Both my eyebrows rise higher. I pull my head back to really look at her. She has a devious smile on her lips. “That’s it? That’s all you’re gonna give me?” I fake whine.
She places a soft kiss on my jawbone. “It was amazing, Oli. Better than my wildest dreams,” she says, only she doesn’t sound sarcastic like usual. Pride thrums in my chest, and I can feel it inflate.
I nod. “That’s more like it.” I grin.
Her lips tip up at the corners. The room falls silent for a few moments, the silence causing too many thoughts to run through my mind. Too many what if’s—what if we could be like this together every night? As I ask the question, my heart hammers. My mind screams a loud NO. I need a distraction again, so I ask, “Why did you wait so long to give up your virginity?”
The question leaves my lips before I can really think about it. It’s personal, maybe too personal. The fact that we are spooning doesn’t help my cause, because everything about this situation is intimate. I hate that I’m comparing my usual sexual exploits to right now, but I’m way outside of my realm of comfort. A part of me wants to take off. I’m so scared, but I also fear hurting this amazing woman. Me taking off right now will gut her, and I can’t do that, so I fight through my anxiety and stay lying down with her in my arms and wait for an answer.
“It’s a long story,” she finally breathes out.
“One you’re not prepared to share?” I add, even though I know it’s more of a statement than a question.
She shakes her head, a darkness settling in the depths of her eyes. I may have demons that haunt me because of the accident, but Sloane Carmichael has demons too.
“Did he break your heart?” I push. I don’t know why I do because I know better, but I want inside her head, not only her sweet pussy.
“Something like that.” She smiles sadly.
I snuggle in closer. My arm tightens around her as I wish I could wash away whatever it is that plagues her. Holding her in my arms feels like sweet pain because I want her and don’t want her all in the same breath. I’m fucked up.
I dip my head and press a chaste kiss to her lips. “Sleep, sweet Sloane.”
She nods and her eyes shut.
I wish I could say I dozed off as quickly, but I don’t, and that isn’t a good thing because I need to be on a bus for most of the day tomorrow. Instead, I try to work through the shit in my head.
Nothing fits together. I can’t settle down. As good as she feels, I can’t fucking do it. The idea of her and me, an ‘us,’ makes me anxious as hell.
I think of my mother and father. What if only one of them had survived that night? What if I have a family one day and something bad happens to me? How will they go on? It’s so hard to go on after death, especially for a kid that has to learn to survive without parents. My anxiety is debilitating. My negative thoughts tire me out and my eyes finally close.
I’m in the car with my parents and Myles. I know this is a dream. Wake up man, wake up. Before that fucking truck rams into us . . . you need to wake up. I’m speaking to myself in my dream, only I’m stuck in the nightmare . . . Bright lights are coming at us way too fast. My heart slams in my chest and CRASH . . .
My body jolts, my eyes fly open, my forehead covered in a sheen of sweat. I gauge my surroundings: a perfect angel sleeps next to me, her lower lip jutted out. Beautiful, adorable kind . . . What did I do? I fucked up. Why am I here?
I get out of bed and reach for my boxers on the floor. I slip my jeans on as my heart hammers in my chest. Sloane begins to stir on the bed. Her eyes flutter before fully opening, and when they do open, she frowns.
“You were going to leave?” Her voice is soft, hurt.
“Baby, I told you I had a game to get to. I don’t want to leave, but I have to go. I was going to write you a note because I didn’t want to wake you,” I respond, and lean in for another quick kiss. She flinches a little, and I gather she was hoping for something longer, maybe more meaningful.
“Are you okay, Oli?” she asks. Her brows furrow together. She sits on the bed, pulling the bedsheet to cover those fine tits of hers.
“I should be asking you that question. I wish I could stay and run you a bath, but I can’t. Bus is leaving bright and early.” My voice is too cheery as I try to brush off what’s really happening. I’m running away.
Her lips turn down farther. “I meant, are you okay? I don’t need you doing the right thing right now, because I know that’s what you do. You’re all about doing right by people. I watched for years how you took care of your sister and did everything in your power to help her heal.”
“I did my best,” I agree, and fall back to a seated position on her bed. My head falls forward and hangs above my knees. A moment later, I feel her small hand on my back. She wants to reassure me. I’m surprised she’s trying to help me even though I’m acting like a crazed idiot.
“What about you, Oli? Someone needs to take care of you. I can see fear in your eyes. I wish you would share what you’re thinking,” she says, rubbing my back, and something about her choice of words tugs at something deep inside me.
I shoot to my feet and run a hand through my hair. “I’m sorry, Sloane. I’m fucked up. I don’t know what I’m doing. I wanted you so fucking bad and . . .”
She cuts me off, her tone a little angry. “Don’t say it, Oli. Don’t. Don’t taint this night for me because it was perfect.”
I let out a heavy breath and shake my head. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to do that. You’re an amazing woman, Sloane Carmichael . . .” My voice turns muffled as my emotions choke me. How do I warn her away nicely?
“Don’t do that, Oli. You warned me tonight was a one-time thing before we started, and I said I was good with it. It wasn’t a lie, but don’t go feeding me any bullshit now,” she demands, and my heart cracks. This woman has made me want her more. She’s so real, so passionate.
I heave a sigh, and lean forward to give her a kiss. “No bullshit, Sloane. I’ll always be straight with you. I need to head out. When I get back to town I’ll give you a call,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady but it’s so damn hard. This time, she doesn’t call me on my lies.
I leave her room and head to the front of the apartment where I find my jacket on the floor and my shoes scattered on her family room floor. I turn the knob of her front door. I hear her footsteps patter behind me, which is a good thing, because I didn’t think about how I would lock the door. I turn my head one last time to see her with a white sheet hugging her small frame.
My chest tightens as I say, “Goodbye.”
I hear her whisper goodbye back, and I head down to my SUV.
Twenty-Six
Sloane
It’s been three weeks, and no word from Oli. When I told him that night I was good with a one -night stand, I was lying through my teeth. I can’t get him out of my head. The way he made love to me, the way he held me, and the way he whispered sweet nothings into my ear have been ingrained in my soul.
I’ve always noticed a heaviness in his gaze. When I first met Flynn, she was a broken mess, and although Oli seemed to be the strong one of the two of them, I could see sadness hiding behind those searing eyes. He’s good at hiding emotions. I think back then, he didn’t want Flynn to have the added stress of worrying about him when she was a fragile mess. He always did do the honorable thing by her. Something about the way he cared for her had drawn me to him over and over again, like a wave repeatedly lapping over the sand, its destiny to meet land, but not able to grasp its place out of the water.
It was only after we made love that I truly saw how broken he was. How scared he was of the connection between us. I may have been a virgin, but I was no prude. I had fooled around with other men and not once did it ever feel like that. Ever, not even with Parker. Even though I realize that when I was with Parker we were much younger, inexperienced, it was a young love that I will cherish forever. Now another man has stolen my heart. And I say stolen because I don’t think I wi
llfully gave it over. Now that I have had Oli and know how special he makes me feel, how cherished he makes me feel, and the heat between us . . . well, I believed our connection would penetrate the walls he’s erected. Not to mention that our chemistry is hotter than a lava-spewing volcano. I may not have the most experience with sex, but the look in Oli’s eyes that night . . . I let out a sigh. He felt it too. I’m sure of it.
That’s what makes this moment all the more difficult. As I sit here on my couch in my apartment almost a whole month later on a Saturday morning, sipping coffee as my cell phone rings non-stop. His name lights up the screen.
I don’t want to pick up. I can’t. I still have my pride. He could’ve called or made some effort to be in touch earlier.
I know from Flynn he is busy conquering the NHL. His team made it to the playoffs. He must have free moments; he could have sent me a text message, voicemail, anything, but he didn’t. I also wonder how many women he’s conquering on his journey to the Stanley Cup. I shouldn’t care. I know he never made me any promises, he kept warning me, yet I wanted him so badly I thought I would take what I could get. I didn’t understand he would brand my heart. That he would help me move on from my past and crush my heart all in the same breath.
The phone continues to ring and eventually goes to voicemail. Screw him and his perfect ass. I don’t need his pity or whatever the fuck he thinks he owes me. He has to feel like Mr. Nice Guy. Well, fuck him.
My cell goes off again. I leave my phone on the couch and head into my room to get ready for my Krav Maga class with Sierra. I can’t spend all my time trying to figure out what happened to him that night. He woke up covered in sweat, the fear in his eyes palpable, yet he wasn’t willing to let me in, not even after we shared such intimacy. I can’t blame him for not confiding in me. The rational part of my brain comprehends the fact that I have secrets too. How can I expect him to share with me when I won’t share with him?
My mind is whirling at hurricane speeds as my cell phone rings again. I can’t think of him anymore. I’ve spent the last month pining for him. I need to stop, move on.
I wish it were that easy. Just a snap of the finger. That would be nice.
In my room, I get dressed for my Krav Maga class. Since that crazy asshole attacked me on my run, I’ve stopped running completely. I hate that I stopped because I’m scared. It makes me feel weak, and that’s exactly why the Krav Maga classes are good for me. Not only are they good workouts, but they’ve helped me to rebuild my self-confidence and take away the fear that asshole mugger instilled in me.
All dressed in my workout gear of a black sports tank top that’s open at the back in a low V-shape and grey capri leggings, I head to my kitchen to whip up some egg whites and spinach. After gulping down a huge portion, I grab my purse and head straight for an Uber car waiting outside. After settling into the back seat, I check my phone to see three missed calls, all from him. My voicemail button flashes.
I can’t help myself, and like a masochist, I listen to his message.
“Hi Sloane.” There’s a pause followed by a heavy breath. “I don’t know what to say.” Pause. “I should have called. I wanted to call. My head was messed up. Call me.” Pause. “Please?” Pause. “I need to hear your voice.”
I erase the message. The second message is pretty much the same, followed by another. I don’t call him back.
The Uber car stops in front of the Krav Maga studio. Sierra is waiting outside, her hair in a high ponytail. Even in workout gear, she looks like a sexy librarian. I don’t understand how it’s possible she can’t find a decent guy to date. She seems perfect.
She holds two water bottles in her hand, and as I walk up to her, she passes me one.
“Hey, babe. Here ya go,” she says.
We don’t talk much about work when we’re together because she knows my job brings me down, and some of the ideas the producers of the channel have are downright crazy. It’s better not to live through those grueling moments when we’re not at work. Who wants to remember a special report I did last week on the rise of narcolepsy in Chicago? The people I interviewed fell asleep in the middle of the interview. How is that going to bring up ratings? Gah.
“Thanks.” I smile. “Did you end up meeting that Matthew guy last night?” I ask, referring to a new guy she was supposed to meet. I told her it was a bad time to meet a new guy. The only reason people meet that late is for a booty call, and Sierra isn’t interested in just booty.
“Met him at Starbucks. Stayed long enough to drink a white hot-chocolate, then I went home.” She sighs. “You were right. He totally thought he was coming back to my place.”
“Shit! Sorry. There must be some decent guys in Chicago. We’re going to find them if it’s the last thing we do.” I loop my arm through hers, and she giggles.
“Ready for some sexy times with Gabriel?” She raises her eyebrows suggestively, referring to our Krav Maga instructor. Our very hot, we think, single Krav Maga instructor with the body of a male Adonis.
I roll my eyes playfully. “How could I not be ready for that man candy?”
Sierra squeals, “I know!”
She fans herself. It is a scorching-hot morning for late May.
We enter the studio together. It’s a brand-new studio that’s been set up in an old warehouse. Air conditionings hits my face like a welcome wind. The place is large, and Gabriel has invested lots of money on flooring, which has a bit of a spring to it. With the vast lighting and mirrors, the place is posh and quite the hidden gem. It’s no surprise most of the participants are women. Affluent-looking women who look like they stay home and get their nails done while their husbands are at work. There’s nothing wrong with their choice to stay at home—I only frown upon the fact that they flash their wedding bands and diamonds as they try to get into Gabriel’s pants in the same breath.
For the next hour, we’re placed in groups as Gabriel gets to business showing specific ways to release ourselves from a headlock and other compromising positions. At one point, he calls me up to the front of the class to demonstrate a move. I think it’s because I’m one of a handful of participants in the class who are actually here to learn something and not just gawk at his male hotness.
“Sloane, I need you to put your arms around my neck,” he says with his heavy Israeli accent. He was apparently a soldier in the Israeli army, so he’s used these combative techniques in real situations.
I do as he says. My hands come around his thick neck. He’s wearing a tight white tank top that shows off his thick biceps and the planes of his strong abs. One of the ladies whispers in the distance, “I wish I was in her place.”
I gaze into Gabriel’s ocean blue eyes. He’s a beautiful man, I can’t deny that, but no sparks are set off in my body as my arms hang around his neck. Even the way his loose workout pants sit low on his trim waist is sexy. Yet, I can’t get Oliver Russell out of my head. I don’t identify with the hushed whispers of those women wishing to be in my position. I do identify with the fact that I need to learn self-defense so I won’t feel helpless walking down the street.
Gabriel nods. “You ready?”
I nod in confirmation. He begins a slow version of the technique used to remove an attacker. When he’s done, I practice the move on him, only he tells me to use all my strength. I suddenly envision that he’s the red-haired lunatic who attacked me, and I manage to remove his strong arms from around my neck as a sheen of sweat breaks over my body and my heart rate speeds up. I’m empowered, and when I’ve released his hold a small smile forms on my lips. It’s been ages since I’ve smiled. I’m pretty sure the last time I smiled was the night I spent with Oli.
Sierra hoots in the background, turning my smile into a full-out laugh. It’s nice to let go a little and not dedicate all my waking moments to deconstructing the mess that is Oliver Russell.
At the end of class, Gabriel walks up to us and says, “Good class, ladies.” His smile is wide and infectious. I smile back.
“Thank you. That felt good,” I confirm, using a little hand towel I brought with me to dab the sweat off my neck.
“I’m glad,” he responds, his eyes lingering on me a little.
“See you Friday.” I wave.
Sierra and I walk through the exit doors of the warehouse. She leans in to whisper, “I think he likes you.”
I don’t have a response because I think she may be right, but I don’t want him. I feel ruined. My heart wants what it can’t have.
We leave the warehouse. A flood of sunlight assaults my eyes. I squint as my eyes adjust to the brightness. When I do, I see Oli standing on the sidewalk wearing a simple grey T-shirt that hugs his chest and a pair of khaki shorts, his feet in a pair of brown leather flip-flops. My heart speeds up when I see he’s holding a large bouquet of daisies and sporting a crooked grin.
“Hey.” He sounds a little breathless. “These are for you. I saw them in the window and they made me think of you.” He passes the arrangement to me. It’s very large for a bouquet of daisies. “The lady in the store said daisies represent innocence, purity, and hope. I’m hoping that you don’t hate me,” he continues, his eyes lock on mine.
My throat turns dry, only I don’t know if it’s water I need. My body hums and comes to life when he’s close. It’s him I need. It’s him I’m thirsty for. Only I’m not sure what his intentions are.
“Please tell me you don’t hate me,” he repeats. I freeze until Sierra clears her throat beside me, pulling me from my daze.
“Mr. Russell, so good to see you again,” she says, extending a hand to Oli. He seems transfixed on me too, and winces before pulling his gaze from me to Sierra like he hadn’t noticed her there until she spoke.
“Please call me Oli.” His lips tip at the corners, his tone friendly. “It’s nice to see you again too.” He says, and I know it’s the smile he gives his fans. He respects and loves his fans, and they seem just as dedicated to him too.
The air around us feels heavy, stagnant, and it’s not just the humidity. Sierra must sense the tension. “Um, Sloane, are you getting a ride with me or . . .?” Her voice drifts off, her chin slightly pointing to Oli.
Butt Ending: A Big Stick Novel 2 (Standalone) Page 18
