by Sophia Henry
“How’d I do?” Landon asked.
“I could eat here every day for the rest of my life.”
“And give up homemade Bolognese?” Landon asked.
“True.” My full stomach almost growled again at the thought of Papa’s red sauce. “Okay, six days a week.”
“You may have some German in you.”
Not yet, but maybe someday, I thought. What was it about Landon that made me turn everything he said into something sexual? Or maybe it was just growing up with two brothers.
“I may be German somewhere down the line. Mom’s a mutt. She just goes along with the overbearing Italian that is Papa.”
“Get ready to put your chicken hat on, Gaby.”
I’d almost forgotten about the silly thing I’d banished to one corner of the table when our food arrived.
And then I heard it: the opening chords of the Chicken Dance. Landon knew exactly what was coming. Patrons wearing crazy chicken hats of all colors jumped out of their seats and rushed to the front. I had no intention of putting on the hat or getting out of my seat, but Landon had other thoughts. He grabbed my hand and tugged on it.
I shook my head. My heart pumped so loud I could hear it, and so fast I thought it would escape from my chest. Landon pulled again. How could I tell him that his insistence to do the Chicken Dance made me want to barf, without offending him or the amazing meal I’d just devoured?
“We’re just having fun, Gaby. No reason to be freaked out.” Landon stopped tugging on my arm, but kept my hand in his while he waited. I had to make the choice myself.
He had a point. Everyone in the bar had a smile, a laugh, or a silly little chicken hat. It wasn’t like anyone would pay any attention to me. I slid off my chair, like liquid Gaby. Landon swiped both of our hats from the table before he led me into the circle of chicken dancers.
He plopped the stupid hat on my head and then secured his. I couldn’t even pretend I didn’t know the Chicken Dance. Everyone knows the Chicken Dance. I hadn’t done it since my seventh birthday, but it’s something you don’t forget.
Of all the images I’d conjured of what we’d do if I ever had the opportunity to be on a date with Landon Taylor, cupping my hands to make a bird beak, flapping my arms like wings, and shimmying to the floor had not crossed my mind. Well, not shimmying to the floor in this way.
Damn sexual thoughts needed to stop, especially during a children’s dance.
Suddenly, some random person hooked my arm with theirs and took me for a spin before letting go. Then Landon hooked my other arm and spun me the opposite way. Though it caught me by surprise, it was fun. I couldn’t help but smile and do-si-do with each partner that grabbed me.
“You’re holding back!” Landon yelled across the room, his arm linked with an older lady about a foot and a half shorter than him.
“I’m not!” I laughed as the “round and round” part ended. Landon edged through the crowd of deranged chicken impersonators to stand by me.
“Come on, Gaby. You’ve gotta really wiggle that ass when you shimmy down.”
“A rough, buff hockey player is telling me how to get down? For the Chicken Dance?”
“Or he just wants to see you wiggle your ass.” He gave my backside a playful tap. I laughed and jumped, not from the force of the swat but from his hand on my butt.
When the song ended, Landon snatched the chicken hat from my head. Then he took my hand and led me toward the door, throwing our hats and some cash on our table as we passed. Aunt Vera waved to us as we left. I waved back and tried to yell “thank you” on our way out.
“Well, what did you think?” Landon placed his arm over my shoulder.
“Grown adults drinking, eating, laughing, and chicken dancing? It was the best date I never knew I ever wanted to go on.”
“Good.” He opened the passenger door for me.
I shook my head. “Nope. Give me the keys.”
“Gaby. I’m fine. I promise.”
“Landon Charles, don’t make me go get Aunt Vera because I’m thinking that would not be a good scene.”
Without another word, he handed me the keys and climbed into the passenger side. I closed his door and rounded the car.
“I’ve never driven a foreign car before,” I whispered. Motor City guilt and fear of being struck by karmic lightning kept me from saying it too loud.
“Not living up to my hometown Golden Boy image, am I?”
“You’re certainly not the poster boy for the Big Three.” I adjusted the seat forward so my legs could reach the pedals.
“Mazda. Sounds kind of Italian, right?”
“Or Japanese,” I corrected. “We better not take any pictures by your car.”
“You can take them in my room. I think my bed is American made.”
The car jerked to a stop, yards short of the stop sign, a flashback of my embarrassing first driving test. Yes, first.
“Kidding, Gaby.” Landon closed his eyes. A sly smile crept across his lips as he leaned back against the seat. “Maybe.”
“Simmer down now, Taylor.”
“I said I was kidding. My bed may not be American made, you’ll have to check.”
“I can’t tell if you’re trying to get a rise out of me because you like to see me blush or if you’re really joking.”
“Both. I want you in my bed tonight, Gaby.” Landon’s eyes were still closed, so he didn’t look up at me through “hooded lids,” like I’d read about in countless romance novels.
Nevertheless, there it was. The request I’d longed to hear from him since I started having those types of feelings for him. It was also the request I’d been afraid to hear. Because that meant it was real. And once things got real, I knew I’d have some issues to work out.
“Well then, let’s see how fast this puppy can go.” While halted at the stop sign, I checked for cars to my right and left and then floored the MX-5.
I understand why Landon’s eyes shot open and he jerked forward, startled by the momentum. If I hadn’t expected those words to come out of my mouth, how could he?
But I wasn’t kidding, and I hoped he wasn’t either.
Because if he was offering, I was ready.
Chapter 13
Once inside Landon’s downtown Detroit condo, he leaned toward my face and placed a soft kiss on my neck. In one deft tug, he pulled me into his arms and pressed his lips on mine.
Firm. Soft. Eager.
I wrapped my arms around his neck, hoping his mouth could teleport me to another place. A place where beginning a serious makeout with him didn’t bring on a panic attack. A place where I could actually trust a man.
If I can trust anyone it’s Landon, I had to remind myself, even though I knew it already. Landon had never hurt me. He would never hurt me. He’d showed time and time again how much he cared about me and how careful he would be. I knew he wouldn’t make me go further than I wanted. The problem was me, not him. I wanted to go far—as far as we possibly could. And that scared the shit out of me.
When Landon pulled away, his lips glistened with moisture from my mouth. He grabbed my hands, holding them behind his back as he led me forward. Though he was moving slowly, I felt like I had to run to catch up. He didn’t stop at the couch in his living room but kept walking toward the hallway, where I counted three doorways.
Landon passed the first doorway on the left, which was a bathroom, I learned after peeking in as we passed. He let go of my hands to spin around and face me before grabbing them again. Then he pulled me with him as he walked backward through the only door on the right side of the hallway. Once in the room, he pressed himself against me and covered my mouth with his. Lips still locked, he reached behind me and batted at the door.
When the door was closed, the urgency kicked up a few notches. As he guided my arms up, a flash of pink covered my field of vision while he lifted my sweater over my head and tossed it to the ground. His nimble fingers found the button at my waist and popped it open before I could
even lower my arms.
I knew the kid was fast on the ice, but his speed and skill in undressing someone else had my head spinning. It barely took him three seconds to shuck my jeans to my knees and push them down the rest of the way with his foot, without taking his mouth off mine. In fact, the kiss intensified with each piece of clothing he removed. My jeans lay in a dark pool at my feet and Landon hadn’t even removed his shirt yet. Or rather, I hadn’t removed his shirt. Whatever.
Dark gray covered every inch of the walls, and continued over to the ceiling. The subdued color combined with his black headboard, black nightstand, and black and red comforter gave his room a cozy, cavelike ambiance. My olive-toned flesh, covered in the appropriate places by matching black bra and underwear, practically glowed.
Before he had a chance to go for the clasps at the back of my bra, I grabbed his shirt and fumbled working on the top button. I wasn’t nearly as fast as he was, probably due to how much my fingers shook at the simple, but sensual, task. I tried not to compare speed and instead focused on the buttons. Once I had the first two undone, I knew I could lift it over his head. I hoped he wasn’t wearing a stupid T-shirt under his button-down.
Score! When I lifted the shirt, it revealed only impeccable abs underneath. His jeans hung low on his hips, exposing the indent of his belly button amid his hard, muscular stomach. I threw his shirt in the general area where he’d thrown my sweater. Instead of reaching directly for his jeans, I stopped to press my mouth on his and splay my hands across his chest. He had no chest hair, just toned muscle underneath smooth skin.
I wanted to touch every inch of him. My hands roamed up his chest, over his shoulders, and down his back from shoulder blades to the place where his jeans still sat on his hips.
Which reminded me…
When I popped the button of his jeans open, his stomach tightened under my hands. He lifted his mouth off mine to bring his lips to my ear.
“Do it,” he pleaded in a strained whisper.
Both the tension in his voice and the contraction of his abs spurred me on. My fingers slipped inside his jeans and brushed the area beneath lightly as I pulled down the zipper. And that’s how I found out Landon Taylor had gone commando for our date.
“You are a little vixen, Gabriella,” Landon hissed. Then he grabbed my hips and lifted me up. I wrapped my legs around him as he moved us toward the bed. He held me with one arm as he leaned over and pulled down the comforter before dropping me onto the bed. “I knew you had it in you. Hiding behind that introverted exterior all these years.”
Landon leaned over me, then reached around and unhooked my bra with one hand. He pulled the strap down one arm then the other. He took his time, watching me as I watched him remove it. Once my bra hit the floor, he paused to gaze at me with hot, hungry eyes.
I loved how he looked, fascinated and exhilarated as he inspected every inch of my bare skin. His hair stuck out in every direction, still disheveled from when I’d pulled the shirt over his head. His eyes were wide and unashamed as they moved from one part of my body to the next. He held the right side of his bottom lip with his top teeth.
He climbed on the bed, covering me with his body, without dropping his full weight on me. My electrified squirming beneath him gave him silent permission to continue. He lowered himself onto me, our bodies locking together like Legos. I felt everything. Every unclothed inch of him pressed against the most sensitive part of my body, still covered with a thin layer of fabric.
Landon lifted himself onto his elbows, his lower half still molded to mine, while his hands weaved into my hair. He began to circle his hips slowly, exquisite friction burning between us. He never removed his gaze from my eyes, gauging my reaction, and asking wordless permission every step of the way.
That’s when the panic attack set in.
The tenderness in his eyes, the affection in his caress, and the phenomenal feel of his expert movements made no difference.
My racing heart had nothing to do with the excitement of our intense, intimate situation.
Landon tried to lower himself onto me again, but I pressed my hands against his chest, stopping his descent. While his heart beat furiously against my palms, fear coursed through my limbs. Being in Landon’s arms hadn’t caused the trepidation. Being in this situation had. But my system couldn’t tell the difference.
Too familiar. Too scary. Too trapped.
I swallowed, suppressing the bile rising in my throat.
“I’ll go slow, Gabriella. I won’t hurt you, okay?” Landon’s breath blew fast and hot against my face. He shifted his hips and I felt how much he wanted me. Both exhilaration and alarm pumped through my chest.
“I’m not a virgin, Landon,” I whispered, lips quivering.
I wanted so badly to respond to his advance without fear, without thinking about the past, but my chest throbbed as if a cartoon coyote dropped an anvil on it.
“Really?” The tone of Landon’s voice lowered a few octaves—husky, animalistic. His fingers slid over the fabric at my hip and around to the front before settling between my legs.
My body froze when it should have been thrusting and cheering him across the goal line.
“I was—”
The words stuck in my throat. Maybe because deep down I still hadn’t forgiven myself for what had happened, and being in this situation flooded my mind with memories of my ignorance.
I was the one who’d drank so much I could barely walk. I was the one who’d gone to a college party as a sixteen-year-old. I was the one who trusted a longtime family friend who was there. I was the one who led him on by agreeing to go with him when he said he knew a quiet place I could rest. I was the one who left my brother and his friends to follow him. To abedroom.
I swallowed. “There was this guy at a party. I was really drunk. So drunk I could barely speak or walk. I said no, but I didn’t stop him. Couldn’t stop him. I—”
“Oh my god, Gaby!” Landon climbed off me and backed away, putting frosty space between us. Space that I couldn’t handle. Space that said more than any words could. He was horrified with the revelation that I wasn’t a sweet virgin but a naive slut.
My body broke out in goosebumps where his warm skin had been. I squeezed my eyes shut when the tears came fast and hard, as if I were standing directly under an angry rain cloud of my own creation. “I’m so sorry. I should have told you before this. I know it was my fault. It’s why I don’t drink anymore. I’m sorry, Landon.”
“Gaby.” Landon moved closer, pulling me against him and wrapping me in his strong arms. He kissed the top of my head and smoothed my hair, his palm starting at the roots and moving down to where the locks ended at the small of my back. “Gabriella, don’t apologize to me. That was not your fault.”
“It was. I shouldn’t have gotten that drunk. I shouldn’t have followed him.” I closed my eyes, which caused another rush of tears to race down my cheeks. A mixture of salt and mascara ran into my mouth. “I shouldn’t have even been there.”
Because society dictates these ignorant rules for women. We shouldn’t dress a certain way. We shouldn’t walk alone at night—or anytime, really. We shouldn’t drink at parties. Hell, we shouldn’t even leave the house. If we do any of those things, any situation we get ourselves in is perceived as our fault. We should know better than to bait the ferocious male animal inside with a female décolletage.
Landon placed his palms on my cheeks and cradled my face. “It was not your fault, Gabriella. That prick had no right to take advantage of you. He knew you were drunk. Fuck, he knew you were young!”
If it was possible to exclaim while still whispering, Landon had the ability. I felt the strength in his words. Felt the adrenaline and anger and tenderness transfer through his thumbs as he rubbed at the tears under my eyes. I still couldn’t look at him.
“Open your eyes, Gabriella,” Landon commanded.
My lashes flickered, heavy with fresh tears. When I looked at him, his face hovered inches above min
e. His eyes held the kindness and comfort I’d come to rely on.
“I’m not scared with you, Landon. I just, I haven’t been in this situation since then and I didn’t realize my reaction would be so—I don’t know.” I shook my head, unable to find the right words. Cold would make me sound more Ice Queen than Puck Bunny. Maybe scared? I wasn’t over the horrible thing that had happened to me, but I honestly wanted to be intimate with Landon.
Would fear allow me to continue with anyone? Would I always feel ashamed and angry when lying under a man?
“We’re not doing anything until you understand what happened wasn’t your fault.”
“I’m trying,” I whispered. Three years of trying.
“Do you really understand that he was wrong, not you? You have a right to be at a party and drink and not be raped, Gaby.”
I shook my head as best I could even though it was stuck in the vise grip of his hands.
Landon released my head and sat up. “Every night I have women throwing themselves at me.”
I wiggled onto my side and up on my elbow, before pushing myself into a sitting position. When the sheet started to slip, I snatched it and held it against my chest. Landon didn’t even register the action.
“Girls wait outside the locker room every night wearing practically nothing. They follow us to bars. They sit there and get shit-faced with us, hoping one of the guys will take them home.”
It took every ounce of strength I had to keep a poker face, while he laid all these cards I knew about, but never wanted to talk about, on the table. I wanted to crumble, I wanted him to stop talking. I wanted to know what the hell this had to do with anything. Especially with me getting raped.
“So if a girl who is obviously plastered goes home with, say Luke, and Luke fucks her while she’s passed out, does she deserve that because that was her original intention? I mean, she was there to get with one of us, ya know? Wearing practically no clothes, following large, strong men to bars, getting drunk with them.”
