by J. Haymore
“Mmm.”
“Is your nipple hard?”
“Yes. It’s hard…tight, and sensitive.”
“Touch it for me. Pinch it.”
I pinch it, and I gasp as sensation zings straight down to my center.
“Good,” he murmurs. “So good.”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Put me on speaker,” he commands. “You need both hands.”
I comply immediately. “You’re on speaker.”
“Touch both your breasts now. Stroke them. Cup them. Squeeze your nipples between your thumb and forefinger.”
I follow his orders as he leads me through a very thorough teasing of my breasts, making me imagine it’s him touching me like this, until I’m so turned on I’m gasping for air.
“Good,” he purrs. “Now keep your left hand on your breast and slide your right hand down over your pussy.”
I do it. I don’t even hesitate. His voice is soft, gently commanding, so damn sexy I want to swallow it up through the phone. I want to kiss him and touch him and lick him and take him inside me. I groan with my hand cupping myself. “I want you here with me.”
“I am here with you. I’m imagining how you feel under my hands. You’re so soft, baby. Slip your fingers over yourself. You’re wet, aren’t you? And hot. So hot…”
I am wet, and the dampness is hot, and slick, and I’m so sensitive, I moan.
“Was that your clit?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Touch it again.”
I do, and I moan again.
“Keep doing that,” he says. “Just like that. Stroke it.”
I stroke it, and it grows more sensitive, more achy, under the pads of my fingers.
“I need you, Ethan.” I feel like I’m whining, but my voice is no more than a wispy breath of air.
“I’m right here. Right here with you,” he soothes. “Keep touching yourself.”
“But you—”
“I’m so hard for you, Tara. Nothing is hotter than thinking of you touching yourself. Of hearing you…”
“You should touch yourself too,” I breathe.
“I want to. You have no idea how much.”
“Do it, then.”
“I’m in the office.”
I stroke my fingers over myself again. “The door is closed,” I remind him. “Will anyone come in?”
“No, but—”
“I keep imagining the ridge of your erection under your slacks,” I breathe, then whimper, because, my God, I am so sensitive. “Will you touch it for me? I want to imagine it’s my fingers touching you…”
He’s quiet for a moment, then says in a strangled voice, “I’m touching it.”
“How…how does it feel?” It’s so hard to talk, to maintain the thread of any conversation when my body is unraveling.
“Damn good,” Ethan says plainly.
“Unbutton and unzip your slacks,” I order. “I want skin on skin, Ethan. I need you to tell me how your cock feels under your hand.”
Oh my God. I almost can’t believe I am saying all this. That these hot, sexy words are coming from me.
I hear the thin sound of the zipper over the line, then there’s another moment of silence before Ethan hisses out a long breath. “Fuck.”
My lips curl with satisfaction.
“You still touching your clit?” he asks me.
“Oh yes.”
“Thinking of me?”
“There’s nothing else but you, Ethan,” I tell him honestly. “No one.”
“Good,” he says.
We’re both silent for a moment—except for the heavy breaths we trade over the line. I keep stroking myself, imagining his hand curled around his cock and pumping, and I grow even wetter, even more sensitive.
“Are you starting to get close, baby?”
My upper thighs are quivering. My clit feels so sensitive, it almost hurts. But the pain is the best kind of pain there is, because if I drive through it, it will bring me pleasure.
“Yes,” I breathe out. “I’m close.”
“Me too.”
I think of him, how he grows harder, bigger, in the moments before his orgasm. How his lips part and his eyes narrow. How he looks at me just before he comes.
And I let go. The climax explodes deep inside me, and I gasp, arching back on the bed, my hips jutting up as if they’re searching for contact with someone…with Ethan.
“God, Tara,” Ethan says in a choked voice. Then he whispers a strangled Fuck and as the last of the contractions rolls through my body, I hear his choking breaths on the other end of the line as he comes too.
I lie back, sated and content, a small smile curling my lips. Neither of us says anything for a moment, then Ethan’s voice comes over the line, soft and sexy. “You can’t know how much I want to be lying beside you right now.”
“Me too,” I sigh. I close my eyes and imagine Ethan putting himself back together, looking like the GQ-hot businessman that he is.
“Why are you there so late?” I murmur.
“Working on closing a deal that’s been waiting for my return.”
“Anyone else there with you?”
“Donna.”
In the blink of an eye, my stomach twists into knots. First Justine, now Donna. I hate this feeling. But not as much as I hate the fact that Ethan’s with some other woman and not me.
Grow up, Tara. He’s just working. You know he’s just working.
But he keeps secrets from you. This could just be another one.
I open my mouth, trying to think of something light to say, like, Keeping her late again? You’re a horrible boss! But I can’t. I just can’t speak. My throat has closed.
“Tara?” Ethan’s voice is soft. Questioning.
“What?”
“Something wrong?”
“Nope.” I try to make it sound light, but I fail. Miserably. I’m a terrible liar.
“Donna’s a great assistant.”
I don’t say anything, because what the hell? Way to make me feel even worse, Ethan.
“And I feel terrible for keeping her late,” Ethan continues. “Her husband is having to put her twins to sleep—did I tell you she has two-year-old twins?”
“No,” I say. Already the knots are loosening. Ethan keeps secrets, but he’s not the kind of man that would fool around with a married woman with two-year-old twins.
And he’s telling me this for a reason. He’s not accusing me of jealousy, but he’s soothing it by telling me more about Donna.
“Well, she does. Unfortunately, though, the twins don’t like their dad putting them to sleep. They whine for Donna every time.”
“Poor kids,” I say.
“Poor dad.” There’s a smile in his voice. “But I’d never get this done without her. Trust me when I say she’s going to get a hell of a bonus this year.”
“I’ll bet.” The jealousy has faded to almost nothing, and that sated, postcoital relaxation has washed over my body.
Ethan sighs. “I’d talk you to sleep, baby, but I have to get this done.”
“Don’t keep Donna after midnight, okay?”
“I won’t,” he promises. “See you tomorrow.”
“Yes,” I say drowsily. “Night.”
When I hang up, I have the sweetest dreams about putting little cherub-faced twins to sleep. Except the twins aren’t Donna’s, they’re mine. Mine and Ethan’s.
Justine
What is wrong with this girl? Honestly, I thought the show I put on at the airport would freak her out and scare her away completely, but nope. The crazy little bitch is back for more.
And I miscalculated Ethan’s reaction too. He knows I’m close by. He KNOWS it. And he’s ignored that fact and crawled back to her, presumably to beg her forgiveness for the scene at the airport. It’s like he’s deliberately trying to taunt me. To make me take action yet again.
Has Ethan forgotten that he’s mine and mine alone? I understood our separation, I truly did
, at least at first. But I don’t see why we can’t be together now. I just need to get all these obstacles to our happiness out of the way. He’ll have me back—I know he will. Things are destined to be just like they were back in college. I was so happy then. I was radiant with joy.
Diary, why don’t people understand that if they’d simply follow my lead, I can be a reasonable person? Why do they force me, over and over again, to take these extreme (and extremely difficult to coordinate) measures? It’s so draining. I just want to be with Ethan without all these goddamned complications.
Honestly, I want to put all that happened on that boat behind us. I just grew so damn angry at O’Riley’s updates. “He kissed her today.” “They can’t keep their hands off each other.” “He nearly jumped her while they were on watch tonight…”
Blah blah blah. Gag. When he sent me the message that they’d slept together and there was all kinds of ecstatic moaning emanating from their room, I couldn’t take it anymore. In a fit of pique, I told him to abandon ship and set the timer on the explosive device I’d had him bring aboard. Of course, I was angry when I said that. I wasn’t thinking straight. Jesus Christ, Ethan could have been hurt!
By the time I came to my senses, it was too late. I had to wait almost twenty-four hours in a true state of hell thinking Ethan might be injured, or God forbid, dead. Thank God he came through relatively unscathed. Still…I need to be careful. If I let my frustration grow to that point again, someone could get hurt. Someone I actually care about, that is.
All I want is to have that joy Ethan and I had back. And I’ve worked so hard for it, Diary. I’m not giving up.
I need to stay in control. Ethan being so far away, so out of my reach… I just couldn’t take it. But he’s close now, and I’m feeling more clearheaded. I can control this. I can do this in a calm and efficient manner. I just need to be careful and thoughtful about each and every step I take.
After the sailboat fiasco, I was willing to give Little Sister a chance. After all, I do possess a grudging respect for her for surviving all that I put her through. But she still keeps turning to Ethan. For friendship, for support, for comfort, for sex, and for goddamned love. With her in the picture, Ethan has no room for me to turn to him for those things.
Screw respect. I actually hate the bitch.
Now I need to think carefully about those stronger measures I need to take YET AGAIN.
Fuck. Why are people such idiots?
Chapter Thirty-One
I wake up to a foggy July Southern California morning and lie in bed for several minutes. The dream about the twins was so…happy while I was having it. But now, it feels wrong. I’m only twenty-one. I’m nowhere near having kids. Kids are not even on my radar—or at least they shouldn’t be.
My subconscious is having happily-ever-after thoughts about Ethan—that must be it. And that’s wrong too. I haven’t even begun to unravel what makes him so complicated. Why he has so many secrets. Who knows what he’ll do next¸ or what will happen between us.
It’s true that I love him. That hasn’t changed, even after the Justine fiasco. But I can’t be thinking I want to spend my life with him.
Can I?
Maybe I can.
That thought is scary enough to make me groan and cover my head with my pillow. After a couple of minutes, I throw it off and head into the shower. I run apricot-scented bodywash all over myself, as if that will scrub away all these disconcerting thoughts. I’m too young to be having thoughts like this, I tell myself. It’s too early. I’ve never played the field. Never sowed my wild oats.
I need to stop thinking about the future. I need to start enjoying the moment. Like other people my age.
I throw on a pair of jeans and a fitted tee and quickly blow-dry my hair. I shrug into a light jacket as I walk into my living room, only to find Kyle sitting on my couch. He hears me coming and looks over his shoulder at me. The look on his face makes me sigh. He’s not happy. Then again, I didn’t expect him to be.
“Hey,” I say casually. “How long have you been waiting?” A quick glance at the clock tells me it’s just after eight.
“About an hour.”
My brows peak. Kyle has never been an early riser, but I don’t want to get to the bottom of why he’s here yet. I need coffee first. “Want to go grab some breakfast?” I ask.
“Sure.”
I zip up my jacket and grab my bag, and we go out into the foggy morning. We decide to walk, since Sue’s Coffeehouse is only a few blocks away, and it would take longer to drive there and find parking than it will to walk.
“How’s your leg?” Kyle asks about a block into the trek. He hasn’t spoken until now.
I think about it for a second, which is strange in and of itself. I usually think about my leg and my limp every time I walk in public.
“It’s good,” I say. “It doesn’t ache.” It generally does when the weather gets cool and damp like this.
“Good,” he says.
And we’re quiet the rest of the way to the coffee shop. Kyle stuffs his hands into his jeans pockets and doesn’t make eye contact.
I’m really not loving the new Tara-and-Kyle dynamic. There’s no ease, no comfort. Instead, it’s painful and awkward.
We get to Sue’s and find a booth. I get coffee and toast, while Kyle orders a breakfast burrito. I see the waitress eyeing Kyle appreciatively, but I don’t react. I have seen this so much over the years that I’d be surprised if the waitress didn’t look at him.
After I take a few sips of coffee, I find my voice. “So what are you doing today?”
He shrugs. “I should be job hunting.”
“But…?”
Another shrug. “Don’t feel like it.”
I sigh, take a sip of coffee. “I’m going shopping.”
“For what?”
“Clothes, mostly.”
Kyle makes a disgusted noise—his old self slipping through. Kyle hates shopping of any kind, but he’d rather lie on nails than go clothes shopping.
“You going surfing, then?” I ask.
“Maybe.”
The food arrives, and I get busy buttering my toast. When I’m done, I look across the table. Kyle hasn’t dug in. He hasn’t touched his food at all. His lips are twisted and his green eyes look bright in the restaurant lighting as he stares at me.
Slowly, I lower my toast. I place my knife next to it. “What?”
He shakes his head. “You know.”
I close my eyes in a long blink. When I open them again, his expression hasn’t changed.
“Why, T?” he asks quietly.
Shit, not again. I nearly groan out loud. I don’t know, Kyle… I don’t know! I wish I did. I wish there was something I could tell him that would make him feel better. But there’s nothing.
“It’s because he’s so rich and successful, isn’t it? Because he’s so driven and I’m not? I keep thinking that’s the only thing it could be.”
“It’s not that, okay?” I say with a sigh. Kyle’s obviously been obsessing over this question, and I need to nip it in the bud. “But I don’t know what it is. I really don’t.”
Is it the way Ethan looks at me? The way he holds me? The way he talks to me? The way I feel around him? In the end, I don’t know what it is…except chemistry. Ethan and I have it in spades. I just don’t feel it with Kyle. But I can’t tell him that.
He looks down at his food, picks up his fork, and stabs at a bit of egg, which he eats mechanically. “This sucks.”
“Yeah,” I agree. Because it does.
We eat in silence for a few moments. Then he looks back up at me. “You’re okay now. You’ve got…him. I need to back off. Stay away for a while.”
A lump rises in my throat immediately. Since my parents died, the only time Kyle hasn’t been close to me was when I was in college on the East Coast. But even then, I knew he was a text or phone call away. And since my sister died, he’s been a constant in my life.
But he’s ri
ght. I know he is.
“I hate this,” I say softly, letting him know with my tone that I really do.
His lips twist wryly. “Not as much as I do.”
“This isn’t forever, right? Just some time you need to take?”
“I don’t know,” he admits.
My fingers curl into a fist by my thigh. “You know I don’t want to lose you, right?”
“I know. But I need to figure out if I can…” He purses his lips. “You’re fucking with my head, Tara.”
I wince, because I thought that exact same thing about Ethan, and not so long ago. “I don’t mean to.”
“I know. Doesn’t change the fact, though.”
We’re quiet for a long minute. I look down at my toast, appetite completely gone. My fingers twitch with the desire to grab on to Kyle and tell him not to leave me, that I need him.
But that’s codependent, and just wrong. Not to mention unfair to Kyle. But I’m going to miss him so much. He’s always been my link to sanity. To life.
“All right,” I say quietly. “Take as long as you need. But you know how I feel about this. I’m going to put up a fight if you cut me off completely.”
“Do you think that’s fair?” Now there’s an edge of anger in his voice, and my cheeks go hot.
“I don’t know. I just can’t handle losing you.”
His lips tighten. “I’ll be around. If you end things with Williams, or vice versa, you’ll know where to find me.”
“Even if I do end things with Ethan, I don’t think I can—”
He raises his hand to cut me off. “I get it, Tara, okay?”
“Okay,” I say, chagrined.
God, I feel like such an asshole. I make no sense, even to myself. I see why Kyle thinks I’ve been fucking with his head.
“I’m going.” Kyle slaps down a twenty and stands. “See you around.”
My mouth goes dry, and I actually have to grip the edge of my seat to keep myself from lunging at him. But I need to tear him off me. Like a bandage, it’s going to be excruciating. Painful. But it needs to be done. Maybe our relationship has devolved to codependency—I don’t know. But this needy, desperate feeling I’m having isn’t right.
“Bye, Kyle,” I grind out instead of reaching for him. “I’m going to miss you.”
