A Cruel Kind of Beautiful

by Michelle Hazen

  I puff a few strands of hair out of my face and blink. The only light comes from the menu screen on the TV. The air is still tinged with the damp flour scent of pasta, and Jacob’s head pops over the edge of the couch to look down at me. Sitting up, I wince at the stiffness in my back. “Crap, did I fall asleep?”

  “You fell off the couch.” When he sits up it jogs my groggy brain to wonder exactly what position we were lying in before I rolled off the edge. “Are you okay?”

  “Ugh, other than needing about a solid year of uninterrupted sleep?” I wave a hand and then reach up to take out my crooked ponytail, beginning to finger-comb it back into order. “It’s fine. Not exactly the first time I’ve rolled myself off the side of something.”

  “You weren’t kidding about being a sleep thrasher, were you?” He winces. “Guess I need a lower couch.”

  I clear my throat, looking down as I wrap an elastic band around my ponytail. Did he doze off at the same time as I did? Or did he lie down with me and then pass out? Somehow, the order of events seems excruciatingly important here. “I should go. God, what time is it?”

  He reaches for me and my breath jags but then he just picks up his phone off the coffee table behind me. “Three. You shouldn’t drive all sleepy, though. You can just—” He glances toward the hallway where the bedrooms are, then pushes up to standing. “I’ll drive you home.”

  I raise an eyebrow. I pegged Jacob as a “you take my bed, I’ll take the couch” kind of guy. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll want my car tomorrow anyway, so I’ll drive myself.”

  He frowns. “Yeah. But it’s late.”

  “It’s just my driveway to my door, and I come home late all the time.” I smile. “Besides, I’m the youngest person in my neighborhood by decades. If someone tries to mug me, I’ll just take their walker and run away.” I get up and wriggle my feet back into my boots, then gather my jacket from the kitchen.

  Jacob walks me to the door, and even though it only takes a few steps to cross his apartment, I’m painfully aware of how close he is behind me. If I had been too sleepy to drive home, that is certainly not a problem now.

  “I had a good time tonight,” he says.

  The deep rumble of his voice teases my skin and I have to close my eyes and swallow before I can trust myself to answer. “Me too.”

  I pull open the door and turn back to say goodbye. Our eyes lock, and the entire street behind me holds its breath.

  Is he going to go in for a goodnight kiss? If he does, there is just no fucking way I’m going to behave myself. We’ll probably end up on the floor, and his little brother is sleeping in the other room. I want to know what Jacob’s chest feels like under that corny tee shirt, but I’m not sure I really want to start into all my sexual baggage on the first date.

  He leans against the doorframe and reaches up to scrub a hand through his hair, leaving it endearingly tousled.

  “I know it didn’t work the first time, but I’ve got some in the freezer, so...” He tries for a smile, but it comes out lopsided. “Ice cream for your thoughts?”

  “I...” I gaze up at him, hugging my arms across my chest, and I hate this tentative person I’ve somehow become. “I like you. And a lot of things would be easier if I didn’t.”

  His eyes flicker. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.” He lifts a hand and his knuckles trace the line of my cheek. Slowly, and with an odd sense of finality, like he’s memorizing it. “Jera, I should—” He takes a shuddering breath, and his gaze jumps back toward his bedroom.

  “What?” I’m almost afraid to ask. “What should you do?”

  His hand drops. “Anything but this,” he whispers, and his lips claim mine. His hands shake when they come up to cup my jaw. In his kiss, I can taste every bit of the longing that’s vibrating through me, too.

  My hands settle on the sides of his faded leather belt, thumbs curling slightly underneath to hold him closer. I don’t know his “why not” and he doesn’t know all of mine, but God help me, I don’t want to be anywhere else right now.

  When our lips part, his eyes drop to my mouth. He’s breathing harder than he should be, and he steps back about a hundred years too soon. “Drive safe,” he says gruffly.

  I need to move. Move or speak. Or even, magically, both at the same time.

  “Okay, goodnight,” I squeak, very much like an idiot.

  I walk to my car, I open the door, I sit down. Once I’m shielded from his view by about six older-model cars in various states of disrepair, I melt into my seat. My head hits the steering wheel with a soft thump as I gulp air I have no physical excuse for needing in these quantities.

  If that was our first date, how on earth am I supposed to hold it together through a second?

  Chapter 19: Forbidden Fruit

  At the rate I’m going, Britain’s empire is never going to crumble. I’ve been on the first page of its dissolution for at least half an hour and I’m still not sure what caused it. Gnomes, maybe? Or snails. They’re hell on gardens, and Britain had a lot of gardens.

  At least Jacob seems to be making decent progress on his reading. He sits on one end of my undersized couch while I lounge on the other with knees up and my textbook propped on them. Jacob tucked my bare feet under his jeans-clad thigh to keep them warm and his thumb strokes absently over my ankle while he reads.

  I need to put a bag over his entire body if I want to finish this chapter before Christmas.

  He warned me that he didn’t have time for a girlfriend, and it turned out he wasn’t joking, so about half our “dates” are doing homework together. He’s always rushing off to his sister’s house or another of his jobs. He’s so busy I would think he was making excuses, like he wasn’t actually that into me or he was hiding a terminal illness or something, but even when we’re not together, he always finds time to text me something that makes me laugh.

  Every time he’s working when I have a second to relax, I have to fight the niggling itch that says I ought to be doing as much as he is, that I should learn to fix cars so I can help him or get some volunteer work or put up my mom’s Christmas decorations. When I blurted that to Jacob once, he kissed my hair and said when I feel that way, I should write another song. According to him, that’s a better contribution to the world than trying to Tetris my Mom’s ridiculous Nutcracker collection into fitting on the mantle.

  We’ve only been dating for two weeks, and I’m not sure how long it will take to get used to the way he kisses me as if everything is okay, as if I could never disappoint him. Every time he does it, my body loosens a little bit more, like exhaling after you’ve been holding your breath nearly forever. It’s almost too easy to be around him and forget the bright red line that we haven’t crossed yet.

  Except tonight, for once, Jacob doesn’t have to rush off to tutor anyone or fix anybody’s car or rescue Ben from whatever trouble always has him calling at odd hours, needing Jacob to come home. I just want to relax, try to get a little homework done, and enjoy the quiet comfort of my boyfriend’s presence.

  The problem is, when I look at him, I can’t help but wonder if it would be different with him. If he knows dirty, sensual tricks that Andy never dreamed of.

  I swallow. I need a cold shower. Or an ice bath. Or a brain transplant, possibly for one that’s a little cleaner and more focused on Britain’s imperial overstretch.

  Admittedly, thinking about European history—or even sex—is still better than dwelling on the issues with Amp and the band.

  I gave up on adding synth to our old songs, because I couldn’t find a single mix I didn’t despise. Instead, I threw myself into talks with Amp about what else we might do with the new album. Dad was right—it’s a lot of positive-sounding promises and hard to grasp what it will really look like. Then Rob, our A&R liaison, got the flu. The delay has my dad popping Rolaids like breath mints, but I’m relieved for the extra time before we move forward into whatever our musical future is going to be.

  Jacob’s eyes drift away from
his book, thoughts of my career growing indistinct as his eyes climb higher along the stretch of my mostly bare legs.

  When he realizes I’m already watching him, he blinks and reddens ever-so-slightly, and I wiggle my toes underneath his thigh. “I don’t think my legs are on the syllabus for the ‘strictly homework’ date we are supposed to be having.” I narrow my eyes playfully at him.

  His hand moves a little higher, only to my calf instead of my ankle, but my muscles jump beneath his palm and tingles run up beneath my skirt.

  “You have beautiful legs. It’s pretty impossible not to notice,” he says simply.

  Heat flushes over my skin. Maybe I need to make an excuse to go to the kitchen so I can cool off.

  He has all night, this time. There’s nothing to keep us from falling asleep in my bed instead of on my uncomfortable, miniaturized couch, pretending to watch a movie just so I have an excuse to curl into his chest while his fingers trail through my hair.

  We should really hang out at his house on his bigger couch, but somehow we always end up at mine. So we won’t wake up Ben, he says. I’m starting to think he can’t afford a bed or something, because after all this time, I still haven’t been inside his room.

  If I asked him to stay, just to sleep, he would agree in an instant and never push for more. But I can’t imagine lying next to him and not wanting to let my hand go exploring across his chest, my leg hitching up over his hip, my inner thigh brushing the waistband of his...what? Jeans? Would he sleep in jeans? Maybe boxers? Or God save me, boxer briefs?

  His thumb makes a tiny circle on my calf, and when his eyes come back to mine, everything tightens with a jolt like he just slipped his fingers inside my panties.

  “I, um, I’m going to get something to drink. Do you want anything?” I close my textbook and start to swing my legs off the couch.

  “Wait a minute.” He shoves the textbook off his lap and catches my hand. “Did I say something wrong? I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

  I’m such a jerk. We’re officially, definitely dating, and yet I flee as soon as he gives me a compliment. I look up, which is a mistake. His eyes are dark and concerned, and every time I look at them I just want to lay my head on his shoulder and call a time out. From everything.

  “No, it was really sweet.” What a stupid way to put it. I love how when he says something nice, it never sounds like a line. It sounds like he’s stating a fact and that makes it so much harder to ignore. I smile to soften my inadequate words. “I’m just thirsty.”

  He glances down, his fingers toying with mine. “Can I ask you something?”

  “As long as it’s not about the British Empire, and if it is, I might need a multiple choice.”

  Jacob looks up, and he’s not laughing. “Are you afraid of me?”

  “What?” I rear back a little. “No! Why would you say that?”

  He ducks his head, pressing his lips to my fingers. The silence aches between us, but he doesn't answer me right away.

  “Because sometimes you look like I terrify you.” He takes a breath, straightening. “And I hate that.”

  I exhale. “No.” I’m shaking my head and that’s not enough, so I squeeze his hand, still holding mine. “That’s not it at all.”

  He waits, but when I don’t explain further, he releases my hand. “I should get going.” He gives me a smile as stiff as his shoulders. “Lunch in the caf tomorrow?” He stands up and grabs his book, turning toward the door.

  “I’m picturing you naked,” I blurt.

  He looks over his shoulder at me and one side of his mouth tips up. “Wait, what?”

  As much as I’m trying to be honest, my mind is full of truths that would be far too embarrassing to explain. For instance, that I can’t look at him without wanting to touch every single inch of his body. Possibly repeatedly. And I know I’m not going to get off, and that would only raise my sexual frustration to fire sale levels, and yet my dry mouth and eager fingers don’t give the slightest hint of a damn about that.

  “I, um, when I look at you like that.” I shrug, biting the inside of my lip. “That’s what I’m thinking. I just...want things. I know that’s not where we’re at yet, but I think about it. Kind of a lot.”

  His crooked smile has become a full-on grin.

  I should probably not have said that out loud.

  “Look, I don’t want to go there,” I mumble, shifting on the edge of the couch.

  He drops to one knee in front of me, abandoning his book on the floor as he ducks his head to catch my gaze. “Go where, Jera?”

  Since lately I have nothing resembling dignity, my voice catches when I admit, “I’m not ready to start messing this up.”

  Jacob leans forward and nuzzles his face in beneath my hair, but I can hear the smile in his voice anyway. “You are so far from messing this up. You have no idea.”

  He hides a kiss just underneath my earlobe and then stands in a smooth movement and goes to the front door.

  I take a breath because I don’t want him to leave, not really. Not at all. But he doesn’t open the door. He flips the deadbolt, and then he drops the blinds.

  Oh. My. God.

  He reaches behind his head and pulls his shirt off, fabric tugging up and off every velvety, lickable line of muscle I’ve longed for and fantasized about and touched through shirts and jackets and everything that has shielded his body from me until this very moment.

  “What, um,” I say hoarsely, “are you doing?”

  Jacob toes off his shoes and turns around. Sweet Santa Claus stuck in a snow globe of cocaine, his chest is even better than his back. “I take off my clothes a few times a week for art students who just need three credits and the ability to draw a realistic quadricep muscle. I would infinitely rather take off my clothes for you.”

  He walks over to me and I have not the slightest notion what he’s done with his shirt. Did he drop it into the Grand Canyon? Transmogrify it into a teapot? Who the hell knows?

  He takes my hand and pulls me to my feet. My Western Civ text hits the floor with a thud that sounds vaguely surprised.

  “No expectations.” Jacob starts to walk backward down the hall, tugging me along with him. “And no worries.” He smiles so sweetly it makes me feel even dirtier for every thought I’m having about him right now. With his free hand, he unbuckles his belt, the metal clinking in the quiet of the house.

  I need words.

  Morals, willpower. An entire continent full of ice and possibly a Bible.

  But first, I need words.

  “Jacob...”

  Damn it, not that word.

  He pulls me through the doorway of my bedroom and abruptly switches direction, pressing my back against the wall next to the door and stepping in. The metal of his unfastened belt buckle is cool where it catches the hem of my shirt, pressing into my exposed skin.

  My lips are parted and he touches a kiss to the bottom one, then the top. And then he claims my mouth so softly that I shiver and sink into the reassurance of it, wishing everything between us could be as patient, as easy as this.

  After not nearly long enough, he pulls back and rests his cheek against my temple, the subtle scratch of a five o’clock shadow awakening my skin. “You’re worrying,” he whispers. “About what will happen, about how much you want and if that’s too much or not enough. I don’t want you to worry. I want you to know it’s okay.”

  When he says that, I want so much to be normal. For him, even more than for me. But it’s never going to be that easy.

  Jacob takes a step back and flicks open the button on his jeans. “When I model, I spend half the time wishing I would have put on more deodorant because the lights are really hot, and the other half of the time scared to death I’m going to pop wood.”

  My laugh bursts out a beat late, because I’m watching him so closely, his words didn’t process right away. “Wait, has that happened?”

  “I plead the fifth.” When that makes me laugh even harder, he
narrows his eyes in a mock scowl. “It’s not funny. Especially not to the other guys in the class, I promise.”

  “So is that what you’re doing?” I lean against the doorframe. “Modeling for me?”

  He shakes his head. “Nope. I’m saying I don’t want to be. I like the idea of taking off my clothes just because you want to see me.” He smiles. “As for getting hard, yeah, well, that’s just going to happen. Especially if you keep looking at me like that.”

  His zipper goes down and every trace of laughter in my body vaporizes instantly into steam. Holy crap, this is such a bad idea. With an easy movement like we’ve done this a million times, Jacob kicks off his jeans.

  Boxer briefs.

  The clingy black fabric immediately sets my mind into advanced algebraic equations. Before I can finish extrapolating the potential implied by the bulge in front into an exact 3D mental model, he takes them off.

  Off.

  Chapter 20: A Small Death, or a Good One

  All Jacob’s clothes are on my floor, and he lies back on my bed, tugging a pillow over to prop up his head.

  My body tingles with the possibilities of all his bare skin in the same room as mine. I press my fingertips into the wall behind me, because it is the only thing in this entire moment that feels real.

  He watches me. His dark eyes are always so kind that sometimes it makes it easy to overlook the immense, analytical intelligence behind them, but right now, there’s no missing it. I’m afraid he can see everything I’m thinking.

  “You said you’re frigid,” he says, “but right now, you definitely want something.”

  His cock flexes, thickening as he waits, and he doesn’t make a single move to hide it.

  “Do it,” he says, his voice going a little hoarse. “Whatever you want.”

  Is he freaking nuts? Just do whatever I’m thinking? Anything I might be thinking? To him? Right now?

  My feet are apparently a lot more certain about my decision than I am, because they’re carrying me over to the bed. God, he’s right, because I want. I want so many things.