At his touch, I sighed, deflating against the chair. If he were mine, I would have told him that I’d never ask him to stop. That he could take me any way he needed me. His fingers grazed over my nipple and under the curve of my breast. I arched toward him as his hand dropped behind me, caressing my lower back and sliding over my ribs. He pressed my waist, and his thumb ran over my scar. His eyes burned when he said, “Tell me more about this part of your life.”
16
David wanted me to open for him again, and he had a way of making me. But didn’t he understand how it only complicated things? I sighed heavily. “The best way I know how to deal with my past is to forget, David.”
“The best way or the only way?”
I smirked. He grabbed the seat of my chair and pulled me to him in one quick jerk. With a firm hand under my jaw, he thumbed my cheek and then kissed the corner of my lips.
“Even when you smirk, you have the prettiest mouth I’ve ever seen.” His breath heated my skin as he said, “I think about it all the time.”
My heart stopped, and I was sure I’d blown a circuit. “All the time?” I exhaled.
“All the time. To see your mouth wrapped around my cock earlier is something I will never forget.”
My nipples tingled and tightened. I swallowed. His mouth brushed over my skin, and he pressed a lingering kiss on my temple. When he drew back, he maintained contact with a hand over my hair.
“You’re safe with me,” he said quietly, and I scrambled after his mood shift. After a beat, and without removing his hand, he said, “Forget about the scar. Just tell me about growing up in Dallas.”
“Why?” I breathed. “What will that do besides make things harder?”
“I don’t get much time with you. Indulge me.”
I waited for my heart to calm while he stroked my hair. “I was a happy kid,” I said. He nodded encouragingly, so after I dipped a buffalo wing into blue cheese dressing and took a bite, I continued. “That’s how I remember it anyway. We lived in a nice home, which actually had a white fence.” I smiled. “Gretchen and her brother, Jonathan—you met him at Lucy’s wedding—were my best friends. They lived nearby.”
“What were you like as a little girl?”
I dropped my eyes. Why was I telling him this? What was the point in learning about each other? It could only lead to more pain.
“Hey,” he whispered, and I looked up again. “What were you like?”
I closed my eyes and the memory began to seep in—the memory of the girl I was before the divorce. It was a place I rarely let myself go. “I was alive.”
There was a hint of concern on his face when I opened my eyes again. “Alive?” he asked.
“I was always doing something. Gretchen’s mom would tease me about being a chatterbox, and when I wasn’t talking, I was making up stories or games. I wrote everything in journals. I always had a pad of paper with me.”
David tilted his head. “You don’t like writing.”
I searched my brain, trying to remember if I’d explicitly said that. “I used to. A lot. A teacher told my parents that I had a knack for creative writing and grammar skills above average for my age. My mom wrote for our local paper and had published a few books before I was born. Sometimes she had two or three novels in the works, and as soon as I was old enough, she would have me sit and edit them. When I told her I liked writing and not editing, she would make this face and tell me that I didn’t have what it took to be an author. Editing was what I should focus on.
“Anyway, regardless, Gretchen and I started an unofficial school newspaper. I would write short little articles, sometimes about our classmates, sometimes fiction, and she would illustrate it.” I blinked a few times and took a sip of water. “My dad would photocopy it, and we’d pass it out every couple weeks or so. Jonathan called us nerds, but he always stole a copy.”
“Did you ever think, as you got older, about writing your own book?”
“Only when I was a kid,” I said. “That’s my mom’s thing.”
David dropped his hand and sat back in his chair. “And you don’t want to be like her.”
“No.”
“I understand based on what little I know,” he said. “But what is it about her?”
“My mom was, and continues to be, difficult. She . . .” I studied the table as I thought. “She could be distant. And mean. She was very jealous, and sometimes, when my dad went on business trips or stayed out late, she’d drink. It made things worse. My dad stopped allowing alcohol in the house, but when she got in a mood, it didn’t stop her.”
I paused, and David placed his large hand over my lower ribs, consuming the small scar. “That’s how this happened? She was drinking?”
“Yes.” I covered his incredibly warm and comforting hand with mine. “That night . . .” I paused and closed my eyes. I inhaled deeply and deflated against the chair with a long exhale. The better part of two decades flashed behind my lids. “That night was hard, but everything that came after was worse.”
“Why?”
“Thirteen isn’t the best time to have your life flipped upside down. I was still figuring out who I was, and it was easy to shut down. I stopped playing, stopped writing, and I just . . . was different afterward. I had to grow up fast. Suddenly everyone expected me to be an adult about the whole situation, but I was just a kid. And I wanted to take care of my dad the way my mom had. Better, actually. So I had to grow up. I had to take control.”
“You like to be in control.”
“If I’m not, I feel . . . helpless.” I picked at something on the table with my free hand, while the other one still sat atop his.
“Is that why you don’t like people touching you?”
My eyes darted up to his. “What do you mean?”
“Sometimes you flinch. Not with me, I mean. But for instance, that jerk-off earlier.”
“Who, Steve?”
“Don’t say that name to me again, all right? Yes, him.”
This way David had of figuring me out, I didn’t know if it bothered me. It was as if I had no secrets from him, and there was nobody in my life that I let get away with that. “I just don’t like when strangers touch me. That’s not unusual.”
“Well, might it have something to do with wanting to be in control all the time? Or even what happened that night?”
“I don’t think I want to talk about this,” I said, trying my best to sound indignant.
He looked disappointed but nodded. “Do you ever read what you wrote as a kid?”
“She destroyed everything.”
His expression turned horrified. “Your mom?”
I shrugged. “After we left. It was childish stuff anyway.”
“I refuse to believe that.”
“But it’s true.” I smiled warmly. “I bet you were a perfect kid.”
He took a moment to respond. “I was.”
I laughed.
With a smile, he shook his head. “I was pretty good, but I had my moments.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that I would sometimes get overly excited about the things or the people I loved.”
“You’re being vague.”
He narrowed his eyes at me playfully. “I was good. I got straight A’s, and I didn’t party too much because I played sports. But I can be a little hotheaded, and it was harder for me to control as a kid.”
“You don’t say,” I responded without thinking.
He looked at me a second and then raised his brows. “You might not believe me, but I’m usually pretty levelheaded. I hate bullshit, and I don’t let it get to me. Certain things just set me off, especially when I feel . . . protective or possessive of something.”
“Something?”
“Or someone.”
“Did it ever get you into trouble?” I asked.
“I got into a couple fights, yeah. One almost landed me in juvie.”
Juvenile hall? David had a temper, but he’d also
seemed pretty straight-edged. I hadn’t expected any serious consequences. I blinked at him. “Over what?”
“That particular one happened at school when this guy called Jessa a bitch. I got lucky, though. His parents were pretty fair and dropped the charges. I think they were secretly happy that I laid him out, because he was an asshole.”
Before I could comment, he added, “I almost killed Alvarez that night.”
I believed him. I remembered the anger that had radiated from David’s body as he’d pushed a gun into Mark’s neck.
“Does that scare you?” he asked.
We searched each other’s faces in the late hour, as the city slept around us. “I don’t know. No,” I said softly. “You don’t scare me.”
“Even though I can be a little . . . intense?”
I twisted my lips and considered this. Nothing about him frightened me, so I shook my head.
“Good.” He exhaled, looked down at my plate, and grinned. “You ate.”
My answering smile turned into a yawn.
“I guess I should get you home.”
I nodded. “It’s been a while since I stayed up all night.”
He leaned in and kissed me. With his face an inch from mine, he said, “Know that you would be spending the night in my arms if things were different. I wouldn’t let you leave.” He delivered the last line in a firm, almost angry manner. Before I could respond, he said, “I’m parked in the garage. We can take the elevator straight down so there’s no chance of running into anyone.”
“Thanks for taking care of me.”
His lips pursed, and he turned away. I followed him from the kitchen to reluctantly change back into my jumpsuit. While I waited for him, I checked my phone, bracing myself for Gretchen’s reaction, but there was only one text from Greg.
Greg: Heard from Gretch?
I shrugged it off, and when I looked up, David was watching me. He walked over slowly and cupped the side of my hair. “Ready?” he asked. I nodded into his palm.
“Why’s it so cold?” I grumbled on the way to the car.
“Didn’t you bring a jacket or anything?”
“Did you see me in a jacket?”
“I think I might have something.” He stopped at the Mercedes, popped the trunk, and rifled around until he produced a pink hoodie. “Here.”
“What is this?”
“A sweater.”
A pink one. In a size I doubted could even stretch to fit his shoulders. “Whose is it?”
“Who cares? You’re cold, I have a sweater, put it on.”
I’d rather freeze than wear a piece of clothing belonging to one of his conquests. I handed it back to him. “No.”
“Olivia, put it on,” he ordered with finality and closed the trunk. He opened the passenger door and raised his eyebrows at me.
Grumbling, I shrugged into it before climbing into the car. I might’ve been willing to freeze, but something stronger in me was compelled to obey David’s commands. Flowery perfume assaulted my nostrils, and I sneezed. I hated the pink sweater.
“Whose is it?” I asked again once we were driving.
He glanced over at me. “It’s Dani’s.”
Oh, give me a break. I started to take it off.
“Hey,” he said, stopping me with a hand on my arm. “Isn’t she a friend of yours?”
I sighed back into my seat, grimacing. “Yes.”
“So why are you making that face?”
“Because she’s a friend,” I said. “I’ve known her for a long time. And it’s weird . . .”
“Maybe you could return it to her for me.”
I glared across the car at him and then narrowed my eyes when his shoulders pulsed with a suppressed laugh. “It’s not funny,” I said. “The idea of you two together makes me sick.”
I dropped my head between my knees, and he went silent. I knew I was being unfair, but I didn’t care. When it came to David, none of my reactions seemed to be in my control.
“I’m sorry,” he said graciously, grasping the back of my neck. “Nothing’s happened, though.”
I peeked over at him. “Have you broken things off?”
“Not technically, but—”
“Then something still could happen,” I clipped.
He sighed heavily. Why isn’t he reassuring me that it won’t? I ran my hands over my face and decided not to let it ruin one of the best nights of my life. I took a soothing breath and looked over at him. “I’m sorry. It’s not my place.”
His gaze remained fixed out the windshield when he said, “It could be.”
My heart skipped. What would it be like to be the woman who held David’s full attention? Who got to tell others he was officially off the market? I couldn’t wonder, or I might make even more mistakes tonight. Instead, I reached over and put my hand on his thigh.
“So what now?” I asked. Outside, the sky gradually lightened to pink with the rising sun.
“I don’t know.” He rubbed my forearm. “I’m going back to New York, though. I need to spend some time on that project.”
“For how long?”
“A week or so.”
“Oh.” A week suddenly felt like a lifetime.
“I’ll e-mail you when I return. At work?”
I sighed and looked out the window. Even without my veil of lust, why couldn’t I just say no? And why did it feel like not saying no was almost worse than anything I’d done up to that point?
Even when he sat across from me, I yearned for him. I felt myself being pulled in opposing directions, crumbling under the pressure of two men. Bill, who I loved and who had been there for me whenever I’d needed him. And David, who drew me in so completely that I didn’t see anything but him. Maybe not even myself. But it wasn’t just the way David physically consumed me, it was an emotional, intense, overwhelming conquest of my body, mind, and heart.
David parked the car outside my apartment building. “Here we are, Miss Olivia.”
I squeezed his thigh and looked back at him. “Thanks for driving me.”
“Wait,” he said when I moved to get out.
“Oops, almost forgot,” I said, zipping out of the hoodie. “You’re crazy if you think I’m going to return it to her.”
“Not that. Come here.” He reached out a long arm and pulled my jaw to him. A palpable silence settled around us when he gave me a hard peck that softened into an open-mouth kiss.
“I’ll miss you,” I blurted.
His smile faltered, and he swallowed hard. With a nod, he said, “I’ll miss you, too.”
17
David had meant to convey something with the way he’d looked at me in the pool Saturday night, but I wasn’t prepared to learn what it was. Nonetheless, being looked at that way was addicting. In fact, I couldn’t get it, or other intimate things, off my mind the remainder of the weekend.
After an agonizing Monday morning, I took a break to call Gretchen. “Are you still asleep?” I asked when she picked up the phone.
“Maybe,” she rasped.
“Why aren’t you at work?”
“It was a long weekend.”
“Lucy’s back from Paris,” I said. “Should we do happy hour tonight? She still doesn’t know you and Greg reconciled. We can surprise her by having him show up.”
“Um, no.”
“Why not?” I pouted, thinking it had been a very clever idea.
“Greg . . . we’re off,” Gretchen said. “I think it’s over.”
“What?” I asked. “Oh, honey. What’d he do?”
“He didn’t do anything,” she said. “It was me. I left with someone else on Saturday night.”
“From Revelin? Who?”
“Does it matter?” she asked. “I didn’t even really know the guy.”
“Why would you do that?” I waited as I heard her shifting around, most likely sitting up in bed.
“I don’t know,” Gretchen said finally, her voice cracking. “I just freaked, I guess.”
&nb
sp; “Freaked?”
“I spent years hating Greg for what he did, and all of a sudden I’m supposed to forgive him?”
“You aren’t supposed to do anything.”
“Things are just moving too quickly. I think maybe this is for the best.”
“I’m really sorry, Gretch.”
“Why? It’s my fault.”
“Because I know how much he means to you,” I said. “And I know it’s not just about some other guy.”
“Um. Why are you being so understanding?”
The question caught me off guard. I guessed I’d really been a pill the last few months. Or was I slowly softening up, both from my guilt and from whatever new feelings bloomed in me? “Listen, I’m coming over tonight and bringing something really bad for us to eat,” I said. “We can talk about everything.”
“I’d like that,” Gretchen said. “Actually, I’d love it.”
Her tone made me realize how much she needed to talk. And I hadn’t been there for her. I hadn’t even asked her how things had been with Greg, the one who’d broken her heart all those years ago.
* * *
That night, Lucy and I knocked on Gretchen’s door. She answered in her pajamas, and I wondered if she’d been wearing them all day.
“We come bearing gifts,” I said.
“Really?” Gretchen asked when I handed her a DVD. She stepped aside to let us into her apartment. “My Best Friend’s Wedding? That’s like the worst thing you could have picked.”
“Why?” Lucy asked, clearly hurt.
Gretchen looked at me. “You didn’t tell her?”
“It’s not my secret to tell,” I said, following her into the living room.
Gretchen plopped onto the couch. “Fine. I’ll just put it out there.” She looked up at Lucy. “I’ve been seeing Greg again.”
“What? Greg as in Greg? Greg Theo?” Lucy’s eyes doubled in size. “I think I need to sit down. Liv, alcohol,” she instructed. “Now.”
I kept one ear on the conversation as I headed into the kitchen to uncork the wine.
“Greg called me a few months ago to say he’d taken a job here,” Gretchen said. “In Chicago.”
Cityscape Affair Series: The Complete Box Set Page 45
