“I’m starving,” Meg cries. “You never told me the food here was so bland. Did you forget Daddy was a Cajun? I need spice!”
I start laughing. “I’ll email you a list of fabulous places to eat. I promise.”
We catch up for the next half hour. Meg does most of the talking. It’s nice to hear my sister’s voice. It’s comfortable to talk like this. And we never even considered Facetiming. We talk on the phone while doing some strange things—sitting on the toilet, changing tampons, cleaning. I swear, one time Meg was having sex with Patrick and talking to me. She said she was only giving him a hand job and called it multi-tasking. To this day, I don’t know if she was serious or not.
“How’s the blog going?” she asks. “Really wish you’d let me read it.”
It’s too personal for Meg to read. She’d cry, I know it. I don’t want that, so I give her a brief update on what I’ve been doing, some freelance pieces I’m working on.
“Doug ask you out?” she asks.
She’s not going to let this go, so I say, “No, but I’ve been hanging out with someone.”
“Hanging out? What are you, fourteen? It’s called dating. Unless, of course, you’re just hooking up. Then that’s a fuck buddy. So which is it?”
“Neither,” I say. “I mean, we aren’t dating, but it’s more than sex . . .” Oh, holy hell, I let that slip out.
“Sex!” I swear she screeched so loud she probably rang Big Ben. “You had sex? With someone other than yourself?”
“I don’t do that!”
“I don’t get that,” Meg says. “I’ve never understood that. Patrick is great and all, but I still need to . . .’
“Shut up!” I cry out. “I don’t want to hear that.”
“Fine, then who are you fucking but not dating?”
I pause for what seems a minute or two then whisper, “Holt.”
“Holt? As in my hot as hell neighbor, Holt?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, damn. He’s got sexy on speed dial, but he’s not really available. I mean, he works a lot and never dates.”
“Right, we aren’t dating,” I say.
“You—who’s only been with one man her whole life—are simply screwing?”
“Ugh, yeah, okay. I’m simply screwing him!” I hear a snap and turn. Holt is staring right at me, but I can’t gauge what he’s thinking. “Meg, I’ve got to go.”
I don’t take my eyes off Holt as Meg talks for a few minutes. She’s spouting off a list of fuck-buddy rules.
Number one: No sleepovers—oops, already broke that one.
Number two: Only see each other every other week—oops, broke that one, too.
Number three: Nothing resembling a date, like eating together—three for three.
Before I hear any more ways that I’m a fuck-buddy failure, I hang up. Holt steps to me in two strides, and now I know what I see in his eyes. He’s pissed, really pissed. “That was Meg and . . .”
“I thought you were waiting at my house?” he asks, his voice hard.
Wait, what? He doesn’t care about the screwing comment? Only that I came for a walk? “You were gone awhile, so I came outside.”
He releases a deep breath and picks up my hands, placing them on his neck. It almost burns. Ever put your cold hands under warm water? That’s what this feels like—stings like a mother.
“Your hands are like ice,” he says, and I realize he’s not mad, just worried. He was worried about me? I bury my body into his, sticking my nose into his shirt. “I told you it was getting colder out.” He keeps his arm around me, starting back towards the row of houses.
“Then you better get me inside and warm me up.”
I lead him to Meg’s house. After all, I’m supposed to be housesitting. I should at least spend some time there. As soon as the warm air from the house hits me, I realize how cold I really am and rush towards the kitchen. “Coffee, tea, hot chocolate?” I ask, rummaging through Meg’s pantry.
“No, thanks.”
Grabbing the boxes of hot chocolate and marshmallows, I quickly begin to make some. Normally I like homemade stuff, but instant will work just fine. I’m too cold to worry about it. I stick the mug in the microwave, look up, and find Holt staring at some pictures on Meg’s bookshelf. He holds it up for me to see.
“That’s me with the pigtails. Meg’s dad used to love to take us fishing,” I say, giggling.
“Are those cheeseballs on your hooks?” he asks, the idea of me as a little girl making him grin.
Nodding my head and smiling, I say, “Yep. That picture was taken right before Meg spilled the minnow bucket in the bottom of the boat.”
Holt laughs, placing it back down exactly where it was. He pulls something else down on Meg’s bookshelf. It looks like the leather spine of the scrapbook that Meg keeps with all my articles. “Meg keeps everything I’ve ever had published,” I say, taking my mug out and pouring in some marshmallows.
But he doesn’t answer. When I walk over and peek around him, I see why. It wasn’t the scrapbook. Placing the mug down, I take the album from him—my wedding album. I’ve never seen it. I didn’t know she even had it. I never even looked at the proofs from that day. Meg must have done this on her own, thinking one day I’d want it. Sinking into the sofa cushions, my fingers graze over Logan’s smiling face. The man was always smiling. Even in his sleep, he had a goofy little grin.
I flip through each page from beginning to end, remembering how I slept so peacefully the night before. What I ate for breakfast. My stomach flip-flops recalling the butterflies in my stomach when I saw Logan waiting at the altar for me. The memories of how I felt that day are so real. There’s a close up picture of just our hands, his simple gold band, and my wedding band and engagement ring. Both my rings had been his great-grandmothers. After the accident, I decided to return them to his family. His mother had protested, but it was the right thing to do. I turn to the last page, the picture of us getting into that damn limo. That’s where the story stops for me. That’s when my life stopped. Nothing else after that was important.
That is, until now.
The weight shifts on the sofa, and I’m reminded that I’m not alone. “That’s my Logan,” I whisper.
“You looked beautiful,” he says. “Happy.”
“I was,” I say and shake my head. “I’m sure you don’t want to see this.”
His hand lands on mine. “Don’t worry about me,” he says.
“I’m sure you don’t want to hear about Logan and me,” I say. “It must be weird for you to see pictures of me with another man.”
“A little, but he was a huge part of your life, and it’s natural that you’re going to talk about him sometimes. I understand that.”
“You don’t feel jealous or . . .”
“Please don’t worry about that,” he says.
Placing the album on the end table, I can’t believe how perfectly he’s handling this situation. It’s like he understands, somehow. He was honest that it’s strange for him, but understands that Logan will always be someone I talk about. The fact that he’s not threatened by that is huge for me. I couldn’t be with someone who couldn’t handle that.
“I buried my husband then got on a plane and didn’t come back except for quick visits until this Halloween,” I say.
“So you just what?” he asks.
“Took freelance writing job after freelance writing job. Mostly travel stuff, so it kept me on the move.”
“So what made you come back?” he asks.
“My long journey is over.”
“How do you know it’s over?”
“Because I can think about Logan and not cry. I can remember the happy times and smile.”
His eyes look hollow, like he’s in a black hole and has no idea if he’ll make it out. Pulling me to him, his lips crash into mine. Within seconds, our clothes are off, we’re on the floor, and he’s buried deep inside me.
There’s something desperate about the way he
’s grinding into me. Like fucking me is the only good thing he’s known in five years. Am I his way out of the fire? I told him I can’t be that. I’m barely strong enough to pull myself out. I cup his face in my hands, and his eyes open as his hips slow. I roll over on top of him, his fingers digging into my hips—hard. “Choose happy,” I whisper.
“Show me how,” he says softly.
I lean down and let my hair fall around his face. And in that moment, I know I lied. I know I’ll do anything to try to fix this man. To try to show him what I’ve learned, even if the flames burn me alive.
CHAPTER NINE
ANNALYSE
We spend the entire day together again, ending the night at his house with a long, quiet soak in his oversized tub. Holt uses his foot to turn the hot water nozzle, refusing to disrupt my comfy position on his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around me. There’s just something about being wrapped up in the right man’s arms that makes your heart believe anything is possible.
But the heart is a liar—a cruel, vicious liar.
It’s making me feel things that my head knows I shouldn’t. Holt told me he can’t love me. It was the first thing he said to me, so why is my heart telling me to believe the opposite?
Abruptly, I sit up and wipe water on my face before covering my chest with my hands. He simply leans up and gently rubs my back. “Cold?” he asks.
I nod and get to my feet, his hand running down my butt cheek as I step out of the tub and reach for a towel. Holt darts up and stops me, his fingers circling my hips.
“You have bruises,” he says, causing me to look down. He’s right. A couple tiny bruises grace my hips. He lightly grabs my hips, his fingers lining up with the marks on my flesh.
“Doesn’t hurt,” I say, reaching out to him, but he steps back.
“You’re hurt because of me.”
I can’t explain it, but I can see darkness cascade over him, like a storm you see coming over the horizon. His eyes get darker; his body seems heavier. The weight this man carries—whatever it is—is so huge, even the air in the room seems to change. I should be scared, but I’m not. I can see it in his eyes—the pain, the regret, the guilt.
“I just want to protect you,” he says, his voice low.
“Holt, I would tell you if you were too rough,” I say, stepping closer to him and stroking the stubble on his face.
His eyes spark, and he falls to his knees, kissing each bruise softly. “Think I need to show you how good gentle can feel,” he says, standing and picking me up. He carries me to the bed and lays me down, kissing my hair and whispering, “I want every inch of your body to remember me. Remember the pleasure I give you.” A little moan escapes, and he chuckles low in his throat. “I’m going to make you wait this time.”
“No,” I pout.
He raises his head and stares down at me. “You like it quick and dirty, don’t you?” he asks. Before Holt, I waited five years to have sex again, so my body must think it’s going to be sex deprived again, because he’s right. “Say it. Tell me what you like.”
“Quick,” I beg. “I need to come—now!”
“Demanding,” he smirks at me, pinning my arms overhead. “I’m the one who gives the orders, remember?”
I actually show my teeth. It’s like I’m a wild animal in heat. You know, the kind you see on Discovery Channel when sex looks more like a fight? He just leans down and kisses the tip of my nose. I wiggle my hips, grinding into the length of him, hoping I can catch just the right angle to push him inside. His tip lingers at my entrance—Yes! But just as I start to push into him, he lifts his hips up.
“Bad girl.” Then he lifts his eyes to mine and says, “I told you, no quick and dirty this time. This is a sweet fuck.”
Sweet fuck? Those words do not go together, but something about them makes my body relax. And Holt feels it too, releasing my wrists, his tongue finding mine and slowly exploring my mouth. This is the way he kissed me that first night on his patio—softly and sweetly. He’s winning me over already. There’s definitely something to be said for a patient man.
“Christ, you are so beautiful,” he whispers between kisses.
“Holt,” I say, my voice cracking. It’s much easier to have him talk dirty to me than to hear him say sweet things. Dirty talk equals fucking, not making love. At least, it’s easier to fool myself into believing that. I guess dirty talk happens when you love someone, too. But sweet talk doesn’t happen when it’s just sex. It means something more.
His head lowers to my breast, his tongue circling my nipple, and then I feel it a whole lot lower, my legs clenching together. His hand goes to my other breast, lightly pulling up the nipple while he sucks, licks, and circles the other with his warm mouth. A tightness builds in my thighs, and a wave of heat flashes over my body. I don’t know how, but I know I’m close. Another wave comes over me, and I say a few dirty words in my head.
He keeps his eyes locked on mine as he slides down my body. Clearly, he hasn’t given up on taking his time. He kisses my folds gently, like he’s kissing my face, and my legs push together, but he brings my thighs to his shoulders and lightly runs his tongue across me. “Don’t hold back,” he says. “You know I love it when you talk dirty.” His eyes close, and he moans, sending this incredible vibration though me. He’s being so gentle, so slow. It’s making me lose my mind.
“Fuck me with your tongue!” My eyes flash open. The whispered dirty words in my head have flown out of my mouth. His eyes catch mine, and he does exactly what I asked, slipping his tongue inside me. Oh, I like this game. Ask and I shall receive. It’s hot as hell watching his mouth work me, feeling him kiss me so intimately. He pushes my legs open wider to deepen the kiss. I feel myself clenching around his tongue over and over again.
He sucks down on me, hard. That’s exactly what I need. How did he know that? My back arches, a flash of white light pouring over me. And before I’m down from that wave, he slips inside me, sending me right back up again. The next wave shatters me. My entire body coils, then falls limp. My body trembling, my legs fall open as the weight of Holt’s body pushes me deeper into the mattress. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I pull him into a slow, soft kiss as he slides deep into me. His hands cup my face, and our eyes lock on each other. In this moment, nothing can touch us. The only burn we feel is for each other. The build-up is slow this time. And when I come again, Holt follows right behind me.
“Still like quick and dirty?” he teases, nuzzling in behind me.
“I like it all,” I admit. He busts out laughing, and I do, too. I roll over, and he pulls me close. “I love it when you laugh,” I say.
“Look who’s sweet all of a sudden,” he says.
I playfully smack him then get up. “I’m going to pee so you don’t have to order me this time.”
“Don’t get dressed,” he says, grinning.
Rolling my eyes, I walk to the bathroom. Guess he wants me to stay the night again since I’m not to get dressed. Searching his bathroom for a comb, my hair is a disaster. It’s still wet from the tub, but all knotted up and crazy looking from rolling around on the bed. Typical Holt, his bathroom drawers are all orderly with things lined up perfectly. His being anal as hell makes it easy to find the comb.
I finish up and walk back towards his bedroom. His back is to me, and he’s standing at the dresser in a shirt and shorts. The top drawer is open, just like the other nights. I think I hear his voice, but I’m not sure what he’s saying. Does he do this every night?
Feeling like I’m trespassing on some intimate moment, I take a couple steps back, and the floor squeaks. His head whips around as his hand slams the drawer shut. “You got dressed,” I say.
“You doing small talk now?” he asks.
I know he’s daring me to ask him. His voice sounds almost threatening, but in more a defensive way than in attack mode. “Trying.”
He holds out his hand, motioning towards the bed, and we both crawl in. He rolls to his side and pulls me to
him—my back to his front. We lay there in silence for a few minutes. Ever notice how silence can be thundering sometimes? I can’t stand it. “What’s her name?” I ask.
“Who?”
“The woman who’s got this hold on you.”
“Annalyse,” he whispers.
I giggle and roll on my back so I can see him. “What’s in the drawer?” He moves to get up, and I grab his shoulder. “I’m assuming it’s pictures of an ex-girlfriend or some other keepsakes.”
“This isn’t part of our agreement,” he bites out.
I pull the covers up to my chin, suddenly feeling very small. “I showed you all those pictures of Logan. I just thought it might make you feel better to talk . . .”
“Do I need to remind you what we’re doing here?” he barks. “Didn’t you tell your sister we’re simply screwing?”
That’s it, now I’m pissed. I fly up out of bed, searching for my clothes. “Yeah, but here’s the thing about being someone’s fuck buddy, Holt. You’ve obviously got the fucking down, but you are missing out on the buddy part of the equation. I thought we were at least friends, too.”
I throw my clothes on. I can’t get out of here fast enough, but when I reach the doorway, I realize what just happened and turn back. “I know what you’re doing.” His eyes turn towards me, and I know I’m right. I can see the sorrow in them. “I did the same thing for a long time. Someone starts to get too close, and you push them away any way you can. It hurts too damn much to be close to someone again. It’s too scary. So you’re being a hateful bastard to push me away, too.” His eyes flicker, and I know I’ve gotten to him, but he doesn’t move or speak. “Congratulations, you’re doing a really great job of fucking this up.”
The Dirty Truth Blog
November 11
The weight of a man
I love the feel of a man’s body on top of mine. There’s something unexplainable about it. It’s power, protection, warmth and love all at the same time. There’s no other feeling like it in the world. That delicious feel of him sinking into you. No, this post isn’t turning into a porn article. I have a point.
The Reason for Me Page 9
