of the population? Do you honestly expect me to go to the guy’s house?”
His eyes became so dark I could barely spot the blue. “I don’t want you to, but if you have
to, I don’t want to know.”
“Why the hell not?” If his intention was to mind fuck me, then he had successfully accomplished that. Well done.
“I don’t fucking know,” he growled into the room, seemingly just as confused as I was.
I gave up. There was no point in delving much further into it. There was nothing there. The main problem was me being able to detach my emotional self from everything I did with him since he had been forthcoming about having no designs on being in a relationship with me.
“You know what? I’m done having this conversation.”
“So am I.”
At least we agreed on something.
“Good night,” I said, barely glancing at him before resting back on the pillow. Never had sleep sounded so inviting.
Much to my surprise, he kissed my forehead before getting to his feet and switching off the light. I had expected him to leave the door ajar like he had last night. However, much to my dismay, he pulled down the sheets on the opposite side of the bed, pulled his pants down, and slipped into my bed with nothing but his boxer briefs on.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m sleeping with you,” he said like it were a given.
I wanted to pull my hair out, scream—anything to channel the frustration that had been one hell of a nightmare all day.
“What if I tell you I don’t want you in my bed?”
He pulled himself closer to me, sliding an arm under my neck as if it were the most natural thing to do in the world and he hadn’t spent half of the evening dismissing the possibility of us happening.
With his lips close to my ear, he then whispered, “I’m not going to have sex with you; that should put you at ease.”
“Heaven help us if you did fuck me.” I almost laughed at the stupidity of this conversation.
I was about to say something snarky when I felt his arm loosely drape across my waist before he left a soft kiss behind my ear.
“I don’t want to fight anymore, babe. We’re both tired. The past, the present, and what happens in the future—let’s forget it all. I just want to be in the moment … with you and nothing else.”
I didn’t say anything. I was beyond words. Not only that, but the way he held me made me consider that he might just like having a girl around to cuddle with, and I was a good candidate for it. This didn’t mean anything, not in a way that mattered. Still, I would take what I could get and simply pray to God I could come out of this sane.
It didn’t take long until I became subdued, gradually drifting halfway into subconscious with his arms fastened around me. Never had I realized how a woman could feel safe when the person who held her was the one she held dear to her heart. It was wrong to feel right, but there was nothing else to describe it.
“Chlo?” His lips touched the base of my neck then trailed against the soft, sensitive side just above my shoulder. “Baby …?” he said, breathing the scent of my skin, and then I felt the tip of his nose brushing softly, affectionately. “I’ll see you in your dreams, cupcake.”
Chapter Twelve
It was his masculine scent that lured me out of my dream. His smell was so deeply entrenched in my psyche that I could easily recognize it, even unconscious. It was that rousing, faint scent of his aftershave and his own signature musk that never failed to make my insides coil. Some article online had stated that, if you loved or desired someone greatly, their scent evoked all sorts of reactions to your brain and body. This reaction could double in intensity if the particular smell was accompanied by something eventful. I, for one, could very well attest to it. It always drew me back to him like a force to be reckoned with. I couldn’t get enough.
On that note, I peeled my eyes open and was greeted by the rigid, hard planes of his chest. From this angle, I could appreciate it more.
Our bodies were still entangled, though his hold had loosened. I was keen to the fact that he had never withdrawn from me while asleep.
I stared at his face, contemplating what to do next, before I carelessly submitted to the urge to touch him, softly tracing his lines with my fingers. I grazed his morning stubble up toward the bottom of his lip, tracing it with my thumb. I then dragged my eyes toward his neck, my fingers following suit then trailing along his chest as it rose and fell before drifting to his abdomen.
Biting the inside of my lip, I caressed his defined lines and smooth ridges with a child-like mixture of awe and fascination. Inhaling sharply, I carried on with my exploration, and just when it was about to travel farther below, he swiftly clamped down on my hand with his, grasping it so strongly he almost cut the blood supply to my poor hand.
“You’ve explored enough.”
My throat constricted as our eyes clashed—mine wild, his full of challenging uncertainty.
“Why can’t I have free reign like you have with me?” I croaked out, unwilling to give up my newfound fascination with this close examination.
“I don’t want to cross the point of no return.”
My eyes dropped to the growing bulge that a mere sheet could barely conceal. The very thought of it—to feel its strength, its force—created a quiet storm within me.
“I want to taste you … just this once.”
“I’m sorry, but that’s a solid no.”
His answer wasn’t surprising at all. What was shocking was my relentless pursuit. No one could accuse me of not trying.
“Come, let me carry you to the bathroom,” he suggested with a pleading look.
If this was his way of diffusing the situation, he had a lousy way of doing it. Besides, like I had any choice. He would take me there, anyway, just to get me out of bed.
“Whatever makes you comfortable, Drew. Let’s have at it, yeah?”
He cupped my face before pressing his lips to my forehead. “You’re very precious to me. I just want you to know that.” He caressed my cheek with his lips, leaving a few marks before the bottom of his lip almost caressed the side of my own lips. Somehow, he stopped himself, breathing heavily against that part of the face where the bottom of the cheek met the curve of my lip. “God, I can’t. Why do I fucking want you so badly it’s almost painful?”
We both wanted it, this, but his conscience was getting in the way. How did one convince a decidedly stubborn man to abandon his “Chloe equals chastity” stance? He had done it once, and it seemed his guilt had gotten the best of him.
“We have all weekend to ourselves to get it out of our system. I’m all yours to do as you please.”
“No …” he drawled out the word without the harsh tone he had previously used.
I braced myself, and then I daringly brought his hand between my thighs before letting out a stifled moan. “I need you—here. I need to feel you—here.”
His eyes darkened, leaving little to no blue in their depths as he mustered the courage to have some form of restraint.
“Chloe—” he cursed my name when he felt me squeeze his balls with firm determination.
“We have a day and a half. That should be enough time … to get this out of our system,” I choked out, pressing his middle finger to my moist crevice, dipping it right between the fold. My other hand hadn’t detached from his member, and it was growing thicker by the second. I could feel his barriers beginning to crumble. It was his eyes that gave it away, roaming about me, then his labored breathing. Everything was coming into play, and I knew I had him under my spell … up until his phone began to ring.
Without bothering to glance at me, he stretched out to reach for his phone, simultaneously unlatching my hook on him. Just as he settled back, little, curious me got in the way and decided to cock my head to the side so I could peek at the screen. “Caroline,” it said at the top, and a whole list of women’s names lit up, showing me a glimpse of how many messages he had received while sleeping. It was probably a list of women who’d wanted a piece of him last night. No wonder he could easily refuse a woman—insert desperate me, begging for him when he cou
ld readily choose from a vast selection of models. According to Jackson, it was all he dated. I certainly wasn’t model material, and there in lay my damn problem.
Like hell I would change just so he would find me desirable. There was no lack of men who would appreciate curves, so this retched feeling of being too ugly needed to fester somewhere else. I had dealt with enough of these insecurities all through middle and high school. This bitch surely wasn’t welcome in this new phase in my life. I would boot it out even if it meant having to surround myself with people who saw the beauty of my sarcasm and wit, not my physical attributes.
With the spell broken, I felt foolish. Drew was letting me down slowly, yet I couldn’t seem to get it through my dense skull. I seriously had to stop trying.
“Pancakes and bacon for breakfast?”
His question threw me off.
Frowning, I blinked a few times. “Pancakes?” I asked, wondering why he would mention food at such a sensitive time.
“Yes, food. Pancakes, babe.” He shook his head before kissing my forehead. “Okay let’s get you to the bathroom to freshen up. Then I’ll cook while you sit like a good girl on top of the counter, cheering me on. I’ll even put some bananas and whipped cream on top,” he said, trying to entice my sweet-driven palette.
“Stop making it difficult to concentrate on not liking you right now.”
“You care about me too much to hate me.” He smirked then kissed my forehead again.
No truer words had ever been said.
Rolling my eyes, I finally relented and made him take me to the bathroom and afterward to the white marble island kitchen counter where I watched, grinning at his antics of pretending to be a master chef in his domain while speaking out loud about his masterful whipping technique as he explained the lengthy list of ingredients before showcasing how to properly butter a heated pan.
How could I keep a scowl on my face when he was being irresistible and cute? He and I would be fine. We had too much history to let it ruin everything, as friends or as close to friends.
