“Mine was not the same. I grew up in Memphis. My dad passed away when I was young and it kind of messed up my mom.”
“How so?”
“Well, he’d been in a motorcycle accident when I was seven. He was lucky, he might not have walked away with the use of his legs, but he lived. She became his full-time nurse overnight as well as holding down a full-time job and being a mom to me and my three younger brothers. He passed away eight years later from complications with his kidneys and she had all this guilt that she hadn’t done enough.”
“Oh, man, that’s tough.”
“It was. She did everything she could to make sure he had a great life but she couldn’t see it. In her eyes, his death was her failure. He wouldn’t have seen it that way, though. He loved her so much. Showed her how much every single day. Showed us how much, too. For eight years, he fought against his limitations and fought hard. Even though he was confined to a wheel chair, he was just… this huge man. Great Dad, amazing husband. Dad worked as a mechanic working on motorcycles of all things. Never lost the love for them even after the accident.”
“Wow. That’s incredible.”
“It was,” she agrees, happiness floating across her face as she talks about her father. “He didn’t want to be a burden to her, physically or financially, and was determined to contribute. He helped with laundry and cleaning and cooked. He made it look easy. Not once did I hear him complain or curse the chair. He just… accepted it. Said that if he lived life angry because of his situation, it would have made everyone’s life hell and he wouldn’t allow it to happen.”
I shift us so her legs are draped over my thighs. I rub over her shins, up and down. She watches my hands move and I tell her, “He doesn’t just sound like a great dad. He sounds like a phenomenal dad.”
Her blue eyes are shining with tears when she raises them, looking up at me. “He really was.” A tear makes a trail down her cheek and she makes no move to stop the next few that follow.
“This was how they would sit. Dad’s best friend built them this couch that basically had a space for his wheelchair in the center of it so he could sit with us rather than off to the side, away from the family. There was this removable section, where he could wheel into it if he wanted. And the sides were built low enough that if he wanted to sit on the couch, he could push up and out of his chair and slide onto it. Mom would face him, her back against the arm rest of the couch and he would reach over, drape her legs over his. I remember, before, when he wasn’t in the chair, they’d sit the exact same way. He always wanted her close. She always needed to be close.”
When she finishes telling the story, the tears are streaming down her cheeks so I reach over and thumb a few away. She lifts a shoulder as if to say, what are you gonna do?
“I take it when he passed, your mom wasn’t only feeling a bit of misplaced guilt, but she was also grieving the loss of the love of her life.”
“Right.”
“You said she was messed up?”
“She was. That guilt turned into this weirdness where she felt like she’d missed out on a lot. Looking back, I figured out it was because of a certain friend she had in her life who made her feel that way. Mom would spend her evenings going out with friends instead of being home with us. I had to care for my younger siblings for a few years. Make sure their school papers were signed and homework was done and they were awake on time, meals were on the table, and they were going to the dentist every six months. Right before the end of my senior year in high school, it was as if Mom’s eyes were opened again and she got back to being a mom. By then, though…”
“You’d already established being a caretaker,” I guess. “Losing your dad, having to step in and be a parent. It’s a lot on anyone, let alone a… how old were you again?”
“It’s okay. And I was fifteen.”
“Fifteen? That’s a hard age, right?”
She smiles and it isn’t sad or resigned or anything else I would expect from someone who pretty much didn’t have a chance to screw up during her teenage years. “It wasn’t bad. Just, shaped me a little bit, I guess.”
“Hey, you just heard how much mine shaped who I became. I think that’s normal, don’t you?”
“I suppose. But for me, I didn’t necessarily use it for good.”
“What do you mean?” I keep playing with her hair, letting the strands slide through my fingers then rest a hand on her shoulder.
“I’m a caretaker by nature and let that filter over into my marriage. I knew the way Scott was, needing someone to handle basically everything, wasn’t right. I knew deep down that marriage was a partnership but it was easy for me to fall for someone who brought me comfort, even if it was only because that’s what I was used to.”
She leans closer to me when I say, “Comfort because he allowed you to take care of him like you had been doing for your family for years? And when you left to go to college, it felt like you were missing something?”
“Yeah.” Her reply is quiet, soft, sweet. So sweet. Everything about her is. Nibbling on her bottom lip, she looks at me with a bit of fear in her eyes. “Makes me a little bit weak, huh?”
I feel my body go rigid beneath her legs. I know that’s what Scott fed her with for years. Projecting his own weakness and making it about her. What a tool. “Scott is a grade-A asshole if he made you believe that was anything resembling weak to care for him and love him the only way you knew how. He’s the weak one here, sweetheart. He is. Not you. He took advantage of your kindness and ability to be selfless and put others’ needs before your own and he ran with it. Don’t think for one single second that you are weak. You’re so far from it. I’ve been on the receiving end of that goodness and selflessness on more than one occasion so I can say with authority that it’s more than a good thing. And you caring for others? That makes you strong. Because you can recognize others’ needs while living your life. You have a soft spot for people, and my guess is you enjoy helping. That’s a gift and he’s an idiot for making you think anything else.”
Chapter Eighteen
Cami
Who is this guy and why does he hide away up here all alone?
“Owen?”
“Yeah?” His head is turned to face me and his hands are resting on my legs, his face is scruffy from what I imagine is a few days of not shaving. Though, come to think of it, since I met him, he’s always had a nice layer of scruff covering his face. When he was between my legs, I noticed it. Loved it. Felt it through my core how incredible that little bit of facial hair is.
I let my fingers roam through it. It’s the oddest combination of coarse and soft. Scott always kept his face completely clean of any facial hair. Though, I think the reason for that was more because he couldn’t grow a full beard if his life depended on it.
The differences between the two men is staggering.
Where Scott was soft, Owen is hard.
Owen’s body is built from years of hard labor.
Scott’s body is built from years of getting manicures and meeting friends for lunch and drinking beer on the golf course.
Owen is understanding and doesn’t throw what I think are my flaws against me like Scott did, always trying to bring me down several notches. Rather, he shows me the goodness in those things and compliments me on them.
I lived for eight years being led to believe that I couldn’t do better than Scott and that he was what I was worthy of. That my lot in life was to give up myself for someone else without receiving anything in return.
I’ve been in Owen’s presence for eight days and I know that was a lie. He makes me feel like I’m allowed to get back if I give. That I’m a good person for caring for others. Even without knowing, I know Owen would sooner cut off a foot than make me feel like my faults defined me.
“You’re a good, good man, you know that?”
He groans good naturedly. “Is that the equivalent of calling a guy nice?”
I smile, lean over, and kiss him lightly on the l
ips. “It’s far better.”
He doesn’t let me get too far, taking over the kiss and keeping me close. It starts slow, exploring and testing each other as if it’s our first time. Our heads tilt side to side as we learn what each other likes. His hands slide into my hair and his fingertips dig ever so slightly into my scalp. I’ve noticed he likes my hair, touching it and even smelling it when he doesn’t realize I notice.
Owen’s large body moves over top of me, laying me back against the couch. Our hands link together above our heads as our mouths fuse together. But then it turns hot and heavy and we’re both moaning and ripping our hands away so we can touch skin. I love that he takes control. Likes what he likes and isn’t shy about twisting me and moving me around to please him but in doing so, pleasing me, too. He’s always watching me, paying attention to the signs that I give him as to what I like. And we’ve barely been together but I know it to be true. He’s attentive and focused on learning what I like.
He grumbles and curses the blanket I’m still partially wrapped in, lifting his body up slightly so he can rip it away and toss it aside. I hear a glass tip over and liquid spill but he doesn’t seem to care, or maybe he doesn’t notice. Either way, neither of us pay it any attention as we continue to kiss and touch and grope.
Beneath his too big for me boxer briefs, I’m naked. The cotton material is smooth and velvety against my skin; it’s highly erotic, or maybe intimate. Wearing his clothes, his smell surrounding me. If he would slide his hand right between my legs and find me wet and waiting for him.
“I want you,” I whisper, tilting my head back to allow for him to kiss my neck. He pays special attention to the area where my neck meets my shoulder and oh my gosh it’s incredible. An erogenous zone I never knew about myself until Owen came along and blew everything I once thought out of the water.
“I want you, too,” he says and I can feel his breath and smile against my skin and it’s enough to make me squirm and wiggle around, needing him to press against me so I can find some relief.
“Bedroom? I want space to play.”
He raises his head to look down at me and what I see in his face makes my stomach twist. “I fucked up.”
“Huh?” I ask, panicked.
“I told you it’d been a while? I’m not necessarily… prepared.”
“For what?”
He sits up and I do the same. Motioning between us, he explains, “For this.”
“Use your words, Owen,” I sass.
“Understand what I’m saying, Cami,” he smarts back with a hint of tease.
I watch as he raises his eyebrows, waiting for me to clue in. “Condom?” I guess.
“Yes.”
“You don’t have any?”
“Nope.”
My lips twist and I scrunch my nose. “Well, shit.”
He barks out a laugh. “Right.”
I truly don’t know what to do. Do I trust Owen? Yeah, I really do. I haven’t been with anyone for a very long time and I was tested the day after I asked for a divorce from Scott. Birth control is taken care of, but still… having sex without a condom with someone who I’m technically not in a relationship with feels very careless.
“There’s no pressure,” he tells me, sensing my inner turmoil. “If you’re not okay with it, we can do other stuff.”
“Other stuff?” I giggle.
He rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean. I’m trying to be a gentleman here.”
“I appreciate that. What do you want to do?”
“Wrong question.”
I understand what he means. “Okay, how’s this. Do you trust me?”
“Yes. Do you trust me?”
I answer without hesitation the same as he did. “Yes.”
“Neither of us have been with anyone in a while. I’m on birth control and clean. If we trust each other…”
“I had my physical about six months ago and I was clean. Have the paper in my file if you want proof. I needed it for my insurance company.” His offer is sweet and maybe a little over the top, but sweet is taking over because I may have said I trust him, but he’s giving me further proof.
“I meant what I said. I trust you.”
He stands quickly, tugs me after him and then we’re on the move, down the hallway toward his bedroom. I look behind me and see the fire still going. “Do we need to worry about that?”
“It’ll be fine.”
Okay then.
We cross the threshold into his bedroom and he spins around, pressing me against the wall next to the open door. His hands pin mine above us and suddenly we’re ravenous. Biting and licking and sloppy kissing. I can’t get enough of him and he can’t get enough of me.
I cry out when he rips my shirt over my head, my hair flying all around me. And then he’s back on me. Pressing his hard body against me, I’m pinned between him and the wall and it’s an incredible place to be.
He runs the tip of his nose across my cheek and whispers huskily into my ear, “Don’t move. You hear me, Cami?”
“Yes,” I pant.
“Good girl.”
I’m so glad I’m a good listener because the way his tongue is twirling around my nipple as his hands work on his boxers to remove them from my body is making my knees go weak. Then he continues down his path and is on me and I’m reminded of how good his scruff feels between my legs.
I’m writhing against his mouth, doing my best to stay standing but everything he’s doing is too much. I grab the back of his head and he immediately stops, raising those deep hazel eyes to look up at me and raises his eyebrows to remind me that I had one job here and I’m currently not doing it.
“Sorry, sorry. It’s just… keep going. Okay. Don’t stop.”
“I assumed that’s what the hand to the back of my head meant.”
“Owen,” I bark, impatient because what he was doing was fun and I want him to get back to it.
He chuckles and gets back to work, but only after my hands are back above my head. It’s a lot of work, standing upright and keeping my arms raised when I’m really not in great shape to begin with. Goodness. I need to do some pushups. Maybe a few curls with a five-pound dumbbell or something.
My arms are burning, my legs are quaking, and I know I’m dripping. I can feel his lips graze against my inner thighs and it makes my eyes roll into the back of my head. He picks up one of my legs and rests it on his shoulder. My back arches and eyes flutter close when his lips leave my thigh and moved to my center. Licking and sucking and inhaling.
“Owen.”
He keeps at me, even when I lose the effort of keeping my arms above us and my hand once again finds his head and my hips swivel in a circle, grinding against his mouth and he moans. The vibration going through my core and I cry out, “Owen!”
When his thumb joins the party, I don’t hold back. It comes at me in waves and bless him, he rides out every single one right along with me. Licking me and using that magic thumb at my clit to send me over the edge.
And then I’m up, my leg no longer on his shoulder and my feet no longer on the floor.
My back hits the mattress as I’m still trying to catch my breath, eyes to the ceiling until I notice movement to my left. Not wanting to miss the joy of seeing Owen undress, I turn toward him just in time to see him pull his t-shirt over his head and strip out of his lounge pants. I had a feeling he was going commando under those pants — and maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t know for sure or we would have never talked or made dinner or relaxed in front of the fire.
I’m completely sated, but that doesn’t mean I’m anywhere near done. I’m so ready to feel him inside me and by what I’m seeing, he’s ready for the same thing.
My eyes are trained on his hardness and my breathing grows heavy. “You’re beautiful.”
“Never been told that before.”
“It’s true.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” He winks and I almost melt into a puddle. “Last chance, Cami.” He picks u
p my feet and removes my fuzzy socks. I didn’t even realize I was still wearing them. How embarrassing.
“Didn’t like those?”
“Oh, they’re adorable. But I figure it’s only fair if you’re completely naked, too.”
Once they’re removed, he climbs over me, kissing his way across my stomach before his arms are cradling my head and he’s looking down at me.
“Not changing my mind, Owen. I want this. I need this. Please,” I beg.
And then I feel the tip of him against my center and my knees are dropping to the sides, opening myself up to him and making room. I grip his sides and he bends low, taking my mouth captive as he slowly begins to enter me. We moan together as he moves, torturing us both in such a delicious way.
I want him inside but I also want him to take his time.
“Ready?” he asks, his face is strained, as if he’s holding back.
We can’t have that, though.
“Get on with it, Owen. I’m not a delicate flower. Just do it already.”
And he does.
He plunges inside until he’s completely seated. He moves, swiftly and rough and hard. The sounds of us filling the air in his bedroom, making it that much sexier.
I whimper when he reaches down and throws both of my legs over his shoulders, my hips rising up off the mattress. I wrap my hands around his sexy as hell, muscle-bulging biceps and he keeps his planted on my hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh and holy crap, if I thought we had something before this is unbelievable.
My head digs into the bed and I feel myself soaring once again. I start breathing hard and he’s grunting, whispering, “Cami.” My name on his lips sends me once again over the edge. His eyes are on me and he bends low, kisses me to swallow my orgasm. It’s barely left me before he flips me over, lifts my hips again, and positions me so I’m on my hands and knees and then he’s slamming inside.
Face turned to the side, my cheek planted against the mattress, his hand between my shoulder blades, hips thrusting. Our skin slaps against each other and our breaths are heavy.
Staying For You Page 16
