by A. S. Kelly
I know that I like it when she’s knackered, but doesn’t want to show it, hiding just how tough her day’s been, masking all her problems and doubts with that charming smile.
I know that I like the way she nurses a cup of coffee in her hands, as if it were precious, and she was ready to rip off anyone’s fingers who tried to take it away from her.
I know that I like hearing the sound of her voice, which transforms in a second depending on her mood. The way it caresses my ears and my thoughts, infiltrating my body and giving it life again.
I know that I like her lips, the way she nibbles on them, when they laugh, the way they rest against her cup of coffee. The frenzied way that they move as soon as she opens her mouth.
I know that I like everything, even though I shouldn’t.
I know that I like Christine. I like how she makes me feel, and the way she gives me hope. But I also know that I could never like the person I’d become with a woman like her.
45
Chris
I slide the casserole dish into the oven and sit down on the counter, helping the wait along with half a glass of wine. I don’t like cooking, especially when I’m by myself – I do it every day at the café. But tonight, after I got home from the game and Evan decided to go out with some of his friends, I felt a bit lost in the deafening silence of my house. So I decided to pass some time by cooking one of the only meals I make when I’m hungry and I want to slob out in front of the TV, with no one watching me.
I hop down from the counter and head into the living room, looking for a film to watch, but as soon as I’ve found the remote, there’s a knock at the front door. With no idea who it could be, I go to open it, convinced it’ll be one of Martin’s usual appearances, cursing the fact I’ll have to share my dinner with him. But when I open it, I almost choke on my heart, which has leapt into my throat.
“Hi.”
‘Hi’? Just ‘hi’?
He scratches his head nervously and looks at his feet.
“I just popped by…because…”
My God. He might be all marble and testosterone, but boy does he mumble.
“If I’m intruding, I can leave…”
As if.
“It’s just me,” I interrupt him. “Evan’s gone out and I was just cooking.”
“You cook?” he asks, his eyes wide.
“I own a café, remember…?”
“Sure.”
“Come in,” I say, moving aside to let him past.
I lead him into the kitchen, and check that nothing’s exploded in the oven. Then I turn to look at him, feeling a little awkward.
“It’s a pasta bake. If that’s okay with you…?” I ask, as if I couldn’t care less.
“Why not,” he shrugs. “I haven’t had dinner yet.”
I grab everything we need for a dinner for two from the cabinet, and go through to the living room to set it all out on the coffee table.
“There’s beer in the fridge,” I tell him, hearing him open the door and take one. “The bottle opener’s in the top drawer.”
A few seconds later, Ryan appears in the living room.
“Can I help with anything?” he asks awkwardly.
“You can choose a film,” I say, passing him the remote.
“You’re giving me the honour?”
“Well, last time you chose something I liked,” I say, explaining myself.
Last time. It sounds strange enough to my own ears, let alone to his.
Ryan’s only been here a few times, and I’m treating him as if it’s his house. But I’d make him leg it down the road before eating all of my pasta bake.
“I’ll go and check on the food,” I say, gesturing towards the kitchen and turning away, before saying anything embarrassing.
I pretend to check on the pasta bake, as I spy on him out of the corner of my eye. I watch his movements, finding my hand flying over my heart, trying to muffle its noisy beating.
Ryan O’Connor is in my house. I watched him play, got all excited in the crowd like a crazed teenage girl, counted all the drips of sweat that trailed his forehead. I held my breath for a full ninety minutes, spellbound by his strength and his pride. And now he’s in my house.
And I’m ready to share my pasta bake with him.
“Everything okay?” he calls, bringing me back down to Earth.
“It’s not burnt, if that’s what you were worried about.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Have you found something to watch?” I ask, trying to change the subject. I’m getting defensive for no reason, but it’s the only way to preserve myself from him.
I pour another glass of wine and turn to look at him.
“Maybe…”
“Dinner’ll be ready in a few minutes.”
“Okay.”
Why is it so difficult to hold a conversation with this guy?
“I liked…the match.”
He smiles lopsidedly at me.
“It was…er…exciting.”
Great word choice, Chris.
“Exciting?”
“Well, yeah. All those…muscles.”
Oh my God, I’m making it worse.
“You like muscles?”
Bastard. Of course I fucking like them – mainly his.
“Who doesn’t?” I say, playing it down, while I grab the oven gloves and take the casserole dish out. I put it down on the counter and take another sip of my wine to keep down all the words trying to crawl up my throat.
“Where do you keep the plates?”
“Plates…right…”
“Don’t you have any?”
“Not really, no,” I say, embarrassed, turning to him. “I normally eat a pasta bake straight from the casserole dish I cooked it in.”
“Seriously?” He raises an eyebrow.
“I always make it when I just want a night on the sofa, in front of the TV.”
“Do you eat it with your hands as well?” he says, teasing me.
“I imagine, Mr Perfect, that you’re not used to eating out of a Tupperware tub or a casserole dish.”
He comes closer and grabs it.
“Oh, come on. I always adapt, you know.” He turns his back to me and heads into the living room.
I follow him and we sit on the sofa, on opposite ends. I cross my legs, as he stretches his out. His muscles almost burst out of the fabric of his jeans, and I can’t stop thinking about a few hours ago, watching him sweaty and tired, those legs protruding from the shorts of his rugby kit.
“Something wrong?”
“Huh?”
“Were you staring at my thighs?”
“Me?” I cry, my voice high pitched. “No I wasn’t!”
He bursts out laughing, throwing his head back, and my heart explodes in my chest like a firework.
Shit.
I like Ryan O’Connor. I hate him, but I like him. Maybe I like him more than I hate him, or maybe I just hate him enough to like him. My mind still hasn’t worked it out yet, but the problem remains: I seriously like Ryan. So much that it hurts – and I don’t know how to stop liking him.
I lean over to the coffee table and pass him a fork.
“After you,” I tell him.
“Am I the guinea pig?”
“Look, I can cook, okay!”
He takes the fork and plunges it into the cheese. He takes a huge forkful and shoves it into his mouth, and I think I must be dribbling as I watch him lick his lips.
“Mmm…” he says, diving in once again with his fork. “You’re right, you have to eat this right from the dish.”
I smile, and he smiles back.
“What film are we watching, then?” I ask him, my mouth full.
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather watch something else.”
“What?” I swallow, trying not to choke on my pasta.
“What’s sitting next to me.”
And he says it all in one breath.
“Oh,” I say, my mouth ha
nging open dumbly.
“Well, you watched me today for ninety minutes. Now it’s my turn.”
“It’s not really the same thing.”
“You’re right,” he says, lifting his gaze to meet mine, and something inside me sets alight. “This is much better.”
His leg brushes against mine, and I jump as if he’s burned me. His eyes scrutinise me, serious and penetrating, and his thigh stays glued to mine, sending everything around us up in flames – myself included. I hold my breath, trying to suppress my instinct to just jump on him, sit on his muscular legs and run my hands through his hair, pulling him towards me. To taste those seductive lips, to touch him and slide my hands down the body I’ve had the pleasure of admiring, but never really touched. I want to trace his abs with my finger, following their shadows down to his waistband and…
“Christine…” his voice is low, seductive.
Our breathing deepens, each melding in time to the rhythm of the other’s, as everything around us disappears. The pasta, the sofa, the room, the house.
Ryan O’Connor swallows up everything.
He swallows me down, whole.
46
Ryan
I need to say something now. Something that doesn’t make me sound like a total dick. I’ve started it now, and I have to see it through. I have to tell her why I’m here and I have to do it soon, before my legs decide to take off, running away from the desire that’s been coursing through me ever since I first laid my hands on her skin, felt her heat.
“Why are you here, Ryan?” Christine reads my mind – or maybe she’s just reading what’s written in block capitals across my forehead. She does it simply, clear and direct, just as she always is. She doesn’t make excuses, doesn’t play games. I’m the one who’s always bullshitting around, instead of just taking her hand and telling her…
“I wanted to be with you.”
Fuck, I actually said it.
“Are you trying to get me into bed?”
So direct again. She’ll eat me alive, I know she will: she’ll swallow everything whole then tear me to pieces.
“I don’t give a fuck about getting you in bed, Christine…” I tell her, massacring my own pride. “I’d even be happy to do it on the floor.”
Her expression changes, flushing every possible shade of red.
“I saw you in the crowd,” I continue, gathering all my courage. “And when I saw you there…I didn’t want to do anything but win that game, then come here with you.”
She smiles, cheekily. “So seeing me up there turned you on?” she teases.
And fuck – I like it.
I like the way she does it, and I like the effect it has on me.
“If you want to put it like that…” I say, approaching her across the sofa – and she doesn’t back away. She stays there, her legs crossed, waiting for me to embarrass myself while I try to explain to her that I really fucking like her. And I want her, like I never thought I could want anyone again in my life.
“It wasn’t just at the match. It’s…everything, Christine.”
“Everything?”
“Everything,” I repeat, hoping that she knows what I mean – because I have no idea how to explain it.
But my body does.
She nibbles at her lip and I grab her instinctively by the waist and pull her towards me. She lifts herself and sits down right onto my erection.
Oh, my God.
Her breath is on my lips, her hands running through my hair. My hands are squeezing her buttocks – my obsession since the very first day I laid eyes on them.
“What do you want from me, Ryan O’Connor? Because let’s face it, I don’t think I’m your type. Are you just looking for a bit of fun? A few fucks, no strings attached?”
“I don’t know what I’m looking for. All I know is that whatever it is, it’s right here.”
She looks at me for a few moments, her head tilted, then she smiles again, one corner of her mouth turned upwards.
“If you keep looking at me like that, I won’t last another second without putting my hands all over you.”
“Like…what?” she says, feigning innocence.
“Like you can’t wait for me to be inside you.”
She bites down on her lip again.
“You know, Ryan O’Connor, for someone who doesn’t like talking, you’re doing a bit too much of it at the moment.”
“I’ll stop then.”
“About time,” she teases, and I realise how happy I am in her company, at her house, with her body on mine – I’m even willing to hurt myself, just a little, hoping that it doesn’t hurt her too much.
I tighten my grip on her butt; my hands are buried under the waistband of her trousers, tracing along the lace of her underwear. Her skin is smooth under my fingers, and she tugs on my hair, looking for my mouth.
I know what she’s trying to do, but I can’t. Not yet. Not now.
I’m not ready.
My hands climb up her back, sliding around to the front, desperate to stop her in her tracks.
“Fuck,” I breathe, as my hands reach her bare breasts.
The longing to touch her is suffocating me – almost as much as the longing to be inside her, right now.
Christine lets go of my hair and grabs my shirt, pulling it over my head and tossing it to the floor. She lets her eyes slide over my bare chest, and then her hands are all over me.
She’s touching me.
And I don’t want her to stop.
Her fingers are tracing along the lines of my abs, lightly but thoroughly. I watch her as she writes a new chapter onto my skin, one that’ll be impossible to forget. One that will always stay imprinted onto my body.
“Fuck,” she says, and we both start to laugh.
My God, what is this woman?
The laughter slowly dies down and, before I can do anything, Christine lifts off her top, which follows mine onto the floor.
I look at her eyes, her mouth, her flushed face. Her chest, panting in an attempt to regain some oxygen. I throw myself onto her, delving my head into her neck in desperation. I inhale her skin, an uncontrollable excitement coursing through me.
I bury my head between her breasts and inhale again. The scent of a woman – a woman who I want desperately, right now – takes over me. I want my body to brush against every inch of her skin.
I take her breasts in my hands and bring them to my mouth, pinching a nipple between my fingers and circling it with my lips.
My tongue caresses her, sucking at her.
Fuck. I want more.
Christine grabs fistfuls of my hair and pulls my face into her skin.
She wants more, too.
I taste her, bite her, eat her.
I can’t bear it anymore.
I want her right now.
I turn over, laying her down quickly on the sofa and pinning her there with my body, pushing my erection between her legs.
I brush a hand between her thighs, sliding down into the waistband of her trousers.
“God, Christine…”
She arches her hips towards my hand, impatient to feel me inside her. I’m too far gone – I could never stop after just a taste.
I get up quickly, pulling her trousers down hungrily. I hurriedly unbutton my jeans and pull them just over my hips, as she watches me, her cheeks on fire and her eyes full of desire.
I bend over her, pushing her panties aside so that I can feel her with my dick.
“Ryan…do it now,” she begs me.
And that was all I needed to hear.
I push inside her, slowly. Christine scratches at my back with her nails, as I grab the arm of the sofa and thrust as deeply as I can. She wraps her legs around my waist, her nails digging into my flesh, as her pussy tightening around my cock.
Her heat, her desire.
Just her.
I keep pushing, losing control, blinded by my own desperation to have her, right now. To hear her moan and shout, to feel her
lose herself underneath me, taken by my desire and my force.
Suddenly, I pull out of her, and she looks at me worriedly. I pant, short of breath, watching our bodies come together again; I delve into her, slowly, feeling every muscle in my body tremble. I throw my head back, closing my eyes. I’m already addicted to her.
I lower into her again, pulling out almost completely before plunging in as deeply as possible. Her body adapts perfectly to mine, as she abandons herself underneath me and welcomes me, every thrust bringing her closer to paradise.
“Ryan…” she sighs, her eyes closed, her hands groping for the arm of the chair behind her, helping her withstand my thrusts.
I grab her wrists and stop, suddenly.
“What…?”
“Do you want more?”
“Fuck yes.”
That’s all I wanted to hear.
I hold her still, sliding in and out of her over and over, spellbound by the sight of our bodies inside each other: hers, small and powerless underneath mine, strong and overbearing. I watch her breasts, which rise with each thrust; her hair fanned out over the sofa; her cheeks on fire; her pussy, opening itself completely to me.
It’s an image which makes me afraid that I won’t be able to avoid exploding inside her in just a few seconds.
“Christine…” I tell her, breathing into her ear. “I want to hear you.”
“Oh, hell, yes,” she says, opening her eyes.
I keep her hands pinned above her head with one hand, the other massaging her clit until her body starts to tremble underneath mine.
I want to see her crumble.
“Ryan…” My name on her lips is so enticing that I almost break in two with a longing to feel her trembling in my mouth.
“Yes…”
“Now…”
I slide inside her again, as she watches my hand tormenting her. My dick is on the brink of exploding, spurred on by the sight of her pleasure.
Christine yells, jolted by the orgasm that flows from her body to mine, overpowering us both, leaving us breathless.
I fall onto her, resting my head between her soft breasts as she lets go of the sofa behind her.
“Oh my God…” she says, as soon as she gets her breath back.
