Lily Love

by Maggi Myers

  He hesitates at the threshold and looks back at me. “I swear I have something for you. This isn’t why I brought you home with me. We can wait; I don’t want to rush you.”

  I didn’t know I could be more turned on than I was already, but I am. I couldn’t stop myself from having him if I wanted to—and God knows I don’t want to. I want in his bed. Now.

  I lean in close to his ear, so the touch of my lips and my breath can punctuate my words. “Where’s your room?” I run my nose along his neck and kiss his pulse point, where the frantic thrum of his heartbeat vibrates against my lips. Tate lets out a growl and then the world goes completely upside down. I squeal as Tate tosses me over his shoulder and makes a break for the hallway. I can hardly breathe, I’m laughing so hard.

  I smack his ass. “Whatever happened to ‘I’m not really a Neanderthal’?” Then, as quickly as I was upended, I’m flat on my back in the middle of Tate’s bed.

  “I do seem to go a little Cro-Magnon around you.” He smiles devilishly. The bed dips as he climbs his way toward me, nudging my feet apart as he goes. Any hope I had of stopping vanishes as he leans his body into mine. I gasp when Tate’s hand brushes my bare skin where my tank has ridden up. He stares down at me with piercing eyes, asking permission to continue. I feel beautiful and sensual under his scrutiny. Without any nervousness, I lift my arms and arch my back in invitation.

  He takes his time, kissing every inch of skin he exposes as he lifts my shirt higher. It’s driving me crazy. He’s unwrapping me like I’m a gift. Savoring my skin, murmuring words of gratitude and awe as he goes. My breasts strain against the lace of my bra, begging for Tate’s touch. Sensing my need, he frees me from the rest of my tank and pulls down the cup of my bra. When he takes my nipple into his mouth, my hips buck into his. I’m too lost in the way his tongue is licking fire across my skin to care that I’ve grabbed fistfuls of his hair to bring him closer.

  Soon we’re nothing more than a tangle of limbs and clothing we’re desperate to shed. The need to feel Tate’s skin against mine is as keen as my next breath. Somewhere between my head and my heart, wanting him has morphed into a need so powerful, I don’t know how I’ve lived without him so far. My hormones are waging a war of their own, ready to stake their claim where Tate is concerned.

  “You are so beautiful,” Tate groans, shaking me from my reverie.

  I could say the same for him; his tall, lean frame is mapped with dips and valleys of toned muscle. A dusting of hair spans his wide chest and gradually narrows over his stomach. The faint trail that’s left leads to the unabashed evidence of his desire for me. It makes me heady with power, knowing I made him feel that way. He brushes his lips along my collarbone and up my neck. I undulate my hips, so his erection slides deliciously between us.

  “I want to be inside you so badly,” he growls. He growls, and it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.

  “Please, Tate,” I beg, not caring how shameless I sound. He rolls away to root through his nightstand, producing a foil packet. Softly panting, I shift my hips in silent invitation as he rolls the condom down his length.

  “Look at me,” Tate demands, and I’m helpless to resist. The intensity of his stare holds me captive as he pushes into me. My eyes flutter shut at the divine sensation of my body opening up for him. “Open your eyes, Caroline.” Tate’s tongue sweeps the seam of my mouth. “I want to see your eyes when I’m buried in you.”

  Up until this point in my life, I didn’t think I was one of those girls who liked bedroom talk. That was until Tate started talking about being buried inside of me, and now I can’t wait to hear more declarations just like that from him. I open my eyes to his lust-filled gaze, and I know that Tate feels every bit of what I’m feeling. He wants me just as much as I want him. He lifts his hips to ease out of me, his eyes burning into mine when he thrusts forward again.

  “Oh, God, Tate,” I moan, as pressure begins building deep in my belly. I lift my hips to allow him deeper, savoring the way he fills and stretches me in a way I’ve never felt before.

  “You feel so good … Jesus … so good,” he pants, finding a rhythm that drives us both wild.

  Just when I feel like I can’t take any more of his sweet torture, my body clenches down on him as an orgasm explodes through me. Our eyes still fixed on each other, Tate watches as I come apart underneath him.

  Never in my life have I felt so wholly enraptured by anyone.

  “You’re. So. Sexy,” he grunts between thrusts, as his own need reaches a fevered pitch. Gripping his pumping hips, I pull him even harder against me. “Ah, Caroline!” My name comes out on a strangled cry as his body shudders and empties inside me.

  into the mystic

  I have no idea how long we lie sweat-slick and panting. I’m in a haze of postorgasmic bliss and don’t really care anyway. I grumble my dissent when Tate rolls off of me.

  “Did I hurt you?” He shifts his weight onto his side so he can take my broken wrist in his hand.

  “The last thing you did was hurt me.” I smirk.

  “Hmm,” he murmurs, kissing the tips of my fingers. “Still, I should be gentler with you.” He hovers at my ring finger, which trembles worse than the rest of my hand. It’s easy to forget that the hemiparesis still affects me when my hand is immobilized in a brace. Instinctively I curl my fingers into a fist, wanting to hide it from Tate. He kisses my knuckles before he asks, “Why does your hand shake, Caroline?”

  Instant mood killer.

  “You don’t really want to talk about it now,” I insist.

  “Tell me; it doesn’t change anything,” he swears, “I just want to know.” His eyes are so sincere; it makes me want to believe him.

  “When I was in labor with Lily, I had a stroke.” It felt so nice to be desirable and sexy, but that changed the second I said “stroke.” Now the only thing I feel is like an invalid.

  “Preeclampsia?” he asks. I can only nod. “Tarryn had that with my niece; she went on bed rest for her last trimester.” He reaches for my arm, encouraging me to lie back down with him. He tucks me against his chest and waits for me to continue the story.

  “I didn’t present with it until late in my pregnancy. The day we found out, my labor was induced, and then everything went crazy.” I gasp in surprise when Tate’s hand slides across my stomach. My instinct is to shy away further, but I force myself not to pull away.

  “It amazes me what a woman’s body is capable of,” he murmurs reverently as he flattens his palm between my belly button and my pubic bone. With great tenderness, he traces a heart where Lily grew inside my body, kissing its center in adoration. The need to tell him that I love him overwhelms me, but I can’t. Not yet.

  “Do you want to have children someday?” I inwardly curse myself for bringing it up. It’s questions like these that can quickly remind me how little promise there is for a future with Tate. He isn’t going to want to take on the care of a special-needs child or share the spotlight with one. And what if he does want children? That’s definitely a deal breaker, considering my body wasn’t very good at being pregnant. Understatement of the year.

  “I love children, but I’ve never had an overwhelming desire to have my own.” He continues to stroke my stomach with his fingertips. “I love my niece and nephew more than anything in the world. I can’t imagine loving my own child more than that, or loving Jay and Jennifer any less. Love is love, regardless of biology. It’s our own willingness to share it that matters most.” He lifts his eyes to mine, and I see his love reflected back at me. It steals my breath and makes me wonder if I’m just as transparent.

  “That’s beautiful, Tate.” His eyes still have me entranced by their flagrant emotion. They soften further as a smile splits his face. I want him to love Lily like that, and I’m scared that he won’t.

  “Wait right here.” He rolls over and grabs his jeans off the floor. He moves with more energy than he should have, after the amount we just expended.

  “Where are
you going?” I ask sleepily, snuggling further into the bedsheets that smell just like him. Yum.

  “It’s a surprise.” He flashes his dimples, and all other coherent thoughts are gone.

  He disappears down the hallway, leaving me alone and deliciously naked in his bed. I prop myself up on my elbows and take in his bedroom. I didn’t get much of a chance to see it before (not that I minded). The furniture is dark and masculine, but what stands out the most are the photographs. They hang on the wall in all shapes and sizes. No particular pattern or theme, but they’re fascinating in their chaos. There are photos of the fields outside his house, in different stages of seasons. Some are unrecognizable landscapes, and others are candid shots of people I don’t recognize. There’s palpable emotion in each frame that blows me away. I can’t believe he ever considered doing anything other than this.

  I lean over the edge of the bed and grab the first article of clothing my hand comes into contact with; it’s Tate’s shirt. Pulling it over my head, I drink in his unique scent and smile. I pad over to the wall of photographs to get a closer look. That’s where Tate finds me upon his return, studying his art.

  “Hey, there.” I follow the sound of his voice to the doorway. He’s holding something behind his back, watching me intently.

  “Tate, these are stunning. You’ve got a gift for capturing a feeling, not just a subject.”

  He saunters over to where I’m standing, lips twitching, trying not to smile.

  “Nice shirt.” He smirks as he leans in to kiss my cheek.

  My face flames and I laugh at the irony. He’s kissed every inch of my naked body, and I’m being bashful about wearing his shirt.

  “I’m glad you think I’m talented,” he says matter-of-factly. He takes his hand from behind his back and holds out a large cardboard envelope for me to take. “I really did ask you back here to give you something.” Opening it, I gasp when I pull out a gorgeous black-and-white photo of the Casablanca Lily from the moon garden. Its texture and shading make it look almost like it’s mourning. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

  “When did you have time to do this?” My voice shakes with emotion as I run my fingers over the outline of the petals.

  “I went back with my camera last night.” He shrugs like it’s no big thing, but his eyes dance with his excitement. “I got some great shots, but I wanted this one for you.” He flips the photo over in my hands and points to where he’s marked the back.

  Tate Michaels Photography 2013

  “Lily Love”

  “That’s the name of the song I’ve sung to Lily since she was a baby,” I whisper. How could he know that?

  “It’s a song? Really?” He sounds truly surprised. “I just thought that title fit. It’s your favorite flower from the moon garden; it’s your daughter’s name … there’s a lot of love surrounding that word.”

  I love you! Come on, you want to say it.

  “It’s an Irish folk song by the Chieftains,” I start to say, but can’t continue. Tears flood my eyes and spill down my face. He doesn’t need to tell me that he loves me; he just showed me in a most undeniable way. He cups my face in his hands and looks at me with worried eyes.

  “I didn’t want to make you cry,” he says, gently sweeping away my tears. “I wanted it to make you happy.”

  “H-happy tears,” I stammer between hiccupping breaths. He takes the picture from me and places it on his dresser. On a heavy sigh he wraps me in his arms, holding me tightly to his chest and tucking me under his chin. My very favorite place in the world.

  “You scared me,” he breathes into my hair. “I thought I really screwed up.”

  “You didn’t screw up. You paid attention to what was important to me, took in the things that I shared, and then showed me that I was on your mind.” I turn my head up to make sure he understands what I say next. “You make me feel known and cherished, and I’ve never felt that way.” I have to practically bite through my tongue to keep from blurting out, “… cherished and loved,” but I’m not going to tempt fate tonight. We have no business talking of love. We hardly know each other, and Lily is only a series of stories I’ve shared with him, not a tangible little girl with profound needs that need to be met daily. Yet here we are staring into each other’s eyes with more love than I could’ve ever hoped for.

  “I’m so glad you like it,” he whispers against my lips. “By the way, you are more than cherished.” His lips are soft and firm against mine, eliciting a blissful sigh from me. His tongue slips between my parted lips, stroking and licking mine, leaving me breathless and weak-kneed.

  He guides me back to the bed, where he strips off his jeans and his shirt from me. He pulls me in close, and I shiver when our bodies press together. His deft hands electrify my senses, just as they did before, but now everything feels different. We replace the frantic rush of our desperation for each other with reverent explorations. I show him with my body what my words can’t. We make love until the orange glow of dusk shines through the window. I don’t even know what time it is, and I don’t care. I want to push the rest of the world away and disappear with Tate.

  I can’t do that, though. Reality is on the other side of the threshold, waiting to remind us that life doesn’t stand still for anything.

  the world as i see it

  Now, let’s throw some clothes on; I have something I want to show you,” he says and starts gathering our clothes off the floor. I pull on my panties and am rooting through the pile he’s assembled when I feel his eyes on me. I turn around and find him fastening the top button of his jeans, leveling me with a look of pure intensity. I fold my arms over my chest, suddenly feeling very exposed.

  “What?” I start to squirm when he doesn’t look away. He shakes his head and chuckles to himself, which only makes me feel more foolish. “What?” I insist. I spot my bra peeking out from under his bed and dive for it, suddenly grateful for something to do. When I fasten the last hook around my rib cage, I turn back toward Tate. He’s still in the same spot he was in before, looking at me in much the same way.

  “You’re beautiful,” he says.

  “Thanks.” I blush scarlet red. “Bathroom?” That’s the third one-word reply I’ve made in five minutes. I need a moment to get myself together.

  “At the end of the hall,” he answers, and then pauses like he has something to add.

  I brush past him and pretend I don’t see his hesitation. I wish he’d just say whatever it is he has on his mind. Since starting to write again, my imagination is a vast playground for assumptions. His eyes bore holes in my back as I walk down the hall, but still he stays silent.

  “Are you okay?” I ask. He nods, but doesn’t say anything. Maybe he just needs a minute, too.

  “Caroline.” I look over my shoulder to where he’s watching me from the doorway. “It’s nothing bad; I just can’t believe you’re here.” That’s it? That’s what Mr. Heart-On-Sleeve was struggling with? Sensing my apparent doubt, he pushes off the doorframe and strides up to me. He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, letting his hand linger on my face. “What I feel for you is a lot to process. I may not always have an immediate answer for what’s buzzing in my brain, but I’ll never lie about it.”

  “Okay,” is all I can manage to say.

  My head is swimming with so many emotions it feels like I’m drowning. I’m relieved that he isn’t secretly harboring feelings of regret for sleeping with me, I’m pissed at myself for even thinking that for a minute, and I’m all swoony inside from the honesty of his confession. I reach up on my tiptoes and kiss him softly, to reassure him and myself.

  “I’ll be out in just a minute,” I promise as I close the bathroom door behind me. When I hear Tate’s footsteps retreating back up the hallway, I close my eyes and lean against the door. When I open them again, it takes all of my effort not to shriek at the beast staring back in the mirror. My hair is a nest of tangles, sticking out every which way. The new hairdo is rivaled only by the smud
ged mascara under my eyes. I look just like the disaster I am. I open and close some of the drawers beneath the sink until I find a wide-toothed comb. I run it through my hair until every knot and snarl are smooth again, and splash cool water on my face to rinse away the makeup. Just a few minutes after my retreat, I emerge from the bathroom feeling a hundred times better and ready to face Tate. I find him in the kitchen, pouring two glasses of white wine. He glances up when I walk in.

  “I thought you might like to have some wine,” he offers. I take the glass from him and savor the crisp tang of the wine. “Feel better?” he asks tentatively.

  “Much, thank you.” I sigh. “Now, what were you going to show me?”

  Tate’s face lights up, and I can’t help but get a little swept up by his enthusiasm. “House tour first; then I want to show you my studio.” He claps his hands together and pauses for a moment.

  “This is the kitchen.” He motions with a sweep of his hand. It’s charming, with its white country cabinets and butcher-block countertops. A row of bar stools are tucked under the bar top. I can picture Tate and Tarryn’s family eating here. This room just feels like the heart of the house, a space where they would migrate to.

  Tate grabs my hand and leads me into a large open area off the kitchen. “This is supposed to be the living-slash-dining combo, but I always eat at the kitchen bar, so room for living it is.” I knew it. He walks me past the overstuffed couches and armchairs to a set of French doors that lead outside.

  “This is my favorite part of the house,” he says, leading us onto a deck that spans the entire back side. It faces the open land I saw when we pulled up, and the view is absolutely breathtaking.