~*~
He should have gone home with Noel. God knows he needed the distraction of mindless sex. But all he could see was Jesse’s face, Jesse’s eyes, and Lord help him, Jesse’s body. Mostly Jesse’s eyes though.
Instead of having distracting sex with Noel, he was standing outside of Jesse’s apartment with a bottle of absinthe, like a damn fool.
But he wasn’t going to knock on the door. Because if he knocked on the door, she might open it and they might end up in bed together.
Which would be a mistake.
He’d decided that the minute he discovered that she was not in fact married to aka, the jerk, Wayne Holbrook.
Because while she might still think of yours truly as just part of her bucket list, he was determined to build this thing between them into a relationship. It might take awhile, but he knew he could show her that he was capable of being every bit as civilized as her; that being with him wasn’t slumming it; that he was capable of talking to her without wanting to rip her clothes off. He was educated. He was disciplined. The gap between them had narrowed, and they could have something between them. A relationship. Something real.
So no sex.
And no knocking on the door.
But then Nick remembered her in his arms. Crap. They had gone up in flames. He had been sure one of them was going to come just from the friction of their bodies together. He had no control whatsoever where she was concerned.
So why was he here? He pressed his ear to the door and swore he heard her moving around. Yes. He heard water running and a door shut. The same restlessness he felt when he had tried to end the evening at his home without doing anything, struck him. He had to make a move.
So he knocked.
He heard footsteps and knew she was looking through the peephole in the door. A moment passed and he thought she was going to ignore him.
The door clicked open and she stood there.
Her face was bare of makeup and her nose was red from crying. She wore baggy shorts and he caught a glimpse of long tanned legs. And lord help him, she was wearing only a white tank top that showed her breasts in all their glory. He kept his focus on her eyes.
Sad, vulnerable eyes.
Nick wanted to wrap his arms around her and erase the sadness from her eyes. He wanted to make her smile, hold her, and convince her that he was good enough for her. At least for now.
“What do you want, Nick?” She glanced briefly at the brown bag in his hand but didn’t comment.
All the fancy words he had drafted in his head disappeared. He simply said, “You.”
They were alone. He saw the realization flicker in her eyes as he gazed at her. He reached out and brushed a lock of hair off her cheek. She didn’t move and he took that as a good sign.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he leaned into her, watching her eyes for any indication of rejection...scared to death of seeing one. But instead he saw desire. And fear.
Fear? It took every shred of his control to pull back. She was afraid of him. Of course she was. He had been acting like the street punk he used to be. She was a woman who was used to being treated with respect, even reverence, and he had been downright cruel to her.
“I’m not going to kiss you.” He wasn’t sure if he said it to reassure her or him. He could see that she didn’t believe him. As the seconds ticked by he saw her eyes widen when she realized he meant it. She made an impatient sound and yanked him forward.
“In,” she growled. Slamming the door shut she whirled around. “Okay, let me get this straight. You spend days insulting me, hating me, and making it clear as hell that you want to sleep with me...and then you show up on my doorstep and you’re not going to kiss me?”
She stood on her on her tip toes, the top of her head barely meeting his chin, she pressed herself against him and offered her lips to him, lightly brushing his throat with her own lips, trailing fiery kisses up...up...up.
He groaned, and his hands dove into her hair as he pulled her up and into hard, deep kiss. He felt the perfect way she fit against him, her smell, the curves, the fire between them. He was lost. He had been dreaming about this woman for what seemed his entire life. He knew he should stop; he knew there was a good solid reason for stopping, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember it.
Desire. He felt it, and he could feel it coming off of her in waves. It would have to be enough. He would make it enough.
Write On Press Presents: The Ultimate Collection of Original Short Fiction, Volume II Page 49
