“What made you walk away last night?”
“You did,” he says as if I should understand the answer. I don’t, so I stare at him as we make our way through the tall pillars lining the entrance route, watching the way he tries to avoid any more conversation. As far as I’m aware, I was asking him to carry on, begging actually.
“That’s not true, though. Because if…” He abruptly deposits me onto the church steps as we finally break out into fresh air. The light makes me squint, my hand rising to shelter my eyes from the sun pouring down onto us.
“If you had even the slightest comprehension of what I want to do to you, you’d be thanking me for the chance at escape, not stirring me into delivering more.” I wish the sentiment made me scared, but it doesn’t. If I’m honest, it enthuses me to some degree, my crotch already readying itself for more than it damn well got this morning. “And Delaney should have known better than to send you back to me.” Oh, Delaney is Priest. Okay. And, well, maybe he should have, but that’s not getting my story written, is it? Or furthering whatever this feeling is that Blaine produces in me.
“I don’t see what you think the problem is. What are you going to do? Break my bones?” For god’s sake. This is only kink. Sure, pain’s obviously involved, something I appear to be taking astonishingly well regardless of my aching frame, but it’s not like people die because of it. Not that I’ve heard of anyway. I stare at him for clues about that, nothing’s forthcoming other than a slight frown that I guess is because of the conversation. No, that’s silly. Dies? Stupid. This is just a practical lesson, that’s all. One I appear to be falling head over heels for, possibly stupidly, but he’s just providing a service of sorts, isn’t he? A dirty one, true, but it’s nothing he should be ashamed of or concerned about. “I came to you because I trust you to offer me something I’ve not experienced before. You’re doing it. I don’t know what you’re beating yourself up about. I’m asking.” This is all just something that needs doing. An exploration into the unknown for me, and nothing too arduous for him. If a little emotion comes into it then I’ll just deal with that, chastising myself along the way because it can’t be real. None of this can. Mystical encounters or not. Beautiful or not. “It’s just a job of sorts.” I nod at myself, trying to remember that fact. “For both of us,” I say, turning and walking down the steps, not really sure I believe my own thoughts in the slightest but searching for whatever car we’re getting into nonetheless. It’s not like he wants anything other than this. Me either. “Are we going? Which car?” There’s no response. Nothing. I swing to see why not. He just stands there at the top of the steps leading into a church. It’s the most incongruous vision possible, even more so than Priest was last night. It makes me giggle like a child, wondering if men like this should ever be able to go near a church. “Well, look at you, Mr. Jacobs. You just need a dog collar and you’ll fit right in.”
Five minutes he stands there, or at least it feels like it to me as I fold my arms and wonder what the hell he’s doing. He’s not doing anything, actually. He’s just standing, staring at me, his stance as rigid as I’ve ever seen it. He’s not smiling or giving off any of the relaxed impression he gave only a few seconds ago. He’s changed. Uncomfortable with something I’ve said maybe. And he’s boring his bloody eyes into mine, giving me no room to breathe without him allowing me to. It’s overwhelming, almost making me shake, just like he did last night as he drove himself inside me and showed me something new. It’s more than it was ten minutes ago and less than my heart tells me it should be. The thought makes me catch my breath as watch him start to walk down the steps, his legs travelling the ground comfortably and closing the space between us. I don’t know where it’s come from. My heart isn’t included in this arrangement. It never was, regardless of how much I’ve been feeling it weaken for him. It’s not part of the bargain. It’s an entirely ludicrous notion, one that fills me with trepidation as it keeps interrupting logic with every step he makes. I back away, refusing to acknowledge the way he’s crawled into my chest and desperate to keep the distance as far reached as possible. He’s Blaine Jacobs. My project. Research. He’s not to be reflected upon with any implication of attachment or romance. He’s just a man who’s good with his hands and lips, and everything else. Oh god, I’m really falling, aren’t I? No. I can’t.
I end up flicking my hair around, twiddling it under his gaze and pretty much letting him own every thought I’m having. That infuriates me enough that I eventually huff out a small breath and turn, reprimanding myself for many reasons, one of which is the fact that I’m becoming more involved than simple professionalism dictates, if fucking someone can be considered professional, anyway.
“What are you running from?” he says, his voice too close for comfort and his words sinking in more than I want to admit. Him, that’s what I’m running from. This isn’t romance. It can’t be. I didn’t ask for that and he doesn’t offer it. He knows it as well as I do. Whatever this little connection or interlude in our professional relationship is, it’s not happening again. Love inducing lips or not.
“Whatever that look was.” It’s the only thing I’ve got, because the thought scares me to death.
I’m walking away from his eerie impression on my skin before he has a chance to speak again. I have to, need to. Although, that’s going to be a tad difficult given the food we’re heading out for. Still, I’ll just find a way to manoeuvre my way around any conversation that involves feelings, because I don’t have any, and nor does he. It’s all about work. My book. And him having some fun with his over-zealous hands and my enthusiastic response to them, I suppose. We’ll talk about that instead.
So I wait by a car, unsure whether it’s the right one or not but hoping that if I seem uninterested in the discussion, he’ll just give it up.
“That’s why I backed away from you last night,” he says, his face arriving in my eye line on the other side of the car. And I’d like to act like I don’t know what he’s talking about, nullifying my heart’s inclination as I do. “To stop this before it started, Alana.” I’d also like to pretend those words go straight over my head, keeping me, us even, on track with the professional thought I’m attempting, but they don’t, because I do know now. I feel it in his walk, his brown eyed stare, and the way he smiles so sadly as he gazes at me. It seems we both know exactly what’s happening here.
Chapter 17
Alana
T he restaurant, for want of a better word, isn’t at all what I thought it would be. I assumed we’d go to some reasonably high-end place, one full of affluent people. It’s actually just a small side street eatery, full of people chattering and eating their lunch. It makes me smile, reminding me of times spent with Bree when we just opened up the laptops and started writing with little concept of time or the amount of drink consumed. Or of times long before her when I struggled to keep up with my studies, but somehow always managed to write words down regardless of tests and timetables. Writing was more important then than it is now. It was real. It evoked a passion I’m only just beginning to feel again because of the man opposite me. It meant something to my being. My soul bled into the scribblings, elongating the minutes drafting to hours, the hours turning into late evenings hammering the laptop, midnight occasionally creeping in to exhaust me further before I carried on again anyway until I was thrown out. Some of my best work has been written in places like this, the noise of the other people simply providing a monotone drone to lead me into whatever world I’m writing about. It’s not happened for a while, as we tend to write outdoors through the summer months. Actually, the real writing hasn’t happened forever, but this reminds me of the winter coming and the long sit-ins we do. The same ones I used to do all the time. It brings a hope into my mind again, one filled with memories of times gone by and true thirst. My smile grows wider as I realise the one thing I’m trying to deny. They’re hopes filled with the man in front of me, aren’t they? It’s all about how he’s making me feel. They’re d
reams filled with Blaine.
“What’s made you smile?” he asks, sipping his water and then forking another mouthful of pasta.
“This place,” I reply, placing my cutlery down and pushing the plate away slightly. “It’s not very you.” It’s true. He portrays something other than this. Something higher-end. And I’m not about to discuss feelings I shouldn’t be having anyway. Neither of us are.
“You wouldn’t know what me is.” My smile turns to more of a flattened smirk as I watch him raise a brow at me, his tongue running over his lower lip. It’s the most disconcerting moment of my life, because he’s got a point. It’s odd that we’ve done as much as we have in the bedroom, or out of it, and yet I know so little about who he is. It makes me feel awkward, as if we’re not connected regardless of the link we have in any form of sexual encounter. Not that I’m interested, because that would mean a closeness I’m not discussing. It quiets me again as I stare out of the windows into the road, my fingers fiddling with my napkin as I search for something else to talk about other than the one thing I real want to ask. It’s all felt a little odd since we’ve been here. Stilted, as if conversation about the average and ordinary is hard work, proving that we are obviously not average and ordinary at all.
“I was fourteen the first time I knew something was different,” he says, his own cutlery clunking the ceramic as he finishes his meal and picks up his water again. I reach for my notebook immediately, ready to scrawl information down and feel a sense of safety in that function again, but his hand reaches for mine, asking me not to without a single word. “Just for you.” I nod in reply, my own hand letting go of the leather and slipping from beneath his. “It might help you understand who you are. Who I am?” Good, because at this precise moment I don’t know anything about who I am, who he is, or what the hell I’m doing, let alone why my heart keeps interfering in conversations it has no business thinking about.
“Alright. What wasn’t normal?” He looks around him a little, noting the lack of tables nearby and signalling for a waiter.
“Do you want a drink?”
“Will I need one?” He snorts, laughing at my question and lighting up the room with his smile as he shrugs. The movement makes him seem younger, softer again, uncomfortable in his display of ambiguity maybe, but seemingly more beautiful because of it.
“You might. I certainly do. Hesitant is not my forte.”
“Really? I never would have guessed,” I quip, remembering every grab, slap, and hold that he has. Although, there are always those backwards steps. They’re always there, making him hesitant in my mind anyway, irrespective of his forceful ways.
“It’s not something you’ll see again in a hurry, so make the most of it.” I smile again, watching the way he seems nervous, his eyes locking with anything but mine.
“Well, I best have a drink, too, then.”
He orders something from the waiter, barely looking at him as he mouths out the order and then sends him on his way. I don’t know what it was. I’m suddenly transfixed in thought at the suggestion that something’s just for me. I don’t know why, especially given that we are not doing emotions in any way. Christ, I wish I could believe that.
“I’d slept with a range of women by then, and wasn’t able to finish successfully.” The words shock me, breaking me of my uncooperative emotional gaze. So much so that my mouth hangs open in surprise, unable to process the thought of Blaine not being able to come. That leads to visions of a younger Blaine, one who perhaps wasn’t as confident in his demeanour. It’s as inconsistent as seeing him on church steps. He laughs again, his hand reaching over to close my gaping jaw. “We were all young once, Alana. Don’t be so surprised.”
The waiter returns, depositing something on the table as I continue to stare at Blaine’s smiling mouth. I still don’t understand. What fourteen-year-old male can’t ejaculate? Assuming that’s what he means.
“I don’t understand. I mean, why?”
“I’ve never really known why. I only know how I overcame it.”
“Which was?” He sighs, suddenly looking remorseful. “It’s okay. It’s not like I’m going to write it.”
“I can’t do this here.” What does that mean? His eyes look around, once more searching the interior as if he’s bothered by the people milling around. It makes me look around, too, suddenly so interested in this information that I’m ready to go wherever he wants to so he can tell me.
“Somewhere else?” He nods, picking up his drink and turning from me to walk towards the end of the restaurant. I get up and follow him, happy to swipe my drink, too, and take a sip as I grab hold of my notebook and handbag. We swerve our way through the people, him occasionally looking back at me to check I’m still there, and then the unthinkable happens. He reaches his hand for mine, making me frown at it and stand still. I don’t know what’s so shocking about it. It’s not like we haven’t been intimate, but something about it seems more intimate than any amount of nakedness. It’s personal, showing a sense of ownership or possession. My mouth falters around my hand’s movement, unsure whether to say no or accept the offer. It’s everything I’m trying to avoid. It’s neither professional nor sensible. It’s probably stupid, but it doesn’t stop my need to reach forward and take hold of it. And he just holds it there, his body as solid and dependable as his ability to cause pain.
“What does that mean?” I ask, unsure what he’s offering and even more insecure about the answer that might leave his lips. Why is he doing this? He did it at the steps. The same thing. He’s trying to force a connection that neither of us should acknowledge. Why? Why would he even think about it?
“It’s just a hand.”
“You know as well as I do it’s not just a hand, Blaine.”
He doesn’t move, and he doesn’t remove the hand, rather leaves it hovering there, waiting for me to admit the inevitable. He doesn’t even look confused by the offer, which is completely juxtaposed to the way I’m feeling. In fact, he looks absolutely resolute, challenging every thought I’m trying to rebuff as he waits.
“I’m just offering the truth, Alana. That’s what you came for, isn’t it?” Does he mean that hand is the truth? Because if he’s trying to suggest that taking his hand will lead me to information relevant to my book, I think he’s wrong. It’ll lead to me falling fully in love with someone who is not for falling in love with. I know it and so does he. I’ve felt it too many times in the stars that rattle my mind when he touches me, pushing it away each time in the hope that it doesn’t encroach on the facts. This is not love. It isn’t. It’s lust. Infatuation. Obsession maybe, but it can’t be more than that.
I stare at it some more as a woman knocks into me, barely registering her weight until I feel myself wobbling around for balance. It makes me reach for him. I see it happening in slow motion, my fingers stretching to close the distance between us as I stare uselessly into his eyes. He doesn’t move, rather lets me fall, but just as I feel the floor coming at me, his name leaves my lips, a call for help maybe. I don’t know. It feels more than that, though, like something else is happening here, like there’s a pause, an epiphany running through the moment. The grip on my hand is instant, his arm wrenching me upright again and pulling me into him with little care for comfort. It’s simply a case of catching me—that’s all. A show of strength. A dependable show of strength maybe, but it’s just help. It’s nothing to do with the look in his eyes as his arm wraps around my back and presses me further into him. It’s also nothing to do with the fact that my lips are desperate to kiss him. It’s certainly not the fact that he’s looking at them as if they’re all he wants and the rest of the world doesn’t exist. He just caught me; that’s all. Nothing more.
“You caught me,” I splutter out quietly, unable to keep my eyes off his lips now. This is stupidity. He’s a sadist. Research. I’m not doing this. Oh god, I can’t do this.
“You asked me to. I’ve told you, all you have to do is ask.” The tone of his voice makes my
stomach swirl. It’s soft, unlike anything I’ve heard from him before now. It’s not demanding or demeaning. It’s quiet, and filled with a velvet I’m unused to. It’s debilitating to any sense of rationalism I’m trying to hold onto as it fills me with sentiments I don’t want. “You just have to ask, Alana.”
“What for?” He smiles, his long wide lips suddenly moving towards mine and filling our air with an intimacy I can’t avoid.
“Whatever you want.” He’s not suggesting what I’m thinking, is he? Surely not.
My head rears back as I shrug from his hold, part desperate to take him up on his conversation, probably allowing myself to fall hopelessly into the hands of a sadist as I do, and part ready to run for the hills at the thought. It’s an outrageous idea, one that fills me with excitement, escapism maybe, but it’s got no sanity to it. There’s no marriage here. No dreams of children and love ever after. He is a man who does what for a living? Creates pain? How would he know reality?
“That’s not what this is, Blaine.” The words stutter from me, trying to travel their way back inside the moment they’ve left my lips, proving I’m not even sure I believe them myself.
“Isn’t it?” I shake my head, trying to tell my brain to harden up. To remain professional.
“No.”
He smirks, arrogantly lifting my hand to kiss it. The move throws me completely off kilter, rendering me useless as I desperately try to picture the look in his eyes when he hurts me rather than this offering of a gentlemen. A beautiful one maybe, but he’s not suitable for anything other than what he does. I’ve seen it, felt it. Enjoyed it. Oh god, I’ve enjoyed it. And I’ve begun to fall for it in a way, am still falling if truth be told as his lips linger on my hand, but it’s not real. It’s all a lie, or a distraction. I don’t know, but it must be, regardless of my hearts continued flutter.
Once Upon A Page 29
