Slow Burn

by K. Bromberg

  “That all you got Had?” he says, his grip like iron, his voice laced with amusement.

  “I hate you!” I yell needing more of a reaction to justify my hysterics. “Let. Me. Go!”

  And of course, I continue to hit him. Continue to shout obscenities about what he can do with his opinions, where he can shove his boy-next-door charm. Words fly and punch harder than my fists do. And I’m so messed up that it feels so good to hurt someone else for a change rather than being the one to take it.

  I’m on the verge of hysterical—making no sense whatsoever—and I don’t even care anymore because I’m so sick and tired of caring that for once I let it all go. All of the hurt and the pain and the shutting everyone out so that when he finally wraps his arms around me, I don’t know what to do but struggle some more.

  And he just holds on, my name a repeated murmur on his lips, the warmth of his breath against my hair as I cling to him.

  But something happens in the moment—I struggle a few more times and then all of the fight leaves me.

  I sag into him as large hiccupping sobs overtake my body, and my spiteful words turn into incoherent murmurings. My fists still pound against his chest, and he takes a hand and smooths it over my hair and holds my head against him, his thumb rubbing reassuringly back and forth on my cheek. He rests his chin on my head. “I’m right here, Had. I’m not going anywhere, so let it all out. C’mon … shh … c’mon.”

  And it feels so damn good to need him. It feels so nice to use someone else to help with the emotion I’ve barricaded for so long that I can’t stop it from pouring out and running down my cheeks. It is such a relief for him to be strong while I break down in this foreign place with a man I don’t want to want but can’t seem to separate myself from somehow.

  So Becks holds me as I fall apart. As the months of grief and fear of the unknown become a perfect storm of release. Until my body trembles and my nose runs. Until my feet ache from standing in my heels and my fingers are sore from gripping his shirt so tightly. All the while he just holds on and says nothing aside from reassuring words, telling me that it’s okay. That I’m going to be okay.

  Time passes.

  My walls begin to crack.

  I’m sure the moon moves across the night sky at my back, but I don’t know for sure because my eyes are blurry from crying so damn much. I have no idea how much time has lapsed. And now that my tears abate, now that silence has descended around us like a smothering pillow, the realization of what I’ve just done hits me full force. Shame follows quickly on its heels. I’ve got a moment of desperation where I know I need to salvage my dignity, but no idea how to go about doing that. I squeeze my eyes shut, uncertain where to set my feet beneath me on this ever-shifting ground, and try to pull away from him, but he just holds me tight, not allowing me to escape.

  Emotionally or physically.

  “Please, let me just go home, Becks.” I don’t even recognize the strange whimpering voice that comes from my mouth. The sounds of a person on the brink of losing it again.

  “Not gonna happen, Montgomery.” He presses a kiss to the side of my head. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  We stand there in the darkened room. At some point, he shifts us to the couch. He’s seated, with my body cradled across his lap—butt between his parted thighs. I don’t know how we got in this position, but I know that not once has he loosened his hold on me. It’s almost as if I’m a scared jackrabbit he’s afraid will bolt the minute he releases me.

  And he has good reason to think that.

  I find an odd comfort in the silence for once. I’m concentrating so hard on not crying—on not thinking about tears—that I find it hard to think about anything else: Lexi, Becks, living without feeling.

  Dying.

  I find consolation in the rhythm of our chests resting against each other’s, from the physical contact that allows me to steal his warmth and use the reassuring beat of his steady heartbeat to soothe my aching soul.

  And my mind must be so exhausted from the ridiculous display that I put on at the club that at some point, I succumb. So for the second time in a week, Becks sits with me as I fall asleep.

  This time I just happen to be in his arms.

  Chapter 14

  It’s the unfamiliarity that wakes me.

  My eyelids are swollen, and it takes me a minute to realize where I am. I hear the slow, even breathing against my ear, feel the light smattering of hair against my hand, and I am suddenly aware of my breasts pillowed against Becks’s bare chest. I take a moment to gather my bearings, the stillness of the surroundings making every little motion and sound from him magnified in my head: the weight of his hand under my tank against my naked back and the softness of the throw he put over my shoulders but that has since fallen and is now pooled at my waist.

  Embarrassment hits me first. Then an influx of dread at falling apart when I wasn’t alone. The witness to the raging chaos in my psyche wasn’t the neutral walls of my bedroom but rather a real person this time. Someone who experienced my roller-coaster ride from needing something to help me forget to holding me so the broken pieces of me wouldn’t completely fall apart.

  A part of me is relieved, but at the same time, I’m also more worried than ever. Someone finally knows that I’m not handling this all as flawlessly as I’ve tried to portray. It’s all been a facade to cover up the turmoil within me. Rylee’s seen some of my slips, but I reined them in to lessen her worry with everything she had on her plate. My parents have seen it only in bits and pieces because they lost their child too, and I can’t have them worrying about the other one. Danny’s been so far down the bottomless well of his grief that solace isn’t something he has to offer. So I’ve held all of the pain deep within me for so long that tonight it must have festered up until the poison needed to escape.

  And now Becks knows. He knows that perfect Haddie isn’t so perfect. I’m a powder keg of emotions that any little thing might cause to ignite. I’m not as stable as my take-no-shit attitude conveys. I’m vulnerable and a mess. I’m weak and irrational. And needy. And goddamn it, I hate being needy.

  But he stayed. He held me tight and didn’t let my tirade deter him. As I lie here, I try to wrap my head around what that means and how I feel about it.

  And I’m just not sure how I feel. So I focus on the tangible. The warmth of his body against mine. The sounds and scents and sensations of being physically close to someone again. I’m so used to that empty feeling, the one that strikes me anytime I’ve done that morning-after-skip-of-shame-out-the-front-door to subdue the emotions raging inside.

  So I allow myself to revel in everything; since he’s asleep, I’m not being watched, scrutinized, or figured out. I can just enjoy the innocent moment because I deserve to feel this, to get the chance at normalcy with him.

  I’ve conditioned myself so well over the past year that the thought—even though it’s only to myself—causes anxiety to take hold of my body. And I need some distance from the sudden ache in my chest. Becks’s breath alters momentarily, but it falls back into rhythm by the time I’ve scooted away and sat on the coffee table a few feet from the couch. Out of habit, I wipe whatever is left of my makeup from under my eyes and then reach for the fallen blanket and wrap it around my shoulders.

  I lift my eyes to take Becks in. He has a pillow folded under his neck, one arm stretched up over his head and the other resting across his bare abdomen. But it’s his face that captures me. Those assessing eyes of his are closed—dark lashes fanning against tan cheeks—and I can study him for a change. Stubble dusts his usually clean-shaven face now, and with his lips pursed in sleep, the lines that usually frame them are nonexistent.

  Staring at him without the constant pressure to guard against the feelings that must be transparent in my eyes, I can’t help but acknowledge what a truly great guy he is. Old-school in some ways. Yet he’s without the drama of the bad boys I’m usually drawn to and definitely offers more stability. He’s kind and
caring and patient in all things emotional when most men I’ve dated are out the front door the minute the first tear falls.

  Even though he is the ironic best friend’s husband’s best friend, he is the perfect epitome of what a forever guy should be.

  And then it hits me like a spank on my ass. A fact so staggering that I don’t quite know how to process it. I rise from the edge of the table on shaky legs and walk with an unsteady heart to the windows overlooking the street below and the dark beach a few city blocks beyond. I try desperately to focus on the hustle and bustle of the city’s nightlife. I contemplate how this condo isn’t what I’d expect from Becks—I’d pictured porch swings and open land somewhere in the fresh air—and realize how little I really know about this man, who’s slowly capturing my heart. Trying to divert my attention, I think about everything I don’t know about Becks rather than the one thing I know for sure.

  Chills race over my flesh, and my heart thunders. The thought staggers me momentarily, my hand pressing against the glass for figurative stability, but I know I shouldn’t be surprised. What the heart wants, the heart takes … even when it knows its owner won’t allow it.

  I’ve fallen for him.

  I let the notion wash over me, trying to figure out where to go from here when I’ve said love isn’t an option I would allow myself. And I’m not sure how long I’ve been standing there when I hear a soft chuckle from the couch. It startles me because my emotions are so scattered that I can’t face him just yet. I need to cover up my heart, which I’m currently wearing on my sleeve like a tattoo, before I can speak to him.

  I turn around slowly, expecting him to be sitting there, waiting for me to go first in that patient way of his, but when I do he’s still fast asleep. “A dream,” I murmur, and I’m not sure if I’m talking about what brought on the laughter in him or the rising hope in my heart. I stare at him lying there so warm and inviting—unknowingly rocking my world—and for the first time in what feels like forever in my tumultuous life, I smile.

  And my smile only grows wider as I begin to accept the feelings, acknowledge that they aren’t going to go away. Just as he hasn’t gone away when I’ve been the emotional, crazy, chaotic woman he’s seen over the past week. He’s stuck by my side, sat on the other end of a silent phone line so that I wouldn’t be alone.

  My feet, which wouldn’t budge earlier, have no problem moving now, but rather than through the door away from him like I’d expected, I’m walking toward him. Somehow my mind feels calmer, but there are still heady emotions swelling up in me.

  I push away the doubts that creep in. Sure, there’s hypocrisy in going against the promises I’ve been making to myself—the ones I reaffirmed just hours ago while we screamed at each other. But I tell myself to shut up, own the stilettos I’m walking in, and take the chance.

  To go for it.

  My smile grows even wider because I know somewhere in Heaven, Lexi just stood up and cheered for me. And the thought alone gives me the confidence I need to continue forward and tell Becks the one thing he needs to hear.

  By now I’m standing next to the couch, looking down at him. I force a swallow down my throat as I realize that my fears have been irrational. That God can’t be that greedy to steal my mother’s breasts, extinguish my sister’s light before her time, and then want my life way too early as well.

  And as I stand in this darkened condominium, where a Keurig sits askew next to a half-empty clear plastic container of sugar cookies, my realization is like a weight off of my shoulders—I want this. I want it with him.

  I let the blanket slip off my shoulders and fall to the floor with a soft whisper of sound. I pull my shirt over my head and toss it beside me. My hands pull my cell from my pocket and place it on the table before finding their way to the zipper on my skirt, opening its teeth, and pushing it down until it pools around my feet.

  Tears well in my eyes as I dredge up every emotion I’ve shoved away over the past six months, every denial of wanting more since my first time with Becks. I stand there in this strange apartment with Becks snoring softly before me. It seems silly to have this epiphany here of all places, but it also feels imperfectly perfect. I’m naked in so many ways that processing the magnitude of what I’m opening myself up to is impossible. All I know is that the silence in my head has turned into a loud buzz of thoughts that seems harsh against the raw honesty of my decision.

  My mind spins in a dizzying eddy of possibilities as I sit my hip on the couch beside his waist and breathe him in momentarily. My rational side tells me to shove up from the couch and escape as fast as I can, but then every other part of me has me lean forward and press my lips to the middle of his chest.

  I keep my mouth there, and the warmth of his skin and the thunder of his heart beneath my lips combined with my sudden courage are an intoxicating mixture. I begin to lace soft, gentle kisses up his sternum. His breathing changes, becomes less even with each breath he draws. I inhale the scent of his cologne at the dip beneath his Adam’s apple before lifting my head and brushing a kiss against his lips. I repeat the motions with soft whispers of touch until I hear a muted moan from him as my actions slowly stir him awake.

  I know the minute his mind has caught up when his lips are already kissing me before he’s even awake. His muscles tense; then the arm above his head juts forward until it lands on the bare skin of my back.

  “Haddie,” he says in a dreamlike voice as he attempts in his sleepy state to comprehend what’s going on. I just keep meeting his lips over and over until his hand on my back finds my hair and fists in it so that I’m forced to meet his startled blue eyes. He’s trying to work out how I went from hating, then wanting, and then crying to now needing him.

  And the smart-ass in me thinks, Welcome to being a female, but the moment is so much more poignant than a quip can signify. So I stay quiet, and as our eyes hold each other’s, I know that this unspoken connection is so much more intimate than words could be right now.

  So we sit like this, his hand in my hair, our breathing uneven, and an unasked question hanging between us that once it’s answered can offer so many possibilities. Becks just continues to stare at me, the crystalline blue of his eyes holding me hostage, and I wonder what I look like in his eyes.

  “I—I woke up wanting to kiss you.” I fail miserably at telling him what I need to, stumbling through the words so I offer up this lame explanation for my about-face. Confusion and rejection flicker through his eyes, and I lean forward and tease his lips ever so softly with mine to buy myself another few seconds to build up the courage for what I want to say.

  I pull back and look into his eyes so chock-full of concern. “I can’t … We can’t keep—”

  “Sh-shh!” My finger is on his lips, stopping him instantly. “We are,” I whisper to him, looking at his lips and then back up to his eyes to reinforce the words I’ve just said. His mouth falls lax as he sucks in a breath from my unexpected answer. “I need you, Becks.”

  And I’ve never spoken more honest words in my life.

  His eyes widen, the pupils overtaking the irises and his mouth smiling cautiously beneath my finger. I lean forward—praying he doesn’t reject me—and slant my mouth over his again. And this time he responds. He parts his lips and allows me to slip my tongue between them and lick softly against his. It’s a soft sigh of a kiss, so very different from the earlier frantic energy, but there’s still an underlying desperation that I can sense … and I’m just not sure if it’s on his part or mine.

  But I choose to push the thought away. I choose to get lost in him instead. So I reach down with the hand not resting against his cheek and make quick work of the buttons on his jeans. I take a second to savor the warmth of his skin before pushing down his boxer briefs so I can take him in my hand. It takes a few uncoordinated moments of him raising his hips and helping to shove the waist of his jeans down.

  No words are spoken—none are needed as we use the intimacy of our mouths to express what we fe
el about the chances I’ve just given us.

  I continue to kiss him softly, gentle draws of mouth on mouth, while my hand encircles him and slides over his length. Every moan he emits as I repeat the action makes me crave another from him.

  He reaches over and puts his hands at my waist, and I can feel him jolt with the awareness that I’m already naked and ready for him. And I can’t deny the charge I get in knowing that I can come to him completely naked and know he’s going to want me. There is something most definitely sexy and empowering in that feeling.

  His hands direct me to rise up and settle over his hips so that I’m on my knees with my hand still stroking him between my parted legs. I look at him now. Run my eyes up his golden skin, the tightened disks of his nipples, to the bottom lip his teeth are biting into as he fumbles to put on the condom that he’s produced from his wallet. When he’s protected, his eyes meet mine just as I line him up at my entrance and lower myself onto his wide crest. I can see and feel his whole body tense at the partial sheathing—my tease to his more than ready cock—and his hands reach back up to my hips to urge me to lower myself onto him.

  I don’t even fight the smile when I choose to ignore the pressure at my hips and sink down at a torturously slow pace. It’s absolutely killing me with a potent combination of pleasure and anticipation, so I know it has to affect him just as much, if not even more.

  He hisses out when I’m over him root to tip. For a moment, I just sit there, letting the slow burn of his girth subside, before I pop my hips forward so that I slide up and down on him, earning a soft hiss of pleasure. I continue controlling the pace, the movement, and angle myself expertly so I can make sure that my inner hot spot is hit each time.

  The pleasure is so strong, so intense that I’m in a state of indecision—I want to slow down, draw it out so I can enjoy every single withdrawal and subsequent settling back down onto him, and at the same time, I want to be impatient and selfish and push myself to climax as quick as I can. Find my release so that he can chase his.