by R. C. Martin
I’ve never been both fully cognizant of my actions and yet entirely confused by them at the same time. While there’s a part of me that has no idea what I’m doing, there’s another part me—the primal part of me—that knows exactly what I’m doing. Not only that, but as I rinse my body of soap, I make up my mind that I don’t want to fight this war anymore. It’s been weeks since I first met Blaine; weeks since the catalyst for what happened not even an hour ago on my damn desk was sparked. There are still more questions riddling my mind than there are answers—but the answers I do have are the only ones that I care about.
I know that she desires me as much as I crave her.
I know what it feels like to hold her in my arms.
I know how her skin tastes after she’s come on my cock.
I know that she wants more—and so do I.
It’s already been decided. We’re in this together, and I won’t fight it. I won’t justify it. I won’t condemn it. Rather, I intend to enjoy it, like any journey worth traveling.
“Mike?” Veronica calls out, yanking me from my thoughts as she enters the bathroom. “Hey, I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Yeah. Got in a minute ago,” I reply, not moving from beneath the spray of water.
“Did you get the work done that you needed?”
My mind fills with the memory I now hold of Blaine’s face as I slid into her hot, wet center, and I look down at my dick as it starts to fill with blood. Clearing my throat, I answer, “It was a productive evening.”
“Good. I’m glad. Are you tired? Do you need anything?”
“I’m okay, babe. Thanks.”
She hums in response, and then I watch through the steamy glass as she takes her leave. Glancing back down at my semi-hard cock, I’m sure Wednesday can’t come soon enough.
Michael
I FIND MYSELF glancing at the doors I bypass as I ascend to the fifth floor. The neighborhood where her building is located seems safe enough, and I don’t notice anything noteworthy as I make my climb. When I reach the landing of the top floor, I count four other doors—each one facing the stairwell—and spot Blaine’s to my right. Anxious to be in her company, I don’t linger in the hallway, but move toward her residence and knock without hesitation.
A faint trace of music sneaks out from beneath her door, and I listen for her footsteps as she approaches. Just as she twists the deadbolt, I hide the bouquet of flowers I picked up on the way over behind my back. When the barrier that stands between us is swung open, I breathe deeply, an uncontainable smile stretching across my face as I take her in.
Her hair is pulled up into a little, messy bun on top of her head, a few loose strands hanging against the sides of her neck. She’s in a pair of holey, blue, cut-off, jean shorts that show off her slim legs, and a black t-shirt she wears tucked in that reads: Stay Home. It’s Too Peopley Out There. Her feet are bare, but she’s got a thin chain that hangs around her ankle, and a toe ring on her left foot. Dressed the way she is, she appears far younger and more carefree than I can ever remember being—but more than that, she looks gorgeous. There’s something so unapologetic about her, with no makeup and no frills; something that screams—this is me on purpose—and I admire that about her.
“I’m extremely overdressed,” I mutter, looking down at the suit I wore to work today.
She bites the inside of her cheek, tugging her pursed lips to one side of her mouth as her eyes give me a once over. She then blushes and tells me, “I could change.”
Grinning, I step toward her, leaning down so I can greet her properly. My lips a breath away from hers, I assure her, “I was only kidding.”
I feel her smile as I kiss her hello, and she leans into it, making my chest swell and my dick twitch. Then she grabs hold of my tie and pulls me closer while simultaneously backing into her apartment. I don’t resist, but bring my arms out from behind my back and wrap them around hers as I taste her lips. She opens up for me as if to deepen our kiss, but then the rattling of the plastic wrap around the flowers distracts her. Craning her neck, she twists to look over her shoulder, hanging onto my arms to keep her balance. Upon catching a glimpse of my gift, she turns around completely, putting her back to my front, and takes hold of the bundle.
“Are these for me?”
Chuckling, I grip the sides of her waist and ask, “What do you think?”
She leans against me, lifting the flowers to her nose to get a whiff of their scent. I remain still, content to bask in her unabashed reaction to my simple gift. Looking up at me, she replies, “I think you’re super hot and you brought me flowers, which means that I should definitely check on dinner because you deserve a meal that’s not burnt.”
“Then I suppose I better let you go,” I mutter, giving her sides a squeeze.
“Only for a little while,” she replies with a bashful smile before twisting out of my hold. I watch her as she closes the door behind me and then makes her way into the kitchen. “You can sit or look around or whatever you want. Oh, um—” She spins and faces me, now clutching an empty mason jar against her chest as she insists, “Just ignore the mess in the corner. I’m—rearranging.” She shrugs and turns away from me once more, and I take in the details of her place.
To my right, I spot three doorways—one with a door, two without. The door furthest from me appears to be her bathroom. I’m not sure about the other two spaces, but I’d guess at least one of them is a closet. Deciding that I’m more interested in what I can see, I shift my attention to the main part of her loft apartment.
Her kitchen is to the left of the front entrance—her refrigerator sharing the same wall and stationed next to an industrial, metal shelving unit, which appears to serve as an open pantry. On the adjacent wall is her stove and oven, kitty-corner to her sink and dishwasher—the extra counter space along the back of the sink doubling as a low breakfast bar, of sorts. She’s got butcher top counters and stainless steel appliances that are a strikingly attractive contrast to the exposed brick backdrop of the whole apartment.
Beyond the kitchen, her dining table is situated to be a sort of focal point, the black square surface surrounded by four wooden, backless chairs that match her counters. To the left of her dining area is her sitting room. She’s got a navy blue sofa, with a pale gray throw blanket over the back, pushed up against the wall. It sits on top of a large, light blue area rug, along with a low set coffee table covered in magazines and coffee table books.
On the opposite side of her dining room is a spiral staircase that leads up to her loft space. Her bed—which looks remarkably like a golden yellow, chain-link fence constructed into a contemporary, edgy, sleigh bed of some kind—sits between two small nightstands. Her white bedding with navy and gray throw pillows ties in the colors she seems to like best, and I wonder if she’s not so young as she is charmingly sophisticated.
“Your place is amazing,” I tell her, not bothering to mask the awe in my voice as I slowly walk further into the room.
“Thank you. I’ve worked really hard to make it my home.”
“I can see that.” Shrugging off my jacket, I make my way toward the staircase to drape it over the railing, stopping short at the piles of books I find scattered all over the floor. “What happened over here?”
“I thought I said to ignore the mess,” she says, amusement laced in her tone.
I toss my jacket over the railing and unfasten my cuffs, rolling up my sleeves as I glance over at her. When I quirk a curious eyebrow, she rolls her eyes and continues arranging her flowers in the mason jar now filled with water before she mumbles, “One sec.”
After quickly peeking into the oven, she brings her flowers to the dining room table and then comes to join me. Pointing at the now empty bookshelf pulled out a few inches from the dark corner under her loft, she informs me, “That is a bitch. I thought if I took all the books off that I could move it. I moved everything else,” she declares, pressing her fists on her hips. “I probably grunted and cursed more than
I should have, but I managed. Anyway, I want this shelf in that corner.” She points to the empty space beside her couch and the wall, then shrugs. “It escaped my memory that I wasn’t the one who put that iron bitch there in the first place.”
Fighting a grin, I fold my arms across my chest and inquire, “Why is it that you were so adamant about moving around your furniture all on your own?”
With a sigh, she casts her gaze down at her feet and admits, “I wanted it to be different. I didn’t want to look around and be reminded of the missing pieces of Mateo.”
I let her words sink in for a moment. It doesn’t escape me that regardless of whether or not she felt it best to end things with her boyfriend of two years, the absence of him must still be felt. It might seem like a simple confession to someone else, but I appreciate her telling me her intentions.
When she doesn’t lift her gaze, I reach my hand out and tip up her chin. Tracing the pad of my thumb across her plump, lower lip I murmur, “I’ll move it after dinner.”
“Really?” she breathes, her hazel eyes growing wide in excitement.
“Really.”
Pursing her lips to the side, she steps toward me and asks, “Are you hungry?”
I smile down at her, thinking about how much I’ve been looking forward to tonight—recalling every moment I got distracted day dreaming about her over the last couple of days. Sometimes, I’m sure I’m going crazy, my carnal nature never having been so greedy before. Now that I’m here, now that the pull that I feel toward her seems to ease just being in her presence, I’m not sure she could even begin to understand that she’s already satisfying my insatiable hunger merely breathing the same air as me.
Dragging my thumb over her lip and down her chin, I then drop my hand to my side and admit, “I’m starving.”
Blaine
SURE THAT OUR dinner will burn if I don’t break away from his heated gaze, I bite my tingling lip and hurry around him. Honestly, I’ve been an anxious mess all day, preparing for him to be here. As soon as I woke up, I started cleaning. I’d been rearranging the loft for a couple of days, trying to decide where I wanted to put things, and I had stuff everywhere. As soon as I was satisfied with my current set up—excluding the bookshelf, of course—I hopped in the shower and then started preparing dinner. Now that Michael’s here, the sound of his dress shoes against the hardwood floor as he looks around heard over the music I’ve got playing low, my anxiety has given way to excitement.
He likes it here—and I like him here.
“Can I ask you a personal question?”
After taking another look into the oven and seeing that the flatbread is ready, I grab an oven mitt and answer, “Sure.”
“You do all right living here without the help of another income?”
Placing the baking sheet on top of the stove, I glance over and see Michael, now sitting in a stool on the opposite side of the breakfast bar. I can tell by the expression on his face and the tone of his voice that he’s not trying to be nosy. He wants to make sure I’m okay.
Propping myself up next to the sink, I offer him a nod and explain, “Mateo actually never really contributed much. He only lived here for six months. I’ve been here for almost four years. When mom passed, dad insisted that I take the majority of her life insurance policy money. He helped me invest some, and then I put a decent down payment on this place—enough to make my monthly mortgage payments manageable. I’ve always made a decent amount of money at the Lounge, so I’m good.”
His eyebrows shoot up in awe as he asks, “You own this place?”
“Working on it,” I reply with a giggle.
“Es tan sabia como es hermosa.”
Smiling, I lean across the counter, shortening the distance between us as I ask, “What did you just say?”
His eyes dance around my face before he murmurs, “I like you.”
I sense it as a blush fills my cheeks at the same time that my stomach clenches tightly. Feeling bashful, in that way that only seems to happen in Michael’s presence, I admit, “I like you, too.”
He winks at me, sending another flurry of excitement right through me, and then he asks, “What did you make? It smells delicious.”
“Right. Dinner!” I straighten, clasping my hands together at my chest as I inform him, “I made honey mustard chicken salad with avocado and bacon, along with something called California chicken flatbread—also with avocado and bacon—topped with chipotle ranch. I can hold the ranch if you don’t like it. I’ve had it, though, and I promise it’s better with the ranch. Oh, and I hope you like avocado. Shit, I didn’t think to ask. I love it and—”
“Blaine,” he interrupts softly. He then coughs out a laugh, smiling at me warmly as he goes on to say, “It sounds amazing. You didn’t have to go to so much trouble for me, but I’m excited to try it. How can I help?”
After instructing him to grab the two bowls of salad I prepped just minutes before he arrived from out of the fridge, I plate the flatbread and join him at the table. I sit for only a second, and then jump up, remembering that we need silverware. When I return with forks, knives, and napkins, I sit once more before I notice I forgot something to drink.
“Dammit,” I laugh. “Did you want something to drink?” I start to stand, but he takes hold of my hand and gives my fingers a squeeze.
“Let me. Tell me what you’ve got and where to get it. You’ve outdone yourself already.”
“Um,” I start to say, using my free hand to sweep a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “Well, I’ve got water or wine. I wasn’t sure if you liked wine or not.”
“Wine is good.”
“Okay. It’s on the counter. Glasses are to the right of the stove.”
“Got it.”
I watch as he gets up and makes his way into my kitchen. He finds my stemless wine glasses without trouble, and then the bottle of wine. When he asks after the corkscrew, I tell him where he can find it, and then proceed to stare as he uncorks the bottle. For reasons that I don’t know how to explain, watching him do something so simple sends a warmth through my chest and straight down do my core. Maybe it’s because I like the way he looks in my kitchen; or maybe it’s because I’ve missed him these last couple of days; or maybe it’s because since having sex with him in his office, I’ve imagined having sex with him in a variety of other places—including my kitchen.
Shaking my head clear of my lustful thoughts, I thank him when he sets my wine in front of me, and then we both dig into our meal.
“You’ve one-upped me,” he says, holding up a slice of flatbread. “Tastes even better than it smells. Definitely beats a hotdog.”
“Thank you,” I reply on a laugh. “But don’t knock the hotdogs. I wasn’t lying about how much I love them. When I’m home, though, I try to keep it pretty healthy. You’d be surprised with how many low-carb, healthy-fat recipes I’ve got in my repertoire that include bacon.”
“Oh, yeah?” he asks with a grin before taking another bite of the flatbread. “I’m surprised. I didn’t take you for the calorie counting type.”
“I’m not,” I mutter around my mouthful, dismissing the thought with a wave of my hand and a playful scowl. “Definitely not.” He looks at me, obviously curious for more of an explanation, and patiently waits for me to swallow before I continue. “My dad—he’s the reason I got into cooking. I mean, I’d help mom out a little when I lived with them, but right after she died, dad’s health kind of took a turn.
“He had a heart attack. It scared the shit out of me. We knew he had high cholesterol and that he needed to be careful about what he ate, but he was grieving, not thinking about his diet. Anyway, we made a deal. He has to watch what he eats, and I help out as often as I can. He’s really good about eating leftovers, so I like to stock his fridge a few times a month.”
“I take it he likes bacon?” he asks, spearing his fork with his next bite of salad.
My eyes grow wide, and I nod my head enthusiastically as I reply, “Mo
re than you could possibly imagine.”
“I like him already,” Michael chuckles.
While we finish our meal and enjoy our wine, I talk a little bit more about dad, and he tells me more about his parents, too. He fills me in on his day, and I tell him about mine, and it’s nice—just like our first date. One conversation flows into another and then, before I know it, we’re both finished with our food. He helps me clear the table, and as I refill our glasses of wine, he moves my bookshelf across the room.
I’m not sure watching him move a shelf should be sexy—but it totally is.
To my surprise, as soon as he has the bookshelf where I want it, he starts picking up my books. “Are these stacked in any particular order?” he asks, both of his hands full of paperbacks.
Setting our wine down on the coffee table, I shake my head and join him. “No. I’m sure a different kind of book lover would go insane knowing that I have no rhyme or reason to how I store my books, but I like it that way.”
“You’ve got quite the collection,” he says, picking up another stack. Tilting his head to inspect the bindings, he reads off, “Tolstoy, Fitzgerald, Woolf, Austen—you like the classics.”
“I’ve got a little of everything.” I grab a copy of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larsson and The Reader by Bernhard Schlink, holding them both up for him to see. He smirks at me when his eyes fall to the next book on my stack, Warm Bodies by Isaac Marion sitting right on top. “See?” I giggle.
“I do,” he replies, headed back toward the shelf.
“There’s something about classic lit,” I concede, filling my arms with another stack. As I slide the books alongside the others, I go on to explain, “They talked differently. It’s like their words held more meaning or maybe that the author had a relationship with words different than we do now. I can’t really explain it.”
“It’s been a while since I read for pleasure. Even longer since I read a piece of fiction literature for school—but I remember books like Moby Dick. God, I hated that book.”
