Two is a Lie

by Pam Godwin

  “What are you going to do, Danni?” Rick crosses his arms and lifts a hand to smooth his gray mustache.

  “That’s the million-dollar question.” I sigh. “Got any priestly advice?”

  “You love them both?”

  “Is that wrong?”

  “No, not wrong. But God’s plan for marriage is one man for one woman. Otherwise, He would’ve created more Adams for Eve.” He gives me a sympathetic smile. “You’ll have to choose one and set the other one free to find his own wife.”

  I won’t correct him on his religious views of marriage, but if I believed in a god, that god would accept all variations of genders and sexual orientations in a relationship. I do, however, agree with him on one thing.

  “I know I need to choose.” I hug my waist and lift a hand to clutch my dry throat.

  “Take some time and truly assess your feelings for both of them. You’ll find that you really love and have more of a connection with one of them.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “Until then, prepare yourself for double the highs, double the lows. A relationship with one person is a lot of work. But with two?” He pats my back and stares at me like a father would a daughter. “I don’t envy you, young lady.”

  “Yeah.” I chuckle, and it sounds more like a groan. “Thanks.”

  “Anytime you need to talk, you know where to find me.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  I return to the dance floor, giving Cole a reprieve to sit and watch. And watch he does, reclined in a chair, legs spread, and eyes like liquid fire as he devours every move of my body.

  His face is hard, cut in a lethal way that conjures seedy hotel rooms, guns in his hands, and a cigarette perched between his lips. I don’t know what his job looks like, but as I watch him watch me, I realize he’s probably a very dangerous man. Not dangerous to me. But I have a gut feeling he’s killed people, and I don’t know how to process that.

  So I do what I always do and let the music eclipse my thoughts. I shake and twirl and move in sync with dozens of smiling people who have very little to smile about.

  Later that night, I ride home on the back of Cole’s motorcycle, both invigorated and tired, but also a little worried.

  He’s going to put the moves on me when we get home. I just know it. I saw it in the melty way his eyelids fell at half-mast while he watched me dance. He waited for me for over four years, and he’s not the kind of man who goes without sex.

  With a hand on the gas and the other on the clutch, he’s the epitome of power and seduction. That sounds so silly and girly, but I’ve always had this reaction to him. Like I’m sixteen all over again, crushing on a boy to the point of foolish obsession.

  But that’s not all this is. Our love runs deep, enduring miles and years and even death.

  I hug his broad back, relishing the proximity of his strength, his life. I love this man, and I want to show him with every inch of my body. But I can’t. Because Trace…

  I stop myself at that thought and make a personal vow. When I’m with one of them, I won’t think about the other one, until which point I can’t help myself. Then I’ll know. If I’m longing for the one I’m not with, I’ll know which one I want more.

  As we motor out of downtown, a light drizzle forms in the chilly air, hovering like a spook-white mist against the black sky, lifeless, motherless. I nuzzle into Cole’s warmth and remain there long after he shuts off the engine in my driveway.

  “Danni?” His gravelly voice rumbles through me.

  I snuggle closer. “You’re so warm.”

  “I’ll make you warmer inside.”

  “So will a hot shower.” I reluctantly peel myself off his body and head indoors.

  We take turns in the bathroom, and I’m surprised he doesn’t suggest we shower together. Maybe this won’t be as hard as I thought.

  I lie in bed, finger combing my wet hair and listening to the rattle of the pipes as he finishes in the bathroom. When the shower shuts off, I sit up and stare at the closed door to my bedroom.

  We didn’t say goodnight, and it’s only nine o’clock. Will he go to the basement or try to seduce his way into my bed?

  Nervous energy has me reaching for the drawstrings on my pajama pants. I double-knot them, as if that’ll keep him out.

  Then I grab my phone, looking for a distraction. There’s a few missed texts, probably from Trace. I ignore those and pull up my playlist, selecting a mellow song on low volume.

  As Lust For Life by Lana Del Rey trickles in the background, I close my eyes and sway to the melody.

  I don’t know what I expected from spending the day with Cole. It’s too early to make a decision, but I feel more lost than ever.

  No, not lost. I’m more certain about my feelings for him than I was this morning. Spending my life with rugged, sexy Cole Hartman would be as epic and passionate as I always imagined. No woman in her right mind would walk away from him.

  I press my face in my hands and try to keep my emotions under control. I need time, and that’s okay. As long as he and Trace aren’t miserable, I can forgive myself for being indecisive.

  A knock sounds on the bedroom door, and I whip my head up.

  I’m going to open that door, and he’s going to weaken me with the look. The one I can’t refuse. And he’s going to smell clean and yummy with his hair all wet and tousled.

  Shitty, shit, shit. I draw in a deep breath just as Lana launches into the chorus about taking off clothes. That won’t give him the wrong idea or anything.

  I slide off the bed and crack the door wide enough to slip out. Then I shut it behind me and lean against the heavy wood before lifting my eyes to his.

  Damn. The hallway is dark, but his gaze is darker. Shadowy black, like a mysterious cave, luring me in with its promise of dangerous thrills and reckless adventure.

  Beads of water trickle along the grooves of his chiseled chest. I want to follow those glistening trails with my tongue, around his hard nipples, down the corrugated steel of his abs, and lower, below the low-slung waistband of his workout shorts. The material is so thin I can see the long hard shape of him jerking to be released.

  “Are you going to bed?” He rests a hand on the doorframe above my head and angles toward me.

  “Mm hmm.” My pulse kicks up.

  “I want to taste you.”

  My knees wobble. “Not on our first date.”

  “Remember our last first date?” He bends closer, sliding his whiskered cheek along mine and whispering into the space beside my ear. “I was inside you the entire night. We didn’t make it to the bedroom until we christened every square foot of this house.”

  My thighs quiver in memory. “It has to be different this time.”

  “I know.” He eases back, just enough to look at me. Or rather, my mouth. “I’ll settle on tasting your lips.”

  A kiss. That’s perfectly acceptable for a first date.

  Except Cole kisses like he fucks—deeply, intensely, with the most fulfilling, raunchiest, kinkiest techniques known to man, and he does it with his soul engaged while stealing every hollowed-out corner of mine.

  I might die if he puts his mouth on me. I’ll surely die if he doesn’t.

  “Close your eyes.” He runs his nose alongside mine, his breaths warm and minty clean.

  I let my lashes flutter downward, my fingers digging against the door at my back.

  The first brush of his lips stops my heart. The second caress shocks my system into a vibrating funnel of blood and desire.

  He tilts his head, pressing harder, deeper, parting my mouth and sinking his tongue. I tremble and pant, wrapping my arms around his neck and meeting every tantalizing rub and lick.

  His mouth is made for this, designed and sculpted to bring a woman the kind of slow-burning pleasure that melts beneath the skin and lingers like a fantasy.

  Bowing into and around me, he crowds so close I have nowhere to go. But I’m exactly where I want to be as he holds
me on the cusp of madness in the cradle of his body.

  We kiss for an hour and a minute, tangled in the fabric of eternity. My hands slide through his hair, over his shoulders, down his biceps, palming and scratching his pecs.

  He’s hard everywhere, and the hardest part of him feels like an iron bar, jabbing against my stomach. He doesn’t grind. He’s just so big and close I feel every thick inch, like an urgent plea for entry.

  Then he goes wild, feverish, sucking, nibbling, and making up for lost years. The door rattles in the jamb with the press of our bodies. A picture frame falls off the wall. Friction, skin burns, bite marks… Holy lordy, what a kiss.

  Eventually he edges back and lets me catch my breath. Ghosting his lips along my jaw, he pauses at my neck.

  “We’ll take it from there on our next date,” he breathes against my skin. “Sweet dreams, baby.”

  Then off he goes, prowling toward the basement door and vanishing behind it.

  I must be every shade of aroused, staring after him. God knows, I’m a hot wet mess between my legs.

  Because that kiss was perfect. The kind of kiss I can’t live without.

  My heart drums a battle of emotion as I worry about how long I can draw this out.

  In my bedroom, I turn off the music on my phone and open the text messages.

  Trace: I’m lost without you.

  Trace: You are my smile.

  Trace: I never thought love was worth fighting for. Until I met you. I'm ready for war.

  Trace: I miss you.

  The texts came over the span of the day, letting me know I haven’t been far from his mind. I feel an overwhelming need to soothe him, so I send a quick message.

  Me: I’m tucked in for the night, alone and missing you, too.

  Then I turn off the light and count my blessings. I’ve been alone. Agonizingly, helplessly stuck in the isolation of mourning and depression. I’m not in that place anymore.

  As impossible as my love life feels right now, it could be so much worse.

  The next morning, I’m up early, showered and dressed in yoga pants and a tank top before nine o’clock. I guess going to bed before midnight has its advantages. Or disadvantages, depending on how I look at it. Celibacy and curfews aren’t things I aspire for in life.

  As I roll into the kitchen, the floorboards vibrate to the tune of something rude and destructive blaring from the basement. Cole and his punk rock racket. If there’s one thing I didn’t miss about him, it would be his taste in music. I mean, I can’t dance to it, so can it even be called music?

  I inch along the kitchen counter, squinting at numerous plastic containers of whey protein, keratin, L-Citrulline-whatever, and other bulk supplements. Looks like someone went shopping this morning at the steroid-man store.

  Coffee’s already brewed—God love his sweet ass—and there’s even an empty mug waiting for me. I fix a creamy cup and follow the noise pollution into the basement.

  I find him standing amid a pile of dumbbells with his back to me, curling some serious weight. His biceps bulge with each pump, his spine deeply cut beneath shredded muscle. If the music wasn’t so loud I bet I’d hear him hissing through each lift.

  I used to watch him work out all the time. It turned him on when I did that, and he always fucked me after, slick with sweat and hard all over, right there on that weight bench.

  With a sigh, I set the coffee on the bottom step and creep toward his futon. His bedding, all twisted and tangled, looks way too inviting. I snuggle in and press my nose to his pillow.

  My eyes flutter closed as the scent of him—musky and manly—mixed with the spicy aroma of his shampoo saturates my senses.

  The music shuts off, and I lift my gaze, colliding with his.

  He braces his hands on his hips, cocking his head and panting with exertion. “Are you smelling my pillow?”

  “What’s the point of pillows if you can’t stop and smell them every now and then?”

  “You mean roses.”

  “Roses die, but pillows are forever.” I steal another sniff and roll to my back. “I’ll take a bouquet of yours, accented with your breath. Not baby’s-breath, because that would be weird.”

  “Or we could just share a pillow.” He prowls toward me. “And a bed. And body fluid.”

  “You lost me at body fluid.” I feign a grimace. “You look sticky.”

  “You used to love getting sticky with me.” He leans over my sprawled position and slides a palm from his sternum to the thin trail of hair low on his torso. Then lower, lower…

  Ohmygina, his fingers are going in, dipping beneath his waistband and giving me a glimpse of how well he’s keeping up with the manscaping.

  “Cole.” I groan. “You need to stop.”

  “Your breathy voice says otherwise.” He places a knee between my legs and straddles one of my thighs.

  Half of his hand is still visible above the waistband, so he’s not touching himself. But the heated look on his face tells me he wants to. Or more accurately, he wants me to.

  “Do you still have the snake tattoo around your thigh?” I stare up at him, falling fast and hard into his dark chocolate eyes.

  “Yes. Want to see it?” He lowers his hand another inch.

  “Better not.” I swallow. “Are you finished with your workout?”

  “I have push-ups left.” His dimples make an appearance, like double divots of mischief. “Do you want to get sweaty?”

  “Oh, no. Don’t you dare—”

  He grabs my waist and falls on top of me, rubbing his slick skin all over mine and using my body like a damn towel. I shriek and laugh, shoving at his pumped-up chest, but it’s a wasted effort. He out maneuvers, overpowers, and wrestles me into a sweaty, worn-out tangle of limbs.

  “You win.” I sag beneath his heavy weight and run a hand down the curve of his back.

  “I won the day I met you.” He nuzzles my neck and circles his hips lightly against mine.

  He’s hard. So beautifully, deliciously long and swollen and ready. Four years ago, I would’ve reached my hand into those shorts and stroked him to climax. But I need to do the right thing and keep the disasters in my life to a minimum.

  “How about those push-ups?” I comb my fingers through his hair.

  “As hard as I am…” He lifts his head and grins at me. “Maybe I can pull off a cock push-up.”

  “Oh God. That doesn’t sound remotely sexy.” I trace a finger beneath the ridge of his pecs. “Are you up for doing ninety-pound push-ups?”

  Me, sitting on his back, is the only way he used to do them.

  “Hmm. Ninety-pounds?” He rises on his knees and makes a show of examining my body. “I think you’ve added a few pounds. Or twenty.”

  He knows damn well I haven’t gained an ounce since he met me. If anything, I’ve gotten leaner—a side effect of depression.

  “Sounds to me like you’re afraid to try.” I arch a brow.

  “Fuck that.” He jumps to his feet.

  I follow him to the mat near his workout machines, savoring the effortless way his body moves.

  He lowers into the push-up position, elbows bent, face down. “Climb on, baby.”

  I sit on his spine and cross my legs, facing his feet. As a dancer, I have superior balance, so my job is easy. He, on the other hand, has his work cut out for him.

  He used to be able to do twenty of these, but he’s lost a lot of muscle mass. I count silently, watching his ass flex through each dip and rise. And damn, his sexy grunting noise. Those always got to me, like the rigorous, full-throttle sounds of sex.

  His back begins to shake on the tenth lift, and I know he only has one or two left in him. But he powers on, pressing out three more before he collapses beneath me.

  “Thirteen.” He grunts, breathing heavily. “Fuck.”

  I slide off his back and stretch out alongside him. “You’ll get there.”

  “Yeah.” He inches toward me and brushes the hair from my face. “I will.”
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  We goof around the house for the rest of the day, doing mundane things, like laundry and housecleaning. He changes the oil on my car, trims back the old oak tree in my yard, and fixes the leaky faucet in the bathroom.

  Between him and Trace, Cole is definitely handier around the house, and I’m so grateful for that. But I wouldn’t choose him just because he keeps things in working order. A non-leaky faucet doesn’t top the list of things that are important to me.

  Dancing is important to me, and Cole seems to appreciate my need to constantly move my hips, whenever, wherever. Like today, when I crank up my Beyoncé playlist and dance around him while he prepares a late lunch. He doesn’t get annoyed or tell me to grow up. He shakes his head and laughs and tells me I’m beautiful.

  Then it’s time for me to go to work.

  He walks me to my car, lingering beside the open door as I buckle my seatbelt. Hands on his hips, he stares at the pavement, looking for all the world like he’s seconds from dragging me back into the house.

  The cords in his neck go taut. His expression hardens, and it takes him long uncomfortable seconds to meet my eyes. I know the question is coming before he asks it.

  “Will you come home tonight?”

  I ache to siphon all the pain from his posture, but I won’t lie to him. “I don’t know.” Stretching toward him, I touch his stubborn jaw and guide his gaze to mine. “I won’t have sex with him.”

  His nostrils flare, and he grips the back of his neck.

  “Is this too much?” Worry tinges my voice. “Are you miserable? Because I can’t bear—”

  “As long as you’re not fucking him, I can handle this. I’m just… I’m being a selfish prick.”

  My breath stutters. “I’m the one who’s selfish. I’m dating two—”

  “No, Danni.” He crouches beside me and leans into the car to hug my waist. “I did this to you. I put you in this position because of decisions I made. I’m fully prepared to pay for that.”

  “Cole—”

  “Make no mistake. This is the most important fight of my life, and I’m going to give it all I got.” His timbre scratches, gruff with emotion. “I might not have trained for this, but I was trained to win. And winners never quit.”