by L. B. Dunbar
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. I’ve seen several of the tourist hot spots, but I don’t know what’s left.
“Okay, forget California. How about in general? What’s something you’d like to do? Experience? Something you wouldn’t go for in Georgia but really want to try.”
I shrug, shaking my head.
“Come on,” he says, bumping my shoulder with his while we sit on his couch waiting for our dinner to cook. We sit close enough that our arms touch, and my skin prickles with desire. My fingers want to tiptoe over his forearm and trace the tattoo.
“I’d like to take dance lessons.”
He chuckles until he sees I’m serious. “What, like ballet? Tap?”
“Tango.”
His wine glass pauses halfway to his lips.
“I already know how to swing dance from my mom, but I always wanted to learn something…sexier.”
He bites his lip.
“You want to laugh again.”
“I don’t,” he says, his voice rising as he chokes on a chuckle.
“You do.” I snort, smacking him on the shoulder.
“No, really. That sounds cool. You should do it.”
I shake my head again. “I wouldn’t know how or where, but yeah…that’s something I’ve always wanted to learn.”
Garrett grows quiet after that, and we return to football until it’s time to eat. When dinner is almost ready, Garrett asks if we should change. “We could dress up,” he offers.
I suppose it would be nice, but this day has been so carefree that I don’t want to make things awkward by forcing us to be formal. I don’t want to feel like we’re on a date.
“I’m comfy, though,” I say, sticking out my lower lip to pout.
“Me too,” he says, his eyes catching mine as a smile spreads across his face.
Casual Thanksgiving it is, then, and we stuff ourselves.
“I can’t move,” Garrett says, slouching back on his couch after we finish eating. He’s propped his feet up on his coffee table and slouches into the cushions. I throw myself down next to him.
“I can’t breathe.” I laugh, a hand covering my stomach. I haven’t eaten this much in weeks, and I feel full, warm…and almost happy.
Garrett flips the channel on the television to land on another classic movie.
“An Affair to Remember. Another favorite,” I announce.
Garrett groans and rolls his eyes in a teasing manner. He’s indulged me all day with black and white movies between football games. Two minutes into the movie, when he tugs my arm and pats his thigh, I fall over to rest my head on his leg. Garrett’s hand comes to my back, and he begins stroking along my spine with his fingertips. I relax under his touch until his fingers fall from my back. A gentle snore sounds behind me, and I smile. I snuggle into him and continue watching the movie about a couple destined to be together but only after a catastrophe.
I’ve never had a man search for me like Cary Grant tries to find Debra Kerr. No man has chased me half as much as I’ve chased him, and I’m saddened by the thought. What’s happened to romance? Or is it only in the movies? As the movie nears its end, Garrett’s hand returns to my waist, and I sense his other hand scrubbing down his face.
“Nice nap?” I mutter. He doesn’t respond, so I roll my head on his thigh to look over my shoulder. His eyes remain closed, but I feel something at the back of my head. Slowly, I continue my rolling to face him and then press myself upward.
“Garrett,” I whisper, stroking the ridge bulging in his sweatpants with a finger. He shifts his body, and his fingers, loosely resting on my hip, tighten. My fingers curl into the band of his sweatpants, and his lids open a bit. A sly smile curves his lips.
“Whatcha doing?” Hooded eyes peer down at me, mischievous and daring. Keeping my eyes on his, I tug at the waistband and slip my fingers inside his pants, palming him over his boxers.
“Dolores,” he groans, his head falling back in submission. My exploration continues. He’s long, firm, and ready. How was he hard so quickly? I refuse to compare him to another. He’s so much more than anyone I’ve been with even hidden under his tight boxer briefs. I know this for certain. I curl up on my knees to get a better angle and tug his sweats lower on his hips. Garrett’s hand comes to the back of my head, and his fingers comb through my hair.
“Dolores, what are you doing?” His voice remains lazy.
I don’t answer him. I’m on a mission. He’s been so nice to me all day. He held me all night. I just want to give him something in return. My fingers curve around his thick shaft, and I squeeze. Garrett hisses.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says, but his fingers tug at the ends of my hair. I lower and kiss his exposed tip.
“Fuck, Dolores. Don’t tease.”
I answer him by forcing his briefs lower and then swirling my tongue around the mushroom ridge. Then I open wide and draw him deep. His hand fists in my hair, twisting the tresses around his closed hand near the nape of my neck. I drag my lips to the tip and then fill my mouth with him again. Back and forth, I work him, sucking, licking, savoring. Working over him is working me up as well, and I’d love to touch myself, but this moment is for him.
“Sweetheart,” he warns, his fist tugging gently. “I…” His voice falters as I take him deeper. Fighting past the gag, I bring him to the back of my throat, and he explodes. His lips mutter a litany of curses like a prayer of gratitude. Pulling back slowly, I swallow every drop of him and sit up.
“What was that?” he asks, sitting straighter and scrubbing at his face with both hands. I still don’t answer, and then his hands reach for my face. He tugs me toward him, but I stop him with a palm on his chest.
“Wait.”
“What?” His voice rises an octave.
“You don’t want to kiss me after that.” Rusty never allowed us to kiss after he’d come in my mouth. I’m not fucking tasting myself. I learned early not to go for him after taking him in.
“Fuck that,” Garrett says before his mouth crashes mine. I’m pressed back as his lips seize me. The kiss devours my lips, sucking them into his mouth before opening and delving forward with his tongue. He sweeps the inside of my mouth as his fingers slip into my hair, and he fists the strands again, tilting my head to tangle my tongue farther with his mouth. He’s consuming me, and I want to be swallowed whole.
A vibrating noise sounds from the coffee table.
Garrett continues kissing me.
Then the buzzing begins again. Garrett pulls back, and I realize it’s my phone.
“Maybe it’s Denton. I wanted to talk to my grandmother tonight.” We both look at the phone at the same time to see it isn’t Denton.
The caller ID reads Rusty.
14
Rust on the heart
[Garrett]
Fuckity, fuck, fuck. Not him and not now. Holy…what the hell just happened?
“I…” Dolores’s voice falters as she stares at her phone. I use the moment to tuck myself back into my sweats. The day has been casual, and I’ve let myself go by staying comfortable the entire holiday. When she pouted at me about changing, it was so cute that I didn’t want to disappoint her by dressing in more formal attire. Remaining as we were, the holiday was more special than any stuffy dinner I’ve ever attended.
Then…then she gives me head like I’ve never had, and I want to devour her.
So why the fuck did he call? Why now?
“Are you still talking to him?” I snap as old insecurities fill my veins. Is she cheating on him with me?
“No,” she bellows. “No. I haven’t spoken to him since before I came here.”
“What does he want?” I ask, frustrated.
“I don’t know.” Her voice lowers, eyes still focused on the phone. “I should go.”
“What?” I snap. How can she leave? She just gave me the blow job of all blow jobs. I mean, what man doesn’t want to wake up to be taken by a sexy vixen looking up at him with lust-filled e
yes and a salivating mouth ready to draw him deep? It can’t only be me. She just fulfilled a fantasy of mine, and now she wants to walk away.
“I think I should leave,” she repeats, uncurling her legs from my couch and standing. “I’ve had a wonderful day, Garrett. The best Thanksgiving ever.”
I don’t understand. What’s happening? She’s shutting down, and I get that, but I don’t want her to go. We were just getting started. We can skip Rusty. Fuck him. I’ll take her back on my couch with her head on my leg watching movies.
Just. Don’t. Leave.
“Fine,” I mutter instead, falling back on the cushions.
“It really was a great day,” she offers, trying to salvage what can’t be salvaged as she reaches for her phone.
“Uh-huh,” I murmur, scrubbing both hands down my face again. She steps around the couch and reaches down to pet Wally.
“Be a good boy, smelly Wally,” she purrs to him in the false tone she uses to insult him. He traitorously wags his tail, banging it on the tile floor. The slap, slap, slap sounds desperate. He doesn’t want her to leave either. I stand and round the couch, coming up behind her.
“Help me understand what happened here?” I’m almost begging her for an explanation. She stands upright and spins to face me.
“I just wanted to give you something special.” Her eyes lower as if she’s ashamed. I don’t want her to feel bad about what she’s done. I love what she did. I want more of what she did.
“Let me reciprocate,” I suggest, my lip curving at the corner although my smile can’t reach a full curl. She’s going to shoot me down. I can see it when her lids lift, and her blue eyes find mine. Without answering, she pats my chest.
“Thank you for everything.” Then she turns and lets herself out.
Fuck.
What the fuck?
+ + +
I work from home the next day, avoiding my family who called to make sure I was all right. I called them on my way to pick up food yesterday and explained how I missed my flight.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” my mother asked.
“Yeah, Ma.” I’ve never been better, I thought as I rushed through the store picking up items to make the day as special as I could for Dolores.
I wanted to give you something special.
She’d certainly done that. My dick jolts with the memory. Her lips. Her mouth. Her tongue.
Then that man called. Her asshole sex partner. Has he fucked her there? He better not.
I want to be her sex partner.
Then I stop. In all reality, I don’t want to be her sex partner. I don’t want to be her fuck buddy or friends with benefits. I’m falling for Dolores even though I promised myself I would never fall again. I like her. A lot. She’s funny and sexy without realizing it. She’s stunning when she smiles, and I want to freeze-frame each moment she gives me a rare grin.
I thought we’d made a breakthrough after her cryfest and spending the night in my arms.
She’s broken, and I want to glue her back together, but I can’t if another guy is in the picture. Then again, Dolores doesn’t live here. Her home is in Georgia. He’s in Georgia. Eventually, she’ll want to go home. I keep forgetting this fact.
I throw down my pen and tip back on my couch. My hand spreads on the cushion where she sat all day yesterday. My fingers separate as if they can feel the curve of her hip. My chest aches at her absence, and I don’t like the sensation.
I’m a guy. I’ve fucked around. I’ve left women. I’ve had my way and moved on.
Somehow, with the positions reversed, I don’t like it one bit.
“Fuck this,” I mutter aloud for the millionth time and lean forward for my laptop. It’s then that I notice an email I’ve been hoping to find. A waitlist finally had an opening, and I’m in. There’s a place I want to visit for investment purposes. I’m hoping to scope out the place as I’m still looking for that one thing for myself. That one investment. For the first time in a long time, I thought I might like to share my secret interest with someone else, but after last night, I’m no longer certain.
I can’t go through this heartbreak again.
Memories of Kate fill my head. It was years ago, but the reminders still sting. I know better than to get attached.
15
Rhythm of the heart
[Dolores]
Two days pass without communication from Garrett. It’s totally my fault, and I own it. It’s just…I’m too embarrassed to go to his place and apologize. I shouldn’t have taken advantage of him, which is what I did. He was so sweet all day long, and then I had to go and take it one step too far. I just wanted to give something to him, and guys like that. Not to mention, the moment I felt his hard-on, I wanted to explore him like I’ve never wanted to explore.
I’m a sexual being by nature. It’s one reason I was with James, and then Rusty, for too long. I love the physical contact. It’s been a struggle to keep my emotions out of the mix, but I’ve worked hard at suppressing them over the years. When you’re stung a few times, you get the hint. Put up or get out. With Rusty, it’s been more put out and shut up.
Garrett is different, and this is my problem. I’m making him into something he’s not. He’s a good guy with a big heart—and a big dick—but we shouldn’t get involved. We won’t get involved. The other night would have led to a one-night stand, and I don’t need one of those. I need a friend, which Garrett has certainly been since I got to California.
But now I’ve ruined everything.
When Rusty called, I freaked out. He never calls me. What did he want? Why would he call at precisely the moment he did? How could the universe be so cruel?
Yet it was a reminder my home is far away and waiting.
“Where you been, baby?” Rusty drawls through the phone when I give in and return his call. A drag of a cigarette, or possibly something else, hisses through the line.
“I’m in California.” Remember? I’ve been missing for almost a month.
“It’s been a long time. When you coming back?”
Does he want me back?
Then another thought occurs.
Do I want to go back to him?
The deeper question is: can you return to someone who isn’t yours? I belong to Rusty. He’s told me on many occasions, but it’s not in a romantic, you’re mine manner. I’m property to him and the club by way of him. Rusty belongs to Devil’s Edge. Not a ruthless one-percent MC, but a riding club all the same with some pretty hefty rules. No other man could date me. No other man would risk it.
In Blue Ridge, not many eligible men exist. Sure, there are several Harrington brothers, but I’ve learned my lesson with James. Not to mention, the others are too much like brothers to me, so I can’t hook up with them. The Duncans are another crew of bachelors, but they are distant cousins, so just…no.
“I’m not sure when I’ll be home.” I take my time to answer Rusty, who’s pulled a few more hits of whatever he’s smoking on the other end of the line.
On a heavy exhale, he says, “Guess I’ll see ya when I see ya.” Then the line goes dead.
I don’t know why I called him back. A hint of false hope he’d say he missed me and wanted me to come home to him muddled my decision-making. Fake optimism stole the content of a great day with Garrett, and I hate myself for it.
These are my thoughts as I go for a long walk along the beach despite the dropping temperatures of late November. I miss Wally, which shocks me. I miss Garrett, which doesn’t.
As I stand before Denton’s door, unlocking it after my walk, I feel the presence of Garrett behind me. I want to lean back and press into him—like when he held me in his bed—but I don’t. I freeze, unable to turn and face him.
“I have something for you,” he says, reaching around me and offering me an envelope. I spin but can’t look up at him.
“You didn’t have to do anything.” I have no idea what the envelope could contain.
“I thought you’d like it.
” My brows pinch, and my chest aches. He’s too good to me, and I don’t know why. I have nothing to offer him…but decent blow jobs. I’d willingly drop to my knees if he asked me to, but somehow, I think I’ve crossed a line he won’t want crossed again. On the other hand, Garrett’s a smooth talker, and I bet he’s used to getting what he wants from a woman and letting her go when he’s finished.
The thought makes me sad.
“Thanks,” I say. Waving the envelope between us, I’m still not able to look up at him, but he surprises me when his fingers tip up my chin. His eyes find mine, and he looks at me in that way he does—not a stare, a search. He wants to understand what I can’t even explain. I don’t recognize myself when I’m with him, and I can’t decide if that’s good or bad.
He nods and then steps back as if he’s found his answer. He watches me as he walks backward to his side of the hallway and then turns to enter his apartment. Without a glance back, he closes the door.
+ + +
On Tuesday, I find myself inside the Movement Mystique. The mystery gift is a voucher for four nights of dance lessons.
Don’t disappoint. A picture of a Tin Man stands in the corner of the cardstock paper.
Did I disappoint him?
Having nothing to wear, I’ve arrived in yoga pants, a sweatshirt, and tennis shoes.
“No, no, no,” a flamboyant male says to me after I identify myself. “This will not do.” He eyes my attire. “You are too striking for this.” He waves a hand up and down my physique in disgust. Reaching for my hand, he tugs me to follow him through a curtained doorway and into a dance room.
“Umm…” This seems a little unorthodox. A man I don’t know, who clearly won’t have interest in me, drags me to a corner of his studio.
“Peter. My name is Peter, and this is for you.” He stops short and points to a wrap dress in black and a pair of female dance shoes, size nine for my bigger feet. Color—ruby red. I turn to him, aware I’m staring at him.
“What’s this?”
