by DM Davis
“But then…that…thing happened between us at the restaurant, and it all became a lust-induced encounter.” He fingers his hair, confusion marring his handsome face. “I can’t explain what’s happening to us.” He stands and paces in front of the fireplace. “I’ve never felt this kind of connection before.” He eyes me speculatively. “I might not understand it, but I sure as hell don’t want to give you up.”
“You don’t?” I know he’s here. He was brave enough to reach out to me when I couldn’t.
He rushes to sit on the coffee table in front of me, clasping my hands. “No, Lauren. I’ve tried giving you the space you need, but I don’t believe that’s what you need or really want. I think you’re scared. I scared you.” He motions between us. “This all-consuming energy between us scares you.”
“I’m afraid to believe it’s real—that you’re really here wanting me.”
He cups my neck, leaning till his forehead meets mine. “I’ve been miserable without you.”
“Me too.” When he’s here in my presence, that admission seems so easy.
“Thank fuck,” he all but growls. His relief makes me smile and sends my heart soaring.
He pulls back, his hand gliding down to hold mine. “We need to get a handle on it—”
“On what?”
He motions between us. “This attraction. It’s nearly impossible to resist, but we must.” A mischievous smirk tips his lips. “Well, perhaps not resist it entirely, but enough to be able to have a conversation and remain in each other’s presence without mauling one another.”
He sits beside me, turning my hand palm up on his thigh, and runs his fingers up and down the sensitive underside of my arm. I gasp at the shudder his touch produces. “Or be able to touch you without throwing you into an orgasm.” His reverence conveys he’s as surprised as I am that that’s even possible.
Out of pure selfish preservation, I pull my arm back. “Why did you stand me up after the race?” If we’re going to get back on track and talk, this is as good a place as any to start.
He nods, leaning back, allowing space to fill the void between us. It’s a void I desperately want to broach in order to feel his touch—his body—again.
“When my race started, I watched you for as long as I could, looking back, seeing you standing there, growing smaller in the distance, until…you were gone. My mind wasn’t in the race. It was at the finish line, waiting for you. I should have never run. I should have stayed, whisked you away, or run the 5K with you.” He taps his right knee. “I was unfocused—a menace. I was on the ground in a three-person pile-up before I even realized what had happened. A bloke fell in front of me. I tripped over him, falling arse over tea kettle, and then the guy behind me fell on both of us.”
“Oh, no.” I feel bad for the doubt and negative thoughts I had about him standing me up. “I’m so sorry.”
He squeezes my hand. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I got off easy with a bump on the head and five stitches in my knee. Though the others were worse off, the medical team insisted we go to the hospital to get checked out. Particularly because of the blow to my head.” He moves closer, tilting my chin to meet his eyes. “I swear, if I could have been there, I would have. It was after midnight before I got home. I couldn’t call you because I lost your number. Somewhere between you giving it to me and my trip to the ER, I lost it.”
It all makes sense. “I lost your number too. I guess we should have written it on our bibs as that did make it home with me.”
Though tempted, I know I wouldn’t have called him.
Would I?
“I should have tattooed your number on my arm.” The intensity of his stare makes me believe he’s entirely serious. “I’ve found you now. I’m not letting you go.”
We manage to make it through a movie without a single orgasm between us. Though a bit awkward at first, we slowly settled into the couch, close but not touching. As the evening progressed, getting up for drinks, snacks, or visits to the loo, we inched closer and closer. Now, Lauren is cuddled into my side, her head on my chest, her arm wrapped around my waist. Her warm body and tantalizing scent soothe me in ways I’ve failed to experience before.
The need to claim her—and be claimed by her— is sated by simply having her in my arms. The agony of her absence is all but forgotten.
As the fireplace burns, reflective light dances around the room. It’s quiet and peaceful. Our breaths mingle. The beating of her heart is in sync with mine. The air is thick with reverence. It’s as if the world stands still in recognition of our tangible connection, as if two souls meant for each other have finally found their mates—their home. And the universe sings a joyous song in silent benediction.
I can’t explain it, but I sure as hell feel it.
The credits roll on the screen. I have no idea how the movie ended. My reverie breaks when Lauren sits up and stretches. A chill replaces the warmth from her body.
“It’s late.” I tease a curl and watch it bounce back into place.
She yawns. A sheepish smile follows. “Sorry.”
“I should leave—” The last thing I want to do. “—and let you get to bed.”
“Okay.” Disappointment mars her face, but it thrills my soul that she doesn’t want me to leave.
I lean in and kiss her warm lips, nuzzle her cheek with my nose, and whisper in her ear, “Believe me when I say, leaving is the last thing I want to do.”
Her smile lights up her eyes. “Good.”
I chuckle and stand. “But it’s the right thing to do.” I grab my coat, putting it on. “I have a faculty thing tomorrow. Would you come with me?”
“A faculty thing?”
Bloody hell. I’ve really mucked this thing up. “We’ve really gone about things in the wrong order, haven’t we?” I pull her into my arms. “I’m a professor at SMU. I have a faculty party tomorrow. It’s a yearly event, and it would be frowned upon if I missed it, but I really don’t want to go this weekend without seeing you. Would you go with me?”
Her stunned look and silence have me on edge.
“Let’s start over tomorrow. A proper date. A proper first kiss. We’ll talk about what we do for a living, our families, our childhoods. Get to know each other in a way we’ve failed to do thus far.”
Say yes.
She blinks a few times, crinkles her brow. “A professor?”
I laugh. “Yes.”
“At SMU?”
“Yes.”
“As in Southern Methodist University? That SMU?” Her eyes couldn’t get any wider if she tried.
“The one and the same.” I can’t hide my amusement.
“A professor of what?”
“Philosophy.”
“Wow.” She swallows and steps back. “That’s…that’s impressive.”
I step forward. “It’s really not.”
Her fingers toy with her hair.
What is she thinking?
“What kind of party? I mean, do spouses come? Is it formal? I’m not sure—”
“I’m sure.” I pull her close. “I’m very sure I want you with me. The party is plus-one, so spouses, significant others, boyfriends, girlfriends attend. You won’t be out of place, if that is what you’re worried about. It’s a cocktail party, so a suit and a dress are appropriate.”
Silence.
I could buy her a dress if she doesn’t have one. Maybe that will prompt a yes.
“Okay,” she answers.
“Okay?”
She nods.
I let out a punch of air. “Aces.”
She said yes! I want to fist pump in celebration.
We discuss the particulars before I lead her to the door. “Lock up after me.” I know she will, but I need to ensure she does.
I need her safe and secure. Not just for her sake but for mine.
“I will.”
“I’ll call you in the morning.” I press my lips to hers one last time, needing the connection. Soft. Gentle. “Goodnight, ba
by.”
She gives me a crooked smile, clearly amused at my term of endearment. “G’night, Theo.”
I’M HAVING A LAZY MORNING. I slept in and am lying in bed for a while after waking to a text from Silvy.
Silvy: You alive? Theo wasn’t happy you no-showed another class.
Me: I know. He showed up here last night.
Silvy: What? Calling. You’d better answer!
I’ve barely read her text before my home phone starts to ring. I love that she knows I prefer to talk over my landline than my cell phone.
Answering, her squeal of excitement greets me. “Sweet baby Jesus. He really came over last night?”
“G’morning, Silvy,” I singsong, knowing it’ll drive her crazy.
“Don’t ‘good morning’ me. It’s girl-talk time. Spill. Did you know he was coming over?”
I laugh and roll sideways, stretching on a groan. “Nope. He just showed up.”
“Wait. Is he still there?” She gasps. “Oh my god, is he lying next to you? Holy shit, tell me he’s still there.”
She’s so darn hopeful. I hate to break it to her. “No. He left last night like a perfect gentleman.”
“Darnit!”
“But…” I pause to ensure I have her attention.
“But? But what?” Her impatience brings a smile to my lips.
“We’re…”
“What! What? Quit teasing me and spit it out already.”
“…going out tonight. To a work thing.”
The shriek that comes through the phone has me pulling it away from my ear until I’m sure my eardrums are safe. “Are you done?”
“A work thing? His, I assume, since we don’t have a work thing tonight.”
“Yes, his. He’s a Professor of Philosophy at SMU. It’s a faculty thing.”
Her reaction to Theo’s job is identical to mine: shock and awe. I’ve never known a professor, and neither has she. It’s right up there with being a doctor or a lawyer. And this professor teaches self-defense classes in his spare time. Seriously?
Once we’re past the career revelation, we move on to a key detail of vast importance—what will I wear. The only thing I know for sure are my new glittery purple pumps with gold heels. They were an indulgence, and I haven’t had an opportunity to wear them. I have a black dress with a shimmery purple skirt overlay that’s cocktail-worthy. I think they’re a match made in heaven.
Hours later, I’ve eaten, fussed over my outfit, and am currently knee-deep in my closet trying to find my little black clutch. Apparently, the less used it is, the more buried it becomes. I need a bigger closet.
My phone rings. In a mad dash to catch it before it goes to voicemail, I don’t even bother check the caller ID. “Hello.”
“Good morning, beautiful.” The tantalizingly deep British-accented voice sets my heart racing.
“Hi.” I totally fan-girl sigh. “Good morning…handsome.” I smirk. If he can call me beautiful, I can call him handsome.
His chuckle sets flutters dancing in my stomach. “You think I’m handsome?”
Gorgeous. Sexy as hell. Mr. Dark and Dreamy. “Yes, but don’t let it go to your head. I’m sure you have enough women fawning all over you. You don’t need my adoration too.”
“What if I told you yours is the only one that matters?”
Then I wouldn’t believe it. Plus, he didn’t deny women flock to him like his own personal nor'easter swirling around him endlessly. “I would say you’re crazy.” I’d also like to hear you say it again.
“Hmm. You’re not ready to hear it. Soon, Lauren, you will be.”
He’s so confident. He’s the kind of person whom, when he walks into a room, everyone stops and notices. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be able to command attention simply by entering a room. And then have the confidence to take it in—accept it. I would shy away. I don’t like being the center of attention, but that doesn’t mean I’m not fascinated by it, or wonder what it would be like to be that self-assured, to wield that kind of power.
“How’s your day going so far?” I spin on my heels to refill my water while moving on to safer topics than his confidence and my lack of it.
A beat or two passes. I fear he won’t let me off the hook. Thankfully, he does. “It’s good. I slept better than I have in a few nights…”
Does he have trouble sleeping too? Does he have nightmares? Does his unconscious plague him in the dark of night?
“…Lauren?”
“Yes?”
Silence magnifies the realization that I zoned out and missed what he was saying.
“I asked how you slept.” His voice is lower, concerned.
“I slept great.”
Lie.
Lie.
Lie.
“I told my mum about you.” He says it on a breath of air like a confession.
“What? ...I mean, you did?” Who is this man? How can he so easily tell me he cares what I think of him and also tell his mother about me? He’s obviously not like most men.
“We usually speak every Saturday. She could tell something was up.”
“How?”
“She said I sounded happy.”
Is he not usually happy? “How does that correlate to you telling her about me?” What did he tell her? That he met some crazy, sad girl in random places, and now she’s in his self-defense class? Jeez, that makes me sound like a stalker.
“Lauren?”
“Theo?”
“What’s going on in that head of yours? I feel like I’m having half a conversation with you, and you’re having the other half with yourself.”
Busted.
On a sigh, my gaze lands on my bare feet. My back presses to the refrigerator.
Balance.
Strength.
Deep breath in—one, two, three—deep breath out—one, two, three.
“I’m nervous. I’m out of my comfort zone here. I don’t know how to take the things you say.” There. At least I’m being honest. Maybe that makes up for the lie about how well I didn’t, in fact, sleep.
“Take them for what they are. The truth. I don’t have a hidden agenda. I know we started a little nontraditionally. I want to rectify that by starting over tonight. There’s something between us. I know you feel it. I’m willing to go as slow as you need, but I’m not willing to lie to you about where I stand or how I feel. You make me happy—a fact my rather intuitive mother picked up on—and in order to not lie to her, I told her about you. It’s that simple.”
It sounds simple, but it’s not simple at all. And the notion that I make him happy isn’t lost on me. I can almost hear the wall around my heart cracking open. I press my hand to my chest. “Despite my reservations, you make me happy too.” The weight I’ve been carrying around—for what feels like my whole life—just lightened, a little.
“See? That wasn’t horribly awful to admit, now was it?” I can hear the smirk in his voice.
“No, I suppose not. Hell didn’t freeze over. At least, not yet.”
“If it does, I’ll be right there to keep you warm.” The humor in his voice has morphed into a rich hue of desire that ignites a long-ignored yearning in me to be desired for who I am—right now—not who I wish I was. Not who I would be if I ate less and moved more, if I was bolder, prettier, sexier, funnier, taller.
But the me I am now.
Broken.
And less than he deserves.
I straighten my tie for the millionth time. It can’t get any straighter. Relax. I take a deep breath, roll my shoulders, and say a silent prayer as I knock on her door and quickly shove the bouquet of roses behind my back.
With the click of the lock, my thudding pulse pounds even harder in my ears. Bloody hell, I feel fifteen again going out on my first date, praying her dad doesn’t hate me at first glance.
When the door opens, the vision in front of me simultaneously takes my breath away and eases my nerves—remarkably. Despite our lust-crazed encounters, the mere sight of her
centres me as if I’ve stepped into the middle of a vortex, where the chaos going on all around calms and stills.
“Hi.” Her voice is a little higher than normal, and she laughs, then quiets, as her eyes sweep me from head to toe. “Wow. You look really nice.”
I’m struck speechless. She’s stunning in a sultry black dress. Fabric covers her shoulders and wraps her breasts—like the gifts I’m sure they are—then flares in multiple iridescent layers of purple ending at her knees. I imagine if she twirled, the skirt would float and glide around her like a tornado—a billowy, shimmery tornado—of sheer purple and black fabric. “You look incredible.” Good enough to eat.
My eyes land on her shoes. Bloody fucking hell. My cock twitches. Apparently, it likes shimmery purple shoes with a peek-a-boo toe. I have no hopes of keeping my hands off her tonight. “I’m fucking doomed.”
She blushes on a giggle and ushers me in.
As I pass, I bend and kiss her cheek. “You smell amazing.” It takes everything I have not to pull her into my arms and show her how beautiful I think she is.
“These are for you.” I present her with the flowers, feeling like I should bow. She looks elegant and regal. Though she radiates sexiness, her dress is actually conservative, showing her curves, but not baring them for all to see. I appreciate the allure and her demure nature. Don’t forget the sexy-as-fuck shoes.
“They’re beautiful. Thank you.” Nearly burrowing her face in the flowers, she inhales deeply. “They smell so good. Are these Princess Diana Roses?”
I smile at the thought. Out of all the roses, I may have picked the ones named after a British Monarch. “I have no idea. I chose them because of their pink to peach hue and fragrance.”
“They’re exceptional.” She pins me with her gaze. “Thank you. It means a lot—you buying me flowers.”
Flares of pride heat my chest. “It’s my pleasure.”
She works through the two dozen roses, unwrapping and clipping the ends, carefully arranging them in a glass vase, commenting on every one being beautiful, perfect, and sweet-smelling. Her reverence has me wanting to go out and buy her dozens more.
