by Noelle Adams
He keeps kissing me, and his body starts to move.
I like how it feels, so mine moves with his.
It’s a long time before he stops kissing me, and when he does, his body is still moving.
Mine is too.
“This isn’t dancing,” I manage to say. “This is dry humping.”
“But we’re doing it to the music, so it’s dancing.” He’s got his hands on my bottom, and they’re absolutely shameless. No one has ever touched me in public like this before.
I look around and realize it’s not really out of place. We basically blend in with everyone else. No one is paying attention to us anyway.
When my motion slows down, he kisses me again. This time, he raises my arms, stroking from my shoulders to my wrists, so my arms are up when he breaks the kiss, and he grins when I end up dancing.
I’m pressed up against him, and I try to think about that instead of what my body is doing.
I’m sure I look ridiculous, but it doesn’t actually feel that bad. It feels kind of... free.
I look around again and see a gorgeous woman with long wavy hair and long legs moving with a sensual grace.
“Stop looking at other people,” Hunter growls, pressing me up against him again and turning my head so I’m looking at him. “Just look at me.”
“I like to look at other people.”
“Tough. For right now, you’re stuck with me.”
I’m not really moving anymore, and my eyes drift back to that beautiful woman who is everything I’ll never be.
“Me.” Hunter’s voice is gruff, thick, and his eyes are strangely primal. “Look at me.”
I do what he says, and it’s not long until I’m completely wrapped up in his hot gaze and hard body. I follow his motion, his rhythm. I still don’t really know what to do with my hands. I fidget until he reaches out and wraps my hands around the back of his neck.
“Hold on to me. Just me.”
I do. I hold on to him.
My heartbeat accelerates, and my skin flushes, and my breathing turns fast and shallow.
He’s gazing down at me hotly. I know that look. The sex look.
But there’s something more there too, something deeper.
It’s not affection—not the way I’ve always understood it. It’s different, stronger, edgier, more intense.
Ownership.
The thought scares me, and I start to duck my head, but he won’t let me.
“Just me, angel. Just me.”
So I keep looking at him, moving with him, holding on to him, and eventually I’m not aware of anyone else in the room, anyone else in the world.
My emotions are in such a turmoil that I’m not even aware that my body has been reacting too.
Not until I rub up against his pelvis and suddenly realize that he’s turned on.
He’s hard in his pants, and I can feel it.
“Hunter.”
“Shh. Just keep moving with me. Just like that.”
I do what he says, but now I can’t think of anything but his body. His big, hard, warm, aroused body, pressing against mine.
The pulsing between my legs that must have started much earlier is suddenly so intense it’s aching, painful.
I want him so much. And the flashing lights and the pounding music are driving me on, urging me toward him. Everything inside me is straining toward him.
Eventually, I can’t stand it anymore. I feel like I’m literally going to explode from the wanting.
“Hunter,” I whimper. I rub against him again and hear him grunt.
“What, angel?”
“You know what.”
“Take what you want.”
“I can’t take what I want in a room full of people.”
“True.” He’s flushed and sweating a little, and it’s a relief to know he’s as turned on as I am. He takes my hand and drags me through the crowd and then out of the room by a back door.
It’s an empty hallway, and he traps me against the wall and kisses me hard.
I’m clawing his back, opening to his tongue, lifting one leg to wrap around his thighs.
Trying desperately to quench this desperate craving for him.
Then I feel his hand at the waistband of my jeans. Then it’s slipping under them. Then it’s beneath my panties.
Then his fingers are stroking my hot arousal.
“Hunter!” My gasp is soft and broken, and my body arches against the wall. His mouth has moved to my neck.
“You’re so wet, angel. So turned on. You want me so much.”
I whimper and bite down on his shoulder through his shirt. “Hunter, please. Someone might see.”
“Who cares about that?” He’s stroking me just right. I’m so close. Right on the edge. “Let go, angel. Let go for me.”
“I... I... can’t.” It’s agony to be so close but not close enough. Anxiety has risen inside me as intensely as the arousal.
“Yes, you can. Let me do this for you.”
I’m shaking helplessly, but I’m too distracted now. It’s not going to happen.
“I can’t.” My voice is different. Final.
Hunter exhales and pulls his hand out of my pants.
I feel like a failure as I meet his eyes.
“You can’t expect me to do everything,” I say.
“I don’t expect you to do everything.”
“You’re disappointed with me.”
He stiffens. “I am not.”
“Yes, you are. And you shouldn’t be. I danced. That was something. Public sex is something else.”
“It wasn’t public sex.”
I glance over quickly when I hear a sound down the hall. A couple has just come out the way we had earlier. I give him a significant look.
“We weren’t going to have sex here. I was going to take care of you. I thought you wanted it.”
I swallow. “I did. But I guess I’m not brave enough for that.”
“Don’t talk that way about yourself.”
“You’re the one who acts like I’m a loser if I can’t—”
“I’ve never acted like you’re a loser.” He’s angry now. I can feel the tension in his body. A different kind of tension than before.
“Well, you make me feel bad when I can’t do everything you want me to do.”
“I do not make you feel bad. You feel bad all on your own. You’re the only one who’s putting pressure on yourself.”
I gasp, since this is an outright lie. “You put pressure on me all the time.”
“Only to do the things you already want to do.”
“I’m the one who gets to decide what I want.”
We’re talking low and angry, glaring at each other now. When someone else comes down the hall just then, I’ve had enough. “Can we please go home now?”
“Yes.” He snarls as he takes my hand. “We can go home.”
WE’RE HOME A HALF HOUR later. I’m tired and frustrated and disappointed in myself and stewing over how Hunter is the most infuriating man in the world.
I take a long, hot shower, trying to relax. I never did have a climax, and we’re obviously not in the mood for sex tonight, but my emotions are in too much of an uproar to get myself off.
When I finally get out of the shower, I only feel a little bit better. I braid my hair and put on my pajamas and get a bottle of water and climb into bed.
Hunter gets in the shower after me, and he’s in there a long time too.
Eventually, he comes into the bedroom in his boxer briefs and climbs in bed beside me.
I’m reading, but it feels like he’s looking at me, so I finally turn my head to meet his eyes. “I get to decide what I want,” I tell him.
“I’ve never tried to decide what you want,” he growls. He’s clearly still as annoyed as I am.
“You do it all the time. You’re always telling me what I want to do.”
“Because I know what you want to do. I’m not deciding it for you. I know you.”
“I don’t have to read your mind. You’ve told me things you want. You told me you wanted to dance.”
“And I did dance. I never told you I wanted you to get me off in a hallway.”
“You were turned on. I wanted to...” His face twists. “If you didn’t want it, why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
“I did tell you.”
“And I stopped. What the hell do you want from me?”
I’m almost crying, and I hate that I do that—let anger and frustration push me into tears. “I want you to not be disappointed in me when I tell you to stop.”
“What?” The one word is harsh, soft, outraged.
“You heard me.”
“I wasn’t disappointed in you.”
“You acted like you were.”
“I did not. I stopped. I was worried I’d pushed you too far. I felt bad. And I was so turned on I was having trouble not coming in my pants. I wasn’t disappointed in you!”
I stare at him. He doesn’t lie to me. He never has before. He must be telling me the truth. “You weren’t?”
“No! For God’s sake, Sam, what kind of a man do you take me for? You think I’m some sort of asshole who’d get upset about something like that?”
“N-no.”
“You do.” His eyes have dropped to the covers. “You do think I’m an asshole.”
“No, I don’t. You’ve never been an asshole.” I take a shaky breath. “I just... I was disappointed in myself, and you were... you were different, so I assumed that you were too. I’m sorry.”
He turns on his side so he’s facing me. “If you’ve told me you want to do something, then I’m going to do what I can so you can do it. But I’m not going to pressure you into other stuff. Definitely not... sexy stuff. I’m not like that.”
“I know you’re not.” Ridiculously, a tear slides down my face, and I know he sees it. I brush it away hurriedly. “I’m sorry I assumed you were... I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head and rubs a fingertip down the track of my tear. “Don’t be sorry, angel. I want you to trust me, but if you don’t...”
“I do! I trust you, Hunter.”
He looks at me a long time. “I hope so.”
I sniff and try to smile at him. “I’ve always trusted you, ever since I was fifteen and you stuck up for me when those guys were making fun of me.”
His eyes are softer now, but he scowls at the memory. “They were assholes.”
“I know. You were never an asshole.”
“I’ve been an asshole more than I’d like, but I’ll try to never be one with you.” He sighs and stretches his big body out. “I take it you’re not in the mood for sex anymore.”
“Not really. Are you?”
“I took care of myself in the shower. I’m fine.”
I look at him for a long time, wishing I was brave enough to tell him what I want.
“Say it, Sam.”
I frown. “Don’t be bossy.”
“Say it.” His tone is only slightly gentler.
“It’s not a big deal. I was just wondering if maybe you’d... you’d...” I feel stupid even beginning to say the word.
“I’ll do it—anything you want—but you have to tell me what it is.”
His tone is gruff, but he really is the sweetest thing.
So I force the words out. “Will you hold me? For just a few minutes.”
“For God’s sake, Sam,” he groans, reaching out and pulling me against him. “Of course I will.”
I nestle against him as he wraps his arms around me, and I feel better.
A lot better.
I exhale and relax.
It seems strange to want this as much as I want sex from him, but I do.
I really do.
“Why the hell was it so hard to ask me to do this?” he asks after a few minutes. He’s idly stroking my back and my braided hair.
“I don’t know. It just feels... needy.”
“Nothing wrong with being needy.”
“It is when you’re not normally like that. I’m used to being... smart. Sure of myself. Always knowing the right thing to do. It’s strange to feel... different.”
“It’s good for you to feel different.”
“I don’t know if that’s true.”
“It is. You’re not perfect. No one is. You don’t always have to try to be perfect.”
“I don’t—”
“Yes, you do. Think about it for a minute. You do. That’s why you never want to feel stupid or helpless or out of control. If you are, then you can’t always be perfect.”
He’s not saying it in a judgmental way. His voice is mild, almost fond. Intimate.
I bite my lip as I think about what he says. My cheek is resting against his shoulder.
“I don’t know why I’m like that,” I say at last. “I don’t mean to be. I know I’m not really perfect, so I don’t know why I act like...”
His body has relaxed the way mine has, and it feels like he presses a kiss against my head. “Now you’re disappointed in yourself for not being perfect in thinking you’re perfect.”
I giggle. “I’m not really. I’m just trying to think it through. I was only twelve when our parents died. It felt like everything fell apart. And I wonder if... subconsciously, I mean... I thought I had to be good at everything, as perfect as I could possibly be, so the world didn’t fall apart on me again.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I get that. That makes sense to me. Not that I’ve ever tried to be perfect.”
“You haven’t?”
“No. I’ve done the opposite. Tried to be as imperfect as possible, making sure I never do anything but let people down.”
I reach up to stroke his beard. “You’ve never let me down.”
“Sure I have.”
“No you haven’t. Not once. You’ve never let me down, Hunter.”
I feel palpable tension in his body for just a moment before it relaxes again. “I can’t believe you think so, but I’ll take it.”
“You have to take it because it’s the truth. I guess we kind of match each other. You always think you’re not good enough, so you try to be good to make up for it. And I always try to be perfect, so I have to let go and occasionally be bad.”
He chuckles. “Not bad. Just not perfect.”
“Right. Maybe we’re good for each other.”
“I think we are.” I love the sound of his voice right now—the texture of it stroking my soul.
I cuddle up against him more snugly as he tightens his arms around me.
We lie like that for a long time.
Finally, I feel like I need to say something else, and I know he’s still awake. “I never really knew that about myself before.” I adjust against him so I can press a kiss against the hollow of his throat. “Thank you, Hunter.”
He makes a soft sound in his throat, his body momentarily tense. Then he relaxes and says with a smile in his voice, “I’m your husband, and that’s what I’m here for.”
Six
THE WEEKEND COMES, and at Sunday supper I’m struggling not to be jealous of Melissa.
I’m not normally a jealous person. I know everyone says that, but I think it’s actually true in my case. And my sisters are the last people in the world I’d ever be envious of since I want them to be happier than me.
But we’re sitting at Pop’s dining room table, eating fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, and homemade biscuits, and Pop is being his normal self—which means half the time he’s genuinely jovial and half the time he’s making needling comments about things in the world that displease him.
At the moment, he’s aiming those needling remarks at Melissa, implying that her recent restructuring of a couple of departments in the company is just her on a power trip.
He never actually says the words, you understand. He just implies them.
But everyone at the table knows what he’s saying.
He’s
been like this all our lives, even when we were just girls who’d lost their parents and suddenly had to live with our grandfather. You eventually learn how to deal with a person like this and recognize that even his manipulation is based in a core of love.
It’s not that the love ever excuses the hurt. But it does change something—knowing he loves us.
I’ve always known he loves us. I could see it even when my sisters couldn’t. Pop is like a Dickens character whose over-the-top cantankerousness is based on a helplessness at watching the world change around him.
He still hurts us sometimes—particularly my sisters. And tonight I can see he’s hurt Melissa.
Her husband, Trevor, has his hand wrapped around his water glass as Pop starts to needle. I watch his fingers, damp from the condensation on the glass, tighten, whiten, finally let go before he squeezes the glass too hard.
Trevor is a handsome, intelligent man who has a way with words and an ironic sense of humor. He presents a slick front to the world that doesn’t really reflect his warm heart. I watch him as he reaches under the table now and takes Melissa’s hand, holding it in his lap while Pop talks.
That’s when I’m jealous.
Not of Trevor. I like him a lot, but I’d never want him for myself.
I’m jealous of the gesture. Of what it means.
Trevor loves Melissa so much, and he knows how she’s feeling. He wants to comfort her, take care of her, show her that he’s with her. So he holds her hand under the table, assuming no one else will see it.
But I see it, and I want a man who will love me that way.
I want a husband who will love me that way.
And I don’t have one.
Hunter doesn’t hold my hand unless he’s trying to drag me somewhere. And he doesn’t hug me or comfort me unless I strangle up the courage to awkwardly ask him. With Melissa and Trevor it’s natural.
Not contrived.
Not arranged.
They just love each other.
And Hunter and I don’t.
There’s that part of Little Women where Jo acts stupidly with Aunt March and loses the chance to go to Europe with her, which is something she always dreamed of. So she has to stay at home and watch Amy live out her dream instead.
