by Liz Crowe
“You taste like chocolate and cinnamon,” he whispered in my ear. “I love it.”
I sighed and the melty sensation traveled in a southerly direction, making me want to spread my legs, to feel his touch there. An alarm clanged in my head, replacing the woozy, lusty, fogginess. I fought it. God help me I did, but all of a sudden all I smelled was old beer, saltiness, mildew and rot. Gagging, I pushed Trent away, hand over my mouth. He stood there, his hands out as if he were still holding me close.
Tears clouded my eyes as I shoved past him, running for the bathroom, desiring nothing but escape. And hating myself the whole time for being such a complete loser. As I rounded the corner of my bed and was about to slam the bathroom door behind me, a hand shot out, denying me.
“Melody, what the hell? Did I hurt you?”
Hand still clapped over my mouth, I shook my head, backing myself into the corner. He loomed over me, but instead of being afraid, I felt soothed. My hair flew as I kept shaking my head, speechless with embarrassment. I took a breath as he moved my hand away from my mouth.
“Come on,” he said, his musical, perfect voice filling me again, making me feel safe. “Let’s go sit. That went too fast. I thought so too.”
“No…I mean. Yes. Dios. I’m such a loser.”
“Hardly,” he said, kissing my hand, then tucking it into his elbow. “Let’s put a dent in that tequila, mamacita.” He waggled his dark eyebrows at me.
“Don’t call me that. It’s demeaning.” I leaned into his shoulder, sucking in greedy breaths of him, forcing out the old, scary, nasty odors that had haunted me for years.
“What should I call you then?” He guided me to the couch, eased me down, pressed a soft kiss to my forehead then headed back to the kitchen. “What’s the best word to go with what you call me?” He grabbed the limes and found some small glasses.
“I don’t know. Bella? It means beauty.” I touched my nose. “I’m hardly that anymore.”
“Okay, that’ll do for now. I’ll figure out something better later.”
“You could also go with angelita. Or even querida.”
“I like those. But I like how you say them more.”
He popped the cork on the expensive bottle, poured a couple of hits and handed me a lime wedge. “Bottoms up,” he said, his eyes bright. I held up my glass.
“‘¡Salud!’ you mean.”
“Yeah, that.” He grabbed my hand, licked the soft spot between my thumb and forefinger, sprinkled salt there, then licked it again, took a drink and squeezed the lime into his mouth. “Your turn,” he said, holding out his hand.
I took it, touched my tongue to his skin, closing my eyes at the sensation. I salted it, licked it, drank and squeezed the lime. The booze suffused my entire body. Or, more likely, the fact that I had tasted the skin of his hand and it was like nectar. I leaned away from him, smiling, trying not to feel self-conscious about my busted-up face.
“I’m sorry,” I finally said. “I didn’t mean to make such a…such a fuss, before.”
His arm had been draped across the back of the couch, so he reached out a finger and touched my cheek, tucked my hair behind my ear, and sighed. “I didn’t want to rush, so I don’t mind taking it slow. That’s new to me, to be honest with you. I’m game.”
I looked down at my lap. “It’s not that, exactly.”
He tilted my chin up so I had to meet his eyes. “Then tell me what, exactly, that it is.” His voice had dropped lower, taken on an odd sort of edge. It made me sit up straighter, and sent a shot of something equally odd through my nervous system. Courage? Maybe.
“I was raped when I was eighteen. Gang raped. By a bunch of boys I thought were my friends. After I got drunk with a bunch of girls I thought liked me but who set me up for the whole thing.”
Trent leaned away from me, crossing his arms. His jaw clenched in that way I’d noticed before.
“I was…well, it was bad. I was passed out at the end. I have no idea how…” My throat clicked with anxiety. “How many of them…did it to me. My mother found me. She took me home, put me to bed and made me promise I wouldn’t ever tell anyone what had happened. I hid in my house for weeks, waiting for the bruises and shit to heal.” I touched my nose. “I’ve had one of these before too.” Taking a deep breath, bolstered by him somehow, I plowed onward. “That was the summer before college, so luckily I never had to see them again. I went to Grand Valley,” I said, naming the small university here in town. “On academic scholarship. Got my degree in business.” I bit my lip and looked away.
His silence in the face of my confession spoke volumes. I stood and headed for the kitchen. “You don’t want any of this. I’m a mess. You have your own issues. What with the teenager and all.” I started putting the food away, blinded by tears. Always with the stupid tears.
Warm hands on my shoulders made me shiver and lean back, finding him there, his strong, comforting form. He wrapped his arms around me and held me, how long I couldn’t even say it felt so amazing to be treasured this way.
“What happened after college?” he asked, still holding me tight from behind.
“I got a job. A pretty good one, considering. At a bank, in mergers and acquisitions. I had to buy a whole new wardrobe.” I sighed and closed my eyes, unwilling to revisit this, but knowing full well I had to. Trent stayed silent, letting me proceed at my own pace. “I’d been there three years. Was in line for a promotion to manager. I loved it—every power-suited, high-heeled, salad-for-lunch moment of it.” I let myself slump into him more, unsure if I could finish.
I felt his lips on my hair. His arms tightened. “Go on, Melody. You can trust me.”
I took a shuddery breath.
Trust. What a concept.
I put my hands on the counter, pressing down as if holding myself up. “My b-b-b-boss called me into his office, told me we had an offsite, where we’d talk about how things were going to change around the office. I believed him, of course. I’m stupid that way.”
“You’re not stupid.”
“Whatever. So, like a dummy, I agreed to meet him, thinking it would be a bunch of us, you know, for a legit offsite. But all I saw was him, sitting at a table in the hotel bar. I sat, let him buy me a drink. Then two drinks. He…uh…oh God, Trent. I can’t.”
“I want it all, Melody. Give it to me. Share it. It will help.” His lips were at my ear. “I promise.”
I froze. I smelled him—his overpriced cologne, the booze on his breath. I felt the rasp of his stubble on my face. His disgusting tongue practically down my throat.
“He…he…he told me that I had to do it. That I’d only gotten hired to fulfill their minority quotient. That I wasn’t any good but I looked good in my skirt. That I…had to let him fuck me. Or I’d get fired.”
I heard Trent suck in a breath. Horrified that I’d actually told him, much less that I’d actually believed the sorry asshole, I tried to disentangle from him. But he wouldn’t let me go.
“Afterward, he locked me in the bathroom without my clothes for the night. Then…before he’d let me leave I had to…suck his dick. Now do you believe me when I say I’m a fucked-up mess? That you don’t need my crap in your life? Jesus. Let go of me.”
I shoved his arms off me and turned around, gripping the counter behind me. Tears were pouring down my face, and my nose was stopped up and hurt like a bitch. “God, I’m gross. Get off me.” I pushed his chest. He didn’t budge. He grabbed a paper towel and held it under my nose.
“Blow.”
I shook my head.
“Blow, god damn it.”
I blew.
“That’s good.” He tossed it into the trash, got another one, held it under warm water and wiped my face. “That’s better.” He tossed that one too, then pulled me into his arms. “I’m so sorry all that happened to you, bella.” His voice caressed the word in a way that made he all shivery again. “My poor, sweet bella.”
I leaned into his chest, wrapped my arms around his w
aist, filling my brain with his smell, willing it to cancel out all the others that had haunted me for so long.
Chapter Nine
Trent’s brain was spinning with so many emotions, he’d need months so sort through them all. Anger, of course. But pity. And disappointment with his fellow man. But mostly, a strong urge to sit with Melody in his arms, holding her close until the evil in her past no longer haunted her.
Of course, there was the lust. It was like the lingering, sharp smell after a gunshot. He tasted it on his tongue. And he had no idea what to do about it.
Melody was sniffling into his chest. They stood in her miniscule kitchen for a solid five minutes, while she calmed and he decided what to do. “Listen,” he said, tilting her face up and swiping the tears with his thumbs. “Listen to me.” She nodded, keeping her gaze on his. “I…I like you a lot. And I want to help you. Will you let me? Take care of you?”
She frowned. He groaned and stepped away. “Don’t misunderstand me on purpose. Not now. I don’t mean that I’m going to take over your life or be a sexist asshole.”
“I didn’t…”
“Yes, you did,” he said. “But try to understand me. I’m… I have the sort of personality that needs to be in charge. I mean, mostly in the bedroom.” Her lips turned up ever so slightly. He chuckled. “But that’s only part of it. And we aren’t there yet.” He tucked her hair back behind her ears. “Why don’t we start with this—you trusting me with your past. With all the bad stuff.” He turned to the freezer. “I saw ice cream. I say we eat some.”
She nodded again, reaching for some spoons.
He grabbed her hand. “You only need one spoon. I’m going to feed you.” Her beautiful face flushed. He tried to control himself, but it took everything he had.
They sat on the couch, her feet tucked under his thighs. He clicked around until he found a real football game, then they shared the remains of a pint of double chocolate chip, one bite for her, one for him until it was gone. Her lips were so luscious, he thought as she took the last bite from the spoon. He could not wait to kiss them again. Among other things.
But he was okay with going slow. She had to learn to trust him. And he would not do anything more with or to her until she did.
A sense of contentment suffused him as she snuggled into his side, pretending to listen to his explanation of the American style of football. When he sensed that she’d fallen asleep, he tugged her around so she was lying across his lap. He pulled the blanket down off the back of the couch and covered her, then spent a half hour indulging in a fantasy by threading his fingers through the silky black strands of her hair.
At one point, he dozed, jerking awake when he realized Melody wasn’t lying on him anymore. The TV was off. The room was dark. He rubbed his eyes as his brain caught up with his body. “Melody?”
He heard a shuffling noise from the back of her space. “Where’d you go?” Something in the air put him on edge. His skin prickled. The small hairs on his arms seemed to tingle. He rose slowly, his brain switching gears, moving into a space he understood, but wanted to avoid for now.
He smelled her before he saw her. That incredible taste he’d detected on her skin that had indeed been a heady combination of rich chocolate and exotic cinnamon was now swirling around him, wrapping him up, forcing him forward. “Bella,” he whispered.
“Si,” she answered, stepping into a shaft of light that pierced the blinds at the sliding glass door. Trent had seen his fair share of beautiful women. He’d seen them in various stages of dress, undress and everything in between. He actually had developed a preference, and one he fully acknowledged was an awful, sexist throwback that involved high heels, garter belts, silk stockings and leather collars.
But the vision before him drove pretty much every single thought from his head. Including the ones he’d been pondering before he fell asleep—the ones about going slow.
Melody—his Melody—stood before him wearing nothing but a smile. He swallowed past the stricture in his throat and took a step forward, taking her hand and pulling her closer. She moved easily, comfortable with her nudity in a way that made him dizzy. “Turn,” he whispered. “Please.”
She let go of his hand and turned slowly, looking over her shoulder at him as she did it. Her deep brown eyes shone. Her lips were wet, parted slightly, as if she couldn’t catch her breath. Which made sense, as he couldn’t either.
He sat back on the couch before he fell down, leaving her in the middle of the floor. As if she understood that she should wait until he said anything more.
No. No. No. No. This is not how you should proceed with her. You aren’t interested in seeing how far she’ll go with you.
He ran a hand down his face, around the back of his neck, tugged at the neck of his shirt. But he could not take his eyes off her, God help him. He’d developed enough control over himself that he could sit and do nothing more than observe her. But the control he’d established over other parts of his body had flown straight out of the window. His cock was ramrod hard. His balls tight, as if in a pre-orgasm state. It hurt like hell, trapped behind the zipper of his jeans. But he let if hurt. He needed to feel the pain. It kept him focused.
She stood stock still, letting him look to his heart’s content. Her breasts were firm, high, tipped with nipples that resembled the world’s most perfect chocolate morsels. Her hips flared out from her waist in a way that briefly reminded him of Evelyn’s figure. But Melody was more compact, less showy in her beauty.
He took a long, deep, hopefully calming breath as he let his gaze drop to her belly—slightly rounded, perfect in its imperfection. Her thighs were lean, her calves shapely. Her feet were small, with deep red toenails. Somewhat clinically, he noted that her pussy was not fully waxed. He’d not seen actual bush in a while. The sight—that of a woman’s body, not of some fake pre-adolescent’s—made a drop of sweat form on his temple.
“Why?” he asked, knowing she’d understand the question.
“Because I want you to make love to me.” Her voice, with its lilting accent, hit him right in the libido. The pain in his crotch increased, making him grunt and lean forward. She took the few steps between them, took the hand he had gripping one knee and put it on her hip.
“No,” he said, jerking away from her. “I won’t.”
Dude, what the hell? Yes. You will. You will get in there now.
He winced, ignoring his lizard brain as well as he could.
“Please, Trent,” she said, pulling him up to standing as his vision dimmed around the edges. The deep bronze hue of her skin was all he saw now. All he ever wanted to see, for the rest of his damn life. “I need this.”
“I can’t… I’m not…” He heard himself stammering, felt his pulse racing so fast it alarmed him.
“Yes, you are. And you can.”
See? She agrees with me. Go. Now. Take her to bed and show her how a real man treats women.
He let her pull him back to where her bed waited for them, a place he’d avoided contemplating all afternoon on purpose.
Slow, Hettinger. And with extreme control. Let her set the pace. He licked his lips when she sat on the edge of the bed and reached for his belt.
“No. Not yet, querida. Eres la mujer de mis sueños. Por mis ojos eres la mujer más guapa en el mundo.”
Melody froze. Trent shrugged. “What? I know my way around a Spanish language podcast. And it’s true. You are the woman of my dreams. In my eyes, you are the most beautiful woman in the world.”
She raised an eyebrow. Trent pulled her back up to her feet. Keeping his hands firmly on her upper arms, ignoring the firm tips of her breasts that brushed his T-shirt, he used his strongest tone, trying to impart his real meaning. “If I do this, angelita. If we make love the way I want to right now, you have to understand something.”
She nodded, putting her cool palm alongside his burning hot face. He covered it with his hand, closed his eyes and let himself take a deep breath of her—that intoxicating
scent that he was within moments of being completely addicted to. Her hand slid down his neck, his chest and lower, making him shiver so violently he stumbled. This was beyond weird. He, Trent Hettinger, alpha male, Master Dominant, did not feel this way about anyone.
He opened his eyes and looked at her, as something in him seemed to slide into place. “You scare me, bella. But I need to… I want to…”
“Sh…” she said, pressing herself against him, arms up and around his neck, breasts smashed into his chest. “No more talking.”
Chapter Ten
I’ll be the first to admit that I have no idea what possessed me. I woke up, lying across Trent’s lap. The TV was blaring away. The remains of our dessert pint of ice cream melting on the table. The tequila bottle and glasses alongside it.
Quivering with something I didn’t understand, I got up, leaving the blanket over his lap. The booze bottle tempted, so I grabbed it and took another quick drink straight from it as the tingly sensations I’d woken with formulated into a plan.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I tiptoed back to the bathroom, stripped out of my clothes, including the possibly ruined Real Madrid jersey. Taking a moment to study myself in the mirror, I realized that, for the first time in my almost thirty years of life, I wanted a man. I wanted him to kiss me. To touch me. To make love to me. Yes…to fuck me. To drive out the demons that had hovered around me for so many awful years. Years I’d pretended that I was normal.
I bit my lip and cupped my heavy breasts in both hands. My nipples were so hard they hurt. I brushed my fingers over them, shivering at the sensation that hit me between my legs. Without a thought in my head, I wandered out to the bedroom, waiting, second-guessing, until I heard him. His beautiful voice. Calling my name.
