Love Me Better: No Such Unit Hopeless Romantics 1

by Kit Smart

  He studies me.

  I stare back at him; watch as his eyes fill with heat. He clears his throat. “Well, I could totally go for some you right now. Maybe you could put me on your to do list?”

  It’s dark and raspy and teasing all at once and I can’t help but grin at him as a lance of desire shoots through me. “You’re ridiculous.”

  He lowers his head toward me slightly. “You’re adorable.” Pause. “In an—I want to love you senseless—kind of way.”

  “Seriously?” I reach out with my free hand to adjust his bowtie. “A little professionalism please Chief.”

  He drops his voice to a growl. “We’re at a party where everyone believes I’m supposed to be an oversexed playboy and you’re my significant other.” He waggles his eyebrows as if he’s teasing. “We need to maintain our cover.”

  I roll my eyes at him “We haven’t been more than three inches apart the entire evening. I think our cover is good.”

  He pulls me closer as he slowly backs up until his back comes in contact with the wall behind us. Leaning back he settles himself before pulling me between his legs.

  It strikes me suddenly that he genuinely doesn’t care who observes us.

  Holding my eyes, he slides his free hand down to the small of my back and presses me flush against him.

  There is a slight wariness in his gaze as he lowers his head to mine, like he’s testing my reaction, but it vanishes when his lips touch mine. “This feels so good.” He whispers. “I’ve been waiting so long—”

  I shiver simultaneously amused and aroused. “It’s only been a few hours.”

  “And yet, I’m hungry for you.”

  I laugh as I suck gently on his bottom lip. “The quiet ones are always the most lustful.” I slide my free hand up to cup the side of his neck, and wholly enjoy the way he shivers when I run my thumb along the sensitive skin at the corner of his jaw. “I’m beginning to think you may be a bit of a sex addict Owen Bishop-MacQuoide.”

  He struggles to concentrate as I continue my caresses. “It’s your fault that I’m addicted to having sex with you. Your every touch permeates my skin, haunts my dreams, keeps me burning for hours afterward.”I can feel his urgency through the hand he has on my back. “I crave it; ache for it.”

  Wanting to make this good for him, I abandon one sweet spot for another as I slide my hand slowly down the line of his throat and along his chest, where I pause for a moment before reaching down between us to unbutton his jacket.

  He stops breathing as my hand skims along his side and doesn’t start again until I find the small of his back.

  Leaning his head back against the wall, he meets my gaze; lets me see how I am affecting him by letting me see the desire in his eyes. “I don’t know how Seri but you’ve made me almost glad that my cock doesn’t work properly.” He murmurs low and quiet.

  I marvel at the intensity in the look he is giving me as he settles deep into his body and the pleasure he is experiencing. “Yeah?”

  His low, almost inaudible groan, along with the energy I can feel building in his body lets me know that he is getting close and I feel a reciprocal energy building in my own body.

  “Yeah.” He offers a wry little twist of a smile as if he knows, which, he probably does. “I have the feeling that if things were working properly, I’d be coming in my pants right here and now. Which would be embarrassing.”

  Seri

  “Owen darling, there you are! We’ve been looking everywhere for you!” The voice comes from somewhere behind me and as a consequence of the way Owen is holding me, I can’t see the speaker.

  I can see Owen’s reaction however, and by the way he stiffens and drops his forehead against mine for a bare moment before lifting it, that he is not particularly happy about the intrusion.

  “I’m sorry.” He murmurs as he sucks in a deep breath and slams a mask down over his face, before straightening to his full height. Turning me gently in his arms, he keeps me in front of him for a moment before relaxing his hold and tucking me up against his side.

  Realizing that keeping me in front of him had probably been an instinctive attempt to conceal an arousal that doesn’t exist, I slip my hand under his jacket and apply solid and I hope grounding pressure to the small of his back.

  I am relieved when the pressure has the desired effect and I feel him begin to relax. “Mother, Father.” He greets them formally.

  Mother? Father? You have parents? Of course you have parents. I resist the urge to shake my head in an attempt to rattle my arousal clouded brain back into order and lean forward to take the hands proffered by Owen’s mother and father, as Owen makes the requisite introductions.

  The part of me that is still addled wonders if he organized this and if so to what end?

  The other part of me that is rapidly becoming less addled, calls the addled part of me an idiot and reminds me that I can actively feel how uncomfortable Owen is at the moment. Get a grip Seri. He has no reason to plan such a thing.

  “What are you doing here?” He asks once the introductions are made. It’s a testament both to his current level of sexual frustration as well as to the unexpectedness of the encounter that he is so short. Easy. I run my hand along the base of his spine in reminder. We have a cover story to maintain here and it revolves, fairly significantly, around your ability to maintain a charming playboy image in public.

  When I feel his hand clench compulsively on my waist I wonder if my hand on his back is making things worse for him and make to pull it out from under his jacket.

  He stiffens so rapidly that he earns curious looks from both of his parents.

  He doesn’t notice them looking at him however because he has turned his head to look down at me.

  Understanding from the look in his eyes that maintaining the contact is important for whatever reason, I adjust my hand and arm until it rests lengthwise along his spine and move to tuck myself more closely up against his side.

  “We’re on the board of directors for this charity darling.” Owen’s mother says into the slightly awkward silence.

  Owen refocusses his attention on her. “But you rarely attend these things.”

  “Rarely.” There is an element of censor in her gaze and tone that I don’t like, “However, we thought it a perfect opportunity to see our erstwhile son and perhaps meet the woman in his life.” She sniffs. “Heaven knows we’d be gray and old waiting for you to come round and introduce her to us yourself.”

  Owen’s dad shifts slightly in a manner that is reminiscent of Owen and I am startled by how endearing I find that. You’re in deep here Seri. “Had to hear it in the press.”

  Along my side, I can feel the moment that Owen starts to breathe long and deep in an effort to combat the increasing tension in his body. This is not a comfortable relationship.

  Not caring if they see it or not, I begin to slide my hand up and down his spine in a rhythm that mimics the pattern of his breathing.

  Studying the wary his parents are looking at him, it occurs to me that they may be misreading his stiff body and severe expression as anger rather than as discomfort.

  I think about all the interviews he’s done, and wonder if he is embarrassed over the thought of his parents knowing the intimate details of his sex life.

  They may also be embarrassed that their son was caught in public with an erection. The upper echelons of society aren’t exactly know to be particularly open about sexuality.

  Guilt floods me. My fault.

  As we stand there silently, a young blonde woman appears behind Owen’s parents.

  “Hello.” She steps forward and offers me her hand. “I’m Adelaine.” She seems to expect me to know her name, but, although I search my memory, I come up with nothing, and so, with a mental shrug I reach for her hand. “Serilda. Lovely to meet you.”

  I feel Owen tense as I accept her hand and it is all I can do not to look back at him as I introduce myself to her. Who is this woman?

  “I just kn
ow we’re going to be good friends.” The blonde tells me confidently, which leaves me unsure of what to say. Did I somehow miss part of this conversation? How can you be certain that we’re going to be friends at all?

  I feel Owen pulling me back from Adelaine, and, not quite sure what is going on, I let him. “Mother, Father.” He addresses them in a firm tone that brooks no interruptions. It’s been lovely to see you, however, I’m afraid we’re going to have to excuse ourselves. Duty calls you understand—”

  Owen’s mother frowns at him rather severely, and I flash suddenly on the image of him as a small red-haired boy on the receiving end of that frown and my heart begins to hurt. “Owen, surely duty can wait a moment.”

  “Mother—”

  “It’s beyond embarrassing that we had to learn of Serilda through the press. Therefore, I am expecting the two of you this Saturday for Luncheon so that we may become acquainted in the acceptable manner.”

  “Mother—”

  She cuts him off “It’s a reasonable request Owen.” She arches her eyebrows and holds up one gloved finger. “Saturday at 1pm.”

  Seri

  Owen pulls me across to a side door and out into the corridor.

  I can feel the urgency in him and the hunger. And though I am eager for it, I wonder if there is something we forgot to do. “Wait, where are we going?”

  He doesn’t answer; pulls me along the corridor stopping every now and then to look into the various doors opening off the corridor only to continue on as each room fails to satisfy him.

  I’m a little worried by his silence.“Owen, what is going on?”

  He doesn’t answer just keeps going until he finds what he is looking for and pulls me through a door into what looks like a small supply closet, or, perhaps, a cloak room.

  It’s small but warm in the small room and I get it as he lifts me up onto the counter and burrows against me. It’s a cave. Intimate and dark.

  I listen to the door click shut and realize from his movement that he must have used his foot to close it.

  Pushing his hips right up to the counter, he grabs my thighs and pulls my legs around him and then wrapping his arms around my back pulls me bodily against him until there is no space remaining between our torsos.

  To prevent myself from falling as he leans down to kiss me, I wrap my arms around his back and shoulders. Responding to the urgency in his body, I accept his kiss; return it when he lets me.

  The kiss goes on and on. It’s desperate, passionate, punishing and urgent.

  I open myself up and receive it; all of it; let it flow from his body to mine.

  I respond to his touches; move my arms and legs this way and that to accomodate him as he tries to get closer.

  When his legs give out for a moment and he falls into me breaking our kiss as he does so, I catch him.

  I hang on to him when he starts to shiver in reaction to all of the chemicals suddenly swamping his body.

  He tries to kiss me again, but the anxiety attack is making it hard to breathe properly and he gasps and chokes as he struggles to establish a balance between kissing and breathing.

  I draw back from the kiss, use my hands to hold his head still when he tries to follow me. He tries several times to break my hold and resume the kiss; looks pained when I won’t allow it.

  “Don’t you want me?” He asks quietly his voice dull as though he already knows the answer.

  Idiot. Anyone with eyes could see that I want you. I stroke his cheekbones with my thumbs. “I want you desperately.” I begin and redouble my efforts to hold him back as he surges forward in response to my words. “But I need you to slow down a bit so I can catch my breath.” And so you can catch yours. I add silently. You’re pretty far out on the ledge at the moment.

  He moves back slightly and suddenly I feel his hands start to pull up my skirt. “Catch your breath.” He tells me as he hooks his fingers into the waistband of my panties and tugs them down. The relief in his voice is painful to hear. We’re going to have to work on that non-existant self-esteem of yours. I think as I lift my hips obediently.

  “But I don’t want to stop kissing you.” He continues as he pushes me gently, bodily against the wall behind the counter.

  I stare at him transfixed as he slides back and pulls my legs up over his shoulders. I’ve never seen him like this—the arousal and hunger and passion; the desire to please, I’ve seen that, but this time there is an anxiety underlying it all, and he’s clumsy—desperately clumsy—as though he’s unsure of the very ground beneath him.

  He stumbles a bit as he lowers his mouth, and although my body is eager, and the feeling of his tongue along the side of my clit has me wanting selfishly to throw caution to the winds and get on with pursuing my own pleasure; I use my hands to lever myself up and away from his mouth. I think I get girlfriend points for this at least—if not some sort of a medal. I think with grim humour as my body howls with protest.

  Sliding my legs off of his shoulders, I reach down to pull him up. “Owen, I think you could use a moment to catch your breath as well.”

  He refuses to let me pull him up; just stands there; bent over and braced against the counter on his forearms. His body heaves as he sucks in deep ragged breaths.

  He doesn’t look up. “A minute is the last thing I need. I want in you. I want in you so bad that I can’t even think straight right now.” His voice is raw. “But that’s not possible is it?” He doesn’t wait for me to confirm the impossibility. “So, I need to get as close to you as possible right now.” He looks up then. “Please.”

  Somehow we end up on the floor; me with my back braced against the cabinet; him with his back braced against my front and my fingers interlaced tightly with his where they are wrapped around his chest and abdomen.

  He shakes uncontrollably as the strain of the past couple of weeks catches up with him.

  I feel inadequate as I try to gather his much bigger body closer and fail. I wish I were taller—bigger. I think. I wish I could make him feel as secure as I do when he wraps himself around me. I wish I had a blanket at least to wrap around him and add that little bit of additional psychological protection. I wish we were at home so that we could stay like this as long as needed and then simply drift off to sleep.

  In the end, I stop wishing and simply press my cheek against his as I match my breathing to his.

  His shaking reverberates through my body and settles into my bones and after a time it feels like they have never known stillness.

  When it finally stops, he sags against me, his body heavy with exhaustion and we exist like that for a time; in our own little bubble. I can’t feel where my body ends and his begins.

  “I’m sorry.” He says into the stillness between us. “I’m sorry I’m such a mess. I feel like this is so one-sided—like this has all been about me being broken, and you having to hold me together like some kind of smashed up old crock. I know that I am not giving you anything in return, and that I should let you go, and I don’t know why you’re here with me in all of this.” Something fierce enters his voice and I am deeply relieved to hear it. Stay with me Owen. “But I want to give you something back—I’m working on it. It’s not happening, how I’d like, or as fast as I’d like, but I am trying, and I’m sorry, but I won’t let you go Seri.” A slight pause. “I know, it’s not entirely my choice. Obviously.” He takes a deep breath. “If you want to leave—I can’t stop you, but I won’t let you go if you stay.” Despite the seriousness of the moment and the exquisiteness of the admission I can’t help but smile at his discombobulation. You really are ass over teakettle at the moment aren’t you? “I promise that I can make this good for you too if you just grant me a bit more of your savage patience. Please.”

  I have to swallow hard several times as that painfully soft please crushes my throat.

  “You’re not a crock.” I say eventually when I can relax my throat.

  “But old and smashed eh?” He rumbles with laughter and I rub my hand acros
s his chest absently in response.

  Glad of the laughter and the reestablishment of some of his equilibrium that it heralds, I gather my thoughts carefully. I need you to see yourself the way I see you.

  “You’re not a mess.” I start only to have to bite his ear gently in reprimand as he starts to protest. I can already feel the resistance building in his body and I know that it will be difficult for him to hear me. “You have some stuff going on—some wounds—” I concede. “But however much it may feel like it sometimes, you’re not a mess. And that’s not what I see when I look at you.”

  He is silent for a long time.

  “What do you see when you look at me?” He asks finally, with some reservation.

  “I see a man who is kind, and honest, and honourable, and brave. A man with a strong and open heart, who has taken a beating, and whose confidence is a bit cracked at the moment.”

  He pulls my hand over his heart. “I am very grateful that you’re apparently blind as a bat Seri Hunt.”

  Huh. That earns him another bite on the ear. “I’m not blind.” I tell him firmly. “I see all of the other stuff too.” I drop a kiss on the bite mark; gather myself because what I am about to say will take some care; some finesse. “I see the depression, the anxiety, the grief and the darkness.” I trace patterns on his heart with my index finger. “I see that sleeping is often difficult for you, and that there are places on your body where touch is painful. I see you getting triggered and struggling. I see the exhaustion, and the irritability, and the way unexpected changes can be hard for you.”

  “Seri—”

  I am not finished yet, so I continue over him. “I see the loneliness, and the way you hurt sometimes.” I press another kiss to his ear. “So, no. I’m not blind.”

  There’s a long silence.

  “I don’t understand—why would you want me—seeing all of that…” He says eventually.

  “Because I love who you are, and for that reason, I cannot hate anything that made you who you are.”