by Jenni Moen
“Like I can go to the store and buy it?" There was a playful lilt in his voice now.
I laughed. "Yes."
"Well, well, well, aren't you full of surprises, my little bookworm. I think you just turned me into a reader, after all."
"Oh, come on. I think it was Week with a Stranger that did that.”
“I want one,” he said.
I smiled at his enthusiasm. "When we get back to town, I can get one from my mother. She has a whole closet full of them."
"Good old, mom," he said. I thought his tone carried an undercurrent of wryness, but before I could explain that she and my father were nothing alike, he threw another question at me. "Is there sex in it?"
I snorted. "Yes."
"I bet that's weird for your mom."
"She hasn't read it,” I said, laughing. “It’s too steamy for her. She just hoards copies to shove at her friends. Her friends don't share her delicate sensibilities.”
“Hmm. Too steamy. I do like the sound of that.” He fingered the edge of my T-shirt and his eyes darkened as if he was contemplating what might be underneath. He dropped the material, and his expression turned serious again. "So if you’re this big-time novelist, why screenplays? I found Casablanca online last weekend. I've got to say, it's rather bland reading."
He’d been researching. I was glad it was Casablanca he was searching for and not me.
"I haven't been able to write since Chase died," I admitted. "You'd think I could funnel all these emotions into my characters and write something really profound, but it hasn't worked that way. They come out dull and lifeless. My characters are as flat and two-dimensional as the paper they'd be printed on … if they made it that far."
"Screenplays, though—they are a lot of dialogue and scene blocking," I continued. “I'm starting a writing class in the fall, and I'm sure I'll learn there's more to it than that, but I've been watching old movies and dissecting their screenplays, trying to figure out the mechanics of it. How you get from one to the other."
"So you're reverse engineering them? That's very smart. But Celeste …" He squeezed my hand. "Is that really where your passion lies?"
"I love to write," I said adamantly. "I have to figure out a way to make it work for me until I get rid of my writer's block."
"Hmm," he said, as if he still wasn't convinced. "I don't think you should give up on sexy mysteries. You're about the least two-dimensional person I've ever met. Keep trying. It will come back to you eventually."
"I have tried," I said. "I end up just staring at my computer and cursing at the blinking cursor on the screen."
He was quiet for a moment. "I think I know what we’re doing this afternoon.”
“What?” I asked.
“We’re going to find a bookstore, buy your book, and come back here. I’m going to run a hot bath, and we’re going to soak in it while you read it to me.”
“That sounds like the most romantically awkward evening ever.”
He laughed and pulled himself up so he was sitting, his hands propped on either side of my legs. “What would you rather do today?" He looked at the clock. “Now that it’s halfway over.”
I pretended I was the heroine of my book. Confident, assertive, and not afraid to make the first move. "You."
I blinked at him, feeling naked and vulnerable despite the T-shirt that covered me.
His jaw clenched. I yearned to reach out and touch it, to run my fingers along the line of it.
"Are you sure you’re feeling up to it? You have to be sore."
I was sore from the fall, but I didn’t mind it. It was a reminder that I was alive. That I had taxes to collect. “I’d feel better if you were inside me.”
He shook his head, but his eyes gave away his intention. He lifted me up, carried me across the room, and set me gingerly on the bed.
“That’s my shirt,” he said, finally noticing the black V-neck I was wearing. It hung loosely over my shoulders and was bunched up so that it barely covered my panties underneath.
I arched a brow. “Do you mind?”
From head to toe, his eyes raked over me with such intensity I thought I might spontaneously combust on the spot. “Did we forget to bring your clothes?”
“I just wanted something of yours against my skin.”
“That’s about the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard,” he said with a groan. “But I’m taking it off you now.”
I raised my arms as he pulled it over my head. He shook his head, his eyes roaming hungrily over my body. From my face to my breasts to my slightly parted legs, the heat in his eyes left scorch marks along their path. "I've never seen anything more beautiful."
“Touch me,” I said.
He brought a gentle hand to my face. I tilted my head into it and closed my eyes. The backs of his fingers brushed along my cheek. His thumb stroked the seam of my lips. I parted them, inviting him in.
He wrapped an arm around my waist and slid me farther up the bed. With one hand, he reached behind him and yanked his shirt over his head and then propped himself over me. “We'll take it slow. No rough stuff this time." Something deep inside, my soul sang. Some quiet, hidden part of me was awakened by those words.
His head dipped down, and he pressed his lips to mine. As he nipped at my bottom lip, I felt him against my hip, hard as stone. I opened to him—my lips so his tongue could slip inside, and my legs so I could feel him there as well.
His tongue swept my mouth, exploring, tasting. His kiss was hungry and reverent, ragged and refined. The intensity of it stopped my heart. When it started again, it beat out a rhythm I felt between my legs.
He was in no rush.
But I was. I needed to finally feel him inside me. I needed to know he wanted me the way I wanted him. I needed the reassurance that he’d never hurt me like I’d been hurt so many times before.
I moaned against his mouth and felt his lips curl into a smile. He slid down the bed. His fingers traced the curve of my shoulder and then the line of my collarbone. His gaze was intense as he introduced himself to each hill and valley of my body. I wanted him to memorize them. To tuck away the image of me handing myself over so that maybe he’d never forget.
A hand found my breast, and the pink bud pebbled against the rough palm. When he swirled his tongue around it, I felt it through my whole body. He looked up at me through hooded eyes and smiled as I arched under him. His hand found the other one, cupping it and teasing the nipple into a peak before taking it into his mouth.
The pulse between my legs became a throb. I was starving for him to finally touch me there. I tipped my head back as he came gloriously closer. He planted soft kisses across my stomach and trailed his fingers down the curve of my hips.
The pace was slow, but the burn was not, and I was nearly ready to combust when he pressed my knees farther apart and stared at my most vulnerable spot. I stilled. I couldn't remember anyone ever just staring at me like that.
"You are so beautiful." His obvious satisfaction thrilled me. He splayed his fingers across the smooth skin of my stomach and kissed me. Not there, where I wanted it most, but everywhere else.
His lips brushed over each bruise and every scratch, accepting them and healing me. He kissed his way up the inside of one thigh and then moved to the other. When he centered himself again, he blew a warm breath against me, and I nearly bucked off the bed. He placed an arm across my stomach to hold me where he wanted me. "Shhhhh. Slow and easy."
But I didn't want it slow and easy. I was desperate to feel his skin against mine, to feel him slide inside me, to own my body, to release my soul.
I squirmed against his arm and was nearly delirious by the time he slowly licked his way up the line, his eyes closing as he savored the first taste. Gentle fingers separated me so he could get closer and then his mouth was on me again. As his tongue explored, a gentle thumb brushed against my sensitive spot. He rubbed slow circles around it and then pressed more firmly against it at the exact moment, he pushed a long fing
er inside me. When he inserted another and curled it, I nearly came unglued.
I threaded my fingers, which had been gripping the sheets, into his hair. The silky strands slipped against my fingers. I caught them and pulled gently at first and then more tenaciously in response. The rumble from his chest brought me one step closer.
I wanted it. I was already chasing the high of it, but I wanted him inside me when I came, and I told him as much. “Do you have a condom?” I asked.
His eyebrow rose, but he lifted himself off the bed and returned with a shiny package in his hand. I hooked my fingers into the waistband of his boxers and tugged them down.
He sat up on his knees and the air once again became charged with anticipation. I marveled at his magnificence as he rolled it on, sure he would know exactly how to make my body sing.
And he did.
He slid himself over me again and positioned the head at my entrance. He ran it up and down my seam, teasing me. I loosened my grip on his waist and slid my hands to his backside, digging my hands into his ass at the exact moment he pushed inside me. My eyes slammed shut, and I bit my cheek as I got used to the full feeling of him.
Every nerve in my body came alive with the connection. He wasn’t a cop who’d taken me on as a project, and I wasn’t a broken woman who needed fixing. He wasn’t the man whose wife had left him, and I was no longer a grieving widow. He wasn’t afraid to commit, and I wasn’t ready to push him away. We were simply two new lovers, lost in each other’s touch.
He began to move. The push and pull was delicious. With every stroke, the hum in my body became a symphony. My hands roamed over him, pulling him to me wherever they could find a place to grip. The narrowed curve of his waist. The slope of his shoulders. I left marks across his back that I would look at the next day.
Greedily, I climbed, hoping he was climbing too but unable to wait for him even if he wasn't. He spoke in my ear, his voice rich and velvety as he told me how beautiful I was, how good I felt, how perfect I was.
My hands became frenzied, my words incoherent. My body shuddered and heaved as he hurtled me over the edge. But I didn't fall over it. I soared. Up, up, up. My soul blew to bits, each piece becoming a star that he chased after with his own release.
Heart racing, he collapsed over me. I listened to our breathing fall into a similar rhythm as we finally settled into each other’s arms. I lightly brushed my fingers over his back to soothe the marks I knew I'd left behind.
He was leaving his mark too.
HER
My bag was woefully lacking in options, and nothing in it was appropriate for going out in Chicago. I thought it might be a good excuse to stay in the little bubble we’d created for ourselves, but Scott had hinted at a different idea.
The nicest thing I had with me was the white shirt I’d worn the first day of our trip. I pulled it out and slipped it on and was staring down at the busted buttons when the lock clicked, and the hotel room door swung open.
Scott took one look at me and laughed. “I owe you a shirt. Good thing I come bearing gifts.” His arms were loaded down with bags. “How was the massage?"
"Amazing. Thank you for doing that for me. I had to take a shower because I was so greasy from the oils she used, but I swear I’ve never been this relaxed in my life."
"Good. That’s what I was aiming for.”
He tossed the bags onto the bed, freeing up his arms so he could wrap them around me. We came together for a kiss, one of hundreds over the last twenty-four hours. I could count every single one of them as the reasons my mood had improved.
"What's all this?" I asked, gesturing to the bed after he’d finally let go of me.
"We're going out tonight. I can't believe we never left the room at all yesterday. We didn’t even make it to the bookstore." He pretended to be disappointed, but I knew better.
I arched my brows at him. "I say if it’s not broken, don’t fix it."
He sighed and flopped down into a chair by the window. Apparently, his morning out had exhausted him. “Me too, but I can't keep you all to myself forever. You need to get out. Be able to walk around and feel safe. Even if only for a little bit. Besides, I have something special planned for you tonight."
“Well, that does sound intriguing,” I said, sitting on the bed across from him. “But I’m perfectly happy right where we are.”
“I know you’re nervous, but I won’t let anything happen to you.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and rubbed his face with his hands.
I’d come to learn that was not a good sign. “You don’t seem so sure.”
“No, no. It’s not that.” He met my eyes and tried to give me a reassuring smile, but I wasn’t entirely buying it. “While I was out this morning, I went to the courier company who delivered all of my gifts.” His face twisted as if it was a dirty word. “But it was another dead end.”
“Can I help?” I asked.
He shook his head. “That’s sweet, but no. Whatever this is, I don’t want you in the middle of it. Besides, Luke is doing some investigating for me, and my old partner in Chicago is going to run some prints for me. Maybe one of them will come up with something.”
I stood and walked back to the dresser where my bag was. “Okay, well, let me know if you change your mind. My family is part owner of a courier company. Maybe I can make a call for you and find something out.”
I took off the unwearable white shirt and stuffed it back inside my bag. While I was digging for something else to wear, my hand hit something hard. “I wonder how this got in my bag?” I said, holding up the Cards Against Humanity box. “I suppose I need to send them back …”
His narrowed eyes stopped me mid-sentence.
“You could send them back by courier.” His voice was laced with sarcasm. His blue eyes turned to ice, and his mouth pressed into a hard line. “Your family owns a courier company, and you’re just now telling me?”
“Why would I have told you?” I said, drawing the words out slowly. “I didn’t know it was relevant.”
He took a step backward.
“You don’t think my dad had something to do with this, do you?” And then it hit me. “Wait. You’re not thinking it’s me again, are you?”
He turned and walked to the far corner of the room and began to pace. “I don’t know what to think, Celeste. Look at it from my perspective. All of the gifts I’ve received involved a courier in one way or another. Who uses a courier to run personal errands? And now, you say you own one.”
As he ran his hands through his hair, his agitation became my own. My body fed off it as if it had been starving for a reason to come unhinged. My heart rate climbed to the highest peak. The game slipped out of my hands, and I watched the cards spill around my feet.
I thrust my hands into my bag and rummaged through it yet again, this time looking for my fix, and then I remembered I’d run out of the little white pills that kept the world from turning helter-skelter in moments like this.
My eyes fell on the minibar. I reached. And then stopped.
You can handle this. Talk it through. Let words be your elixir, reason be your antidote.
I bit my lip, wondering what I could possibly say to appease him. And then it hit me. A hunch I hoped would come through.
“What was the name of the courier company?” I asked.
His eyes widened as the seed I’d planted grew into something he could see. “Fleet Feet Delivery.”
I pulled out my wallet and flipped through receipts and cards until I found what I was looking for. I walked across the room and shook the business card at him. He snatched it from my hands and glared at it. “Helping Hand,” he read.
I exhaled a long, hard-earned breath. “See? Different companies. It wasn’t me.”
The angles of his face softened. His jaw went slack, and his hand fell to his side. “I’m sorry I doubted you.”
I glanced at the cards scattered over the floor and couldn’t blame him. I’d spent too much time
doubting myself to fault him for the same thing.
He pulled me into his arms, and I buried my face in his shirt and breathed in the scent of sweet relief. It was short lived. “How do you think the cards got in your bag?” he asked.
“Maybe Sierra put them there? She probably thought we needed something to do while we were here.” It was the only answer I could think of.
HER
"I can’t believe you went shopping all by yourself," I said, eyeing the black dress in the mirror. “But you did good.” I twirled in a circle, and the skirt fanned out like it was weightless.
Thankfully, the tension in the room had completely dissipated, and we’d resumed the strange brand of weirdness that somehow felt normal to us. Up and down. Push and pull.
It was Thursday. The sixth day of our acquaintance. The sixth day of dodging one odd curveball after another. Sunday would be here before I knew it, and I was already having a hard time imagining having to tell him goodbye. It would have been very easy to slip into a complacent place where I let myself believe that something more could be possible.
Not every happy ending is a fairy tale. Write your own. It was a nice idea, but it would never work. And I knew from experience it was better to walk away than be left.
"I thought about waiting and taking you with me, but then I figured all the ladies in those fancy schmancy shops probably know you by name.” He raised an eyebrow. "Was I right?"
"I've got a few of their numbers on speed dial." I grinned. "So were the salesladies nice to you?"
I had this image in my head, sort of a reverse Pretty Woman scenario, where he walked into Gucci with a fist full of cash and the snotty salesgirls wouldn't help him.
"They looked a little unsure about me at first, but money talks. Besides, Luke can be a charming mofo when he wants to be."
"They're here?" Contrary to what Scott had said, I felt like there was safety in numbers. Since we were leaving the hotel, I wouldn’t mind the extra company.
His smile slipped. "I'm sorry, no. Luke didn't go with me. His credit card did."
"How very clever of you to get your brother to pay for our shopping spree,” I joked, trying to play off my discomfort. “And illegal,” I added with a raised eyebrow.
