True Devotion

by Liora Blake

  “Say it, Dev.” To provoke me, he offers a few rapid surges of his hips and moves the hand grasping my waist up to my breast. With his long fingers, he twists my nipple, hard, until I groan so loudly it sounds pained. “Say. It.”

  “Yes.” His sense of triumph is evident against my neck; I can feel his mouth turning up. Then he starts to move in quick, short thrusts that serve only to tease me. I need him in long strokes, hard and rough, until I can’t bear it. I know if I give him more, he will do the same. “I felt it. All of it.”

  Rearing back, he starts to do it all, long slick thrusts that drive wild gasps from my throat, restrained only by the way his hand still grips there. His fingers holding me immobile, not choking, just keeping me where he wants. Suddenly, he pulls out, leaving me basically whinnying and pushing back against him to find the fullness once more.

  He shoves gently against my back and I flop down on my belly again, hoping he won’t be able to resist the enticing spread of my thighs for him. A tender swat lands against my right hip.

  “Turn over, baby. I need to see you the first time I come inside you like this.”

  Reluctantly, I roll over. When I see him, it’s all there. Every safe, tender, dirty, loving part of him, written in each spark of his eyes. My legs drop open in reaction to that look, letting him slide in again. As he starts to move, I drop my hand to my belly and draw it down until I can work myself in time with his strokes. Simon’s eyes widen, then hood, at the sight of me playing where our bodies come together.

  “Hell, yes. Touch yourself for me.” He drops down to rest on his forearms, rubbing his face against my collarbone. “You’re such a filthy girl. So fucking sexy for me.”

  Right then, I realize I’ve come to love every damn thing he says. Whether it’s stupid or lewd, full of heart or bullshit, every syllable is worth it. As the impact of knowing him like this settles inside me, I feel him push up to see my face. With my fingers running over my clit and him moving inside, in that moment, he locks his eyes on mine and unravels loudly, I fall apart in time, toppling, Simon against me, his heavy breaths covering my throat.

  The vague raunchiness of this last round hits me instantly. Grabbing, spanking, shoving, yanking. When we woke up, he said he wanted to take it slow and enjoy me. But I pushed and made him take me hard and rough. I probably should have taken his make-out session as a sign, but I went and made it something else.

  “Sorry.” The little word sounds too loud, even though I whisper it into the soft locks of his hair.

  A grumble from him sends vibrations against my breastbone. “Fuck. I can’t wait to hear what you think you need to apologize for right now.”

  “You wanted it slow this morning. You said you wanted to take our time. Then I made you do it my way.”

  Simon rolls off me and lands on his side. One of his hands slides across my belly. I stare at the ceiling, waiting for him to respond.

  “Hey. Does anything about this face look disappointed to you?”

  When I let my head drift to the side, he’s pointing at his face and grinning at me. I want to apologize again because he’s grinning. If he didn’t look like he would give me the world on a silver platter if I asked, I wouldn’t feel even worse than before. Something that feels like the possibility of tears hits my eyes, so I look to the ceiling again.

  “Do you know what the number one thing on my Devon wish list is?”

  I shake my head but continue to look away.

  “Well, here it is: ‘Devon. Any damn way she’ll let me.’ That’s the number one thing on the list.”

  A tiny smile teases the corner of my lips. It’s certifiable: I love every word out of his mouth.

  His head falls to the pillow I’m currently using, and he nuzzles his face in closer to mine.

  “Last night you knew exactly what I needed and you gave it to me, without any hesitation. Two-way street, sweetheart. If you want it rough in the morning and gentle at night, I’ll give it to you. If you want me to talk dirty to you for hours and then lick you for days, that sounds awesome. If you want to play naughty bread baker and horny flour delivery guy, I’m game.”

  Oh Jesus. A sputtering laugh courses through me. “Did you just come up with that? Naughty bread baker?”

  “Oh no. The naughty-bread-baker scenario has been running through my mind for a while now. I mean, can you imagine? She really needs that flour. But, damn, she doesn’t have any money. What a conundrum, right? Thankfully, the flour delivery guy would be happy to discuss alternate terms with her. He’s a very accommodating fellow. And horny. Superhorny.”

  With a few more soft chuckles, I turn toward him and curl into his body, letting the smell and feel of him be the only things that matter. His hands draw down my back, tracing a pattern I think might follow the design of my tattoo.

  Speaking into the skin of his chest, I can taste a bit of salty sweat there as my lips move.

  “Simon?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What’s the naughty bread baker wearing?”

  He pulls me closer before answering. “An apron and nothing else. Duh.”

  17

  Because we’re hungry and I refuse to make another meal for him, out of a twisted sense of feminist self-preservation, we head to the diner down the street for breakfast. We settle into a booth and before we even have a chance to order, Simon looks up at me and points one index finger at the ceiling.

  “Shit, I almost forgot. I brought you something. It’s in the truck, be right back.”

  He shimmies out his side of the booth and I watch three women in the restaurant do a double take when he walks by. One of them, a waitress, then goes over to the window and takes another look for good measure. I vaguely want to walk over there and jerk on the end of her hot pink–streaked ponytail until she cries. She scurries away from the window as he comes in, but not before giving him a full-on Hey there smile. That smile will look a lot less attractive when she’s missing her front teeth.

  I’ve been out in the world with Simon before, but not quite like this. Before, when I watched his patented Simon-on-the-prowl routine, or observed the reactions of weak women who scented his randy pheromones, I wasn’t his. I was able to roll my eyes and pity those women. Now I want to put a goddam brand on his forehead that says DON’T TOUCH. Or maybe PROPERTY OF DEVON.

  The scowl on my face persists and when he makes it back to the table, he shoots me a confused look before following my glare by looking over his shoulder. He sees the waitress and slowly turns back to face me, a knowing, obnoxious smirk on his face.

  “You can put away the daggers. Pink isn’t my color.” He sets a bag on the table and nods down at it. “I got this at a place in the Mission District. Thought you might like it.”

  Reaching into the bag, I pull out the newest cookbook from the bakery in San Francisco that I love. It’s a massive, gorgeous, hardcover book, and immediately I want to go home, crawl in bed, and read it cover to cover until I’ve devoured every word. This book is wholly different from the first one—new techniques¸ new grains, things I’ve never tried. I want to dig in and try everything, not caring how many pounds of yeasty, raw dough end up crammed under my fingernails while I figure it all out.

  “I saw you had their other cookbook sitting on the counter in your kitchen. Have you ever been there? It’s amazing. Always smells so good.”

  I rather want him to be quiet, because he’s distracting me from the pages. But I resist the urge to kick him under the table since he was thoughtful enough to bring this back for me.

  “Have I been to mecca? No.”

  Out of my peripheral vision, I see him lift up the menu and start to scan it. “I’ll take you, then, sunshine.”

  “Don’t toy with me, Simon. You’d never get me to leave. Even if you tried every filthy technique in your arsenal, I’d refuse to come home. But when we get back to the house, I’ll thank you properly for this.” Even though I don’t look up, I know he’s smiling, pleased at finding yet anoth
er way into my once nearly calcified little heart, the one he’s steadily chipping away at with every grin, gift, and goofball declaration he sends my way.

  “Glad you like it. Is that really all it takes? I can’t wait to see how you act at Christmas. I won’t be able to keep you off me. I’m imagining our own unique version of a dirty advent calendar, every day another present for Devon and a new filthy memory for Simon. ‘God bless us, every one.’ ”

  As much as I want to flop over and giggle, I slither down into the booth to continue reading and stretch my legs out so my feet are propped on his side of the booth. Inside the cold air-conditioned restaurant, the shorts and flats I put on seem like a poor choice. Without any prompting, his hand drops to rest against my bare ankle and his fingers begin to trace up and down my calf, effectively ending any chills I was experiencing.

  “What are you having?”

  “Large stack of chocolate chip pancakes.”

  “Large stack? Wow.”

  Despite it seeming so innocent, his response recalls the last guy who was here with me. Tate and his commentaries on what’s reasonable, his incessant badgering with the bacon. I look up from the beautiful book and watch Simon for a moment.

  “Yeah. A large stack of chocolate chip pancakes. Nothing else. Except mounds of butter and pints of syrup. What do you think of that?”

  “I think it sounds like you’ve made a firm decision about what to order. You sound very committed to this decision.”

  “But what do you think about it? About my having pancakes for breakfast?”

  Simon takes a quick glance out the corner of his eyes, confused. He lets the menu drop a few inches to gawk at me. “I don’t have a particular opinion about pancakes. Or you ordering pancakes. Am I supposed to feel more passionately about said pancakes?”

  I raise my eyebrows suspiciously. “I was just curious if you thought I should have pancakes for breakfast or not. A large stack. Carb and sugar overload, no protein, no essential vitamins or minerals.”

  Simon mirrors my wary expression. “I think you should have pancakes if you want to. I think you should order a large stack or a small stack. Get two small stacks that equal one large stack. If you want pancakes and eggs and bacon and steak and French toast and a frittata, go ahead. If you don’t want anything, don’t order anything. If you want to eat off my plate, just let me know so I order enough food. I kind of don’t give a shit, frankly.”

  That’s what I wanted to hear: an absolute, unwavering nonopinion on my personal breakfast choices. A smile crosses my face, and I give him a simple nod before returning to my book. “Good.”

  Silence settles at our table for a few minutes. Then suddenly, Simon slaps the menu down and taps his index finger against the tabletop.

  “OK, was that one of those stupid ‘girl tests’?”

  “What?”

  “You know, when a woman asks you a question and it sounds simple, because to a man it is. It sounds like a yes-or-no question, but really, it’s not. We inevitably answer incorrectly, because we don’t think like you. We don’t give a shit about pancakes with the same intensity that you do. They’re just fucking pancakes. Because it feels like we just spent an awful lot of time talking about pancakes. Now I can’t even say the word ‘pancake’ without it sounding all weird in my head.”

  Flipping the next page of my book, I bite my lip to stifle the laugh threatening to give me away. I shrug my shoulders but don’t speak.

  Simon starts to fidget, mostly because he isn’t talking, and if he doesn’t speak for an extended period of time, he starts to get antsy. I can’t imagine what his inner monologue is like. How he ever gets to sleep at night, I don’t know.

  He cracks his knuckles a few times and then starts to tap his foot under the table. If I don’t do something, he is bound to implode. Without moving my gaze, I flick to another page.

  “Calm down, you totally passed.”

  He lets out a pent-up breath. “Thank God. I felt like Wile E. Coyote for a second there.”

  Sputtering, a snort comes out of my mouth. “Please explain.”

  “Like when he opens one of those Acme crates he’s all excited about. Then he figures out it’s full of dynamite. Kaboom, he’s standing there covered in ashes. Blink, blink, blink.”

  Simon makes his eyes big and then gives three exaggerated blinks to emphasize his point.

  Then he points to his chest. “Me? Wile E. Coyote.”

  “You?” He points across the table at me. “Dynamite.”

  18

  We have, dare I say, a blissful week or so. Filled with laughing, talking, sharing food, and stupidly good sex. We spend an entire weekend in bed, swapping back and forth between episodes of Veronica Mars and The X-Files. We eat tapas and drink until closing time at a bar in Silver Lake, then lie on the beach until the sun starts to come up. He comes to a yoga class with me. The one and only, because he’s surprisingly not coordinated enough to do anything but provide a good laugh. I can’t stay focused with him constantly falling over on the mat next to me. The other students glare at us so hard, with their uppity yoga-devotee attitudes, that I cut him some slack and we leave early.

  I go to the motocross track and watch him ride. It’s hot and boring, but he rewards me appropriately for showing up in a short skirt. We sit on the swing on Simon’s porch one afternoon, sharing a pint of salted caramel gelato and waving at the neighbors when they walk by. Simon reads books in his study while I sit next to him and paint my toenails.

  That naughty bread baker even makes an appearance. Without going into all the specifics, I’ll only say that Simon takes his role-play seriously. When I called him to “place my order,” he was knocking on my door three hours later wearing a nondescript delivery uniform, with a fifty-pound bag of flour slung over one shoulder. No joke. That flour delivery guy was exactly as advertised, too. Superhorny and very accommodating. Now I have an enormous bag of flour sitting in my hall closet that’s going to take me a while to get through.

  Things feel good. Soft. Easy. Downright nice. Right up until this morning, when he stops talking to me. The day starts out just right, with Simon using his hands and his mouth to wake me up. An hour later, we finally make it into the shower together, and he has just finished soaping up my body and is lathering shampoo into his hair, when it starts to go downhill.

  Trevor’s record label is throwing a small shindig in advance of his new record release and the club tour set to begin in a few weeks. Even though Trevor and I aren’t quite on speaking terms yet, he did extend a digital olive branch by texting the word “sorry” to me a couple of days ago. It’s a good start, and I know we’ll eventually find our way again, because we’re all that’s left of the Jenkins siblings. Throwing that away over a teeny, tiny, awkward, mortifying indecent exposure situation and a clash of hardheadedness isn’t even an option—we both know that.

  But when Simon starts talking about picking me up so we can go together, I don’t know what to say. The only thing rattling through my brain is that we can’t go in there holding hands or something, because everyone will see us and start asking a bunch of questions—the nosy kind that I don’t want to answer. If people asked questions about us, and I was honest, they would see on my face that I was sunk over Simon, so whenever he inevitably comes to his senses or just gives in to his manwhore instincts, everyone would know how much it could destroy me. Then they would pity me, needle me to reveal emotional information, and send me little text messages with frowny-face emoticons.

  My inability to say anything at all is probably the thing that makes it messy. Because when he leans back into the shower spray to rinse the suds out, he makes a joke about whether I’m embarrassed to be seen with him. More silence.

  He tips his head forward and when he wipes the water away from his still-closed eyelids, the movement is slow and intentional. The deliberate pace makes it evident he’s trying to find his bearings before opening his eyes to see me. Once he does, he bluntly asks why I’m act
ing like I don’t want people to know about us. If only I had kept on with the silent routine, I might have avoided the worst part. But I don’t.

  Instead, I say the first thing that pops into my mind. First thought, best thought, right? Not in this case. Why don’t I want this to be our coming-out party? Here’s the brilliant answer I spit out before realizing how terrible it sounds.

  Because it will hurt more when this ends.

  Epic, colossal screwup.

  It’s the verbal equivalent of a flinch. Words spoken from old wounds and ingrained defense mechanisms. The kind of mantra that kept me from getting in too deep with anyone for the last five years. If I just keep one foot out the door, if I only give up just enough of myself to keep him interested, then when it ends—which it will—I can walk away with only a few scars. Because guys exist in two distinct worlds for me: Before Kyle and After Kyle. After Kyle is a place where investing all of myself doesn’t exist, even when it’s with someone like Simon.

  The sting of rejection covers his expression instantly. He still has a little shampoo in his hair; I can see a few tiny bubbles of it just above his ears. Then he looks at my face as if he thinks it might be the last time we will see each other. No words. No sound other than the water cascading down around us. He pushes open the shower door, gets out, and dries off. I stand there, immobilized by the words I can’t take back and the way he never turns to look at me.

  Every time in the last few weeks when we said good-bye, he wrapped me up in his arms and, with his head pressed near my ear, kissed the little hollow just behind my earlobe. He said he had decided that was a secret space for him alone, meant for his touch only. After he did it a few times, it was our thing. We have a thing. When I realize he’s left the house without claiming that spot again, I want to scream.

  I should have gotten out right behind him and offered some kind of explanation. A speech that included something along the lines of “it’s not you, it’s me.” I’m the one who is still lugging around an emotional knapsack weighed down with too many years of pretending I’ve worked through my bullshit, even when I’m not quite there yet. I’m the one who hates people in my business, asking stupid questions or making annoying assumptions. That crap is all on me.