The Love Interest

by Kayley Loring

When she’d ask him if he had ever been in love, he’d remained silent. He’d looked out the window of the Greyhound bus, and she’d touched his cheek with the backs of her fingers before resting her head on his shoulder and falling asleep. By the time she’d woken up, half an hour later, Jack had finally admitted to himself that he was in trouble. He had held his breath almost the entire time, it seemed, trying not to disturb her. He had inhaled the fragrance of her hair and had become hypnotized by the rhythm of the rising and falling of her chest. He had counted the number of freckles on her forearm and contemplated the meaning of the words that were tattooed around her wrist: What you seek is seeking you.

  It was a Rumi quote, she had told him. He didn’t have a clue what that meant, but he did know that he had been seeking Catalina without realizing it—for years, perhaps. Ever since Marianne had been killed, he had searched all over the country and the world for someone else to live for. It was the last thing a man like him would admit to anyone. But admitting it to himself was the beginning of something that resembled inner peace. It made sense that he would attain this kind of inner peace on a crowded bus, traveling through a desert, while trying to elude killers and kidnappers.

  That was before she had told him about her ex-husband. It was before he’d asked her about the thin scar that peeked out from her scalp on her forehead, the one she always tried to hide with her bangs. Before she had kissed him on the cheek when she woke up and thanked him for letting her borrow his shoulder.

  Jack had forgotten to bring his new shirt into the bathroom with him. He combed his fingers through his hair and opened the door to the bedroom. He was planning to get dressed, set the table for dinner, and then charm the panties off of her by the time they’d finished the mint chocolate chip ice cream that she’d also insisted on buying. “This could be our last meal,” she had said, grinning. She had said the same thing the night before, at the beach, while convincing him to join her in having a beer with their fish tacos.

  He would be the one doing the convincing tonight. Wordless but direct. That was his plan.

  When he walked into the bedroom, he saw Catalina standing at the chest of drawers across the room, her back to him. She was barefoot, unfolding the new shirt that he had left there. She looked up into the mirror in front of her, holding Jack’s gaze in the reflection. She sucked in her breath when he took a step toward her. He paused, but she continued to hold his gaze. He approached slowly, never losing eye contact with her. When he reached her, he rested his hand on the small of her back.

  She wouldn’t tell him how old she was. At times, she seemed impossibly young. At times, she seemed so much wiser than him. Right now, in her stillness, she was ageless and stunning. She exhaled, closed her eyes, and turned to face him. She didn’t embrace him and she didn’t make a move to kiss him, but he could tell that she wanted him. She wanted him to take her.

  Her thin white blouse was unbuttoned, as always. His fingertips grazed her collarbone and her neck as he lifted the blouse from her shoulders. She was languid from growing up under the California sun, and her body started to sway a little, to that music in her head, as he let the shirt fall to the floor. He didn’t touch her breasts or the eager nipples that protruded through the sleeveless top she’d been wearing beneath her shirt. He had waited three days for this, and there would be time for that later. He brushed her hair to the side and kissed her neck, gently resting his hands on her hips. She reached behind herself to grip the edge of the chest of drawers, gasping as her head dropped back.

  He could have pushed his knee up between her legs so her thighs would squeeze around it. He could have held her face in his hands and kissed her mouth, so deeply she could hardly breathe. He could have squeezed her ass and lifted her up onto the chest of drawers and ripped her tank top down the middle.

  Jack’s wife had sometimes liked it rough, asked for it, and that had fascinated him. This woman—Catalina—seemed like she’d want it any which way he’d have her. But he would go slow with her for now. He had every intention of making love to her tomorrow—and the day after that and the day after that. But he knew better than to assume they’d get the chance again. The way things were going, this could be their last meal. Regardless, there would only be one first time with Catalina Calida, and he wanted to make sure she knew she could trust him. She could trust him to keep her safe. She could trust him to be a damn good kisser. And she could trust him to make this last all night long.

  They both needed to eat and sleep, but they needed this first.

  He lifted her hand to his lips, kissed her palm, kissed up the inside of her arm. From the inked bracelet of those mysterious words tattooed around her wrist, he planted kisses on her vanilla-scented skin. Vanilla and lavender and something exotic. She wouldn’t tell him. She was the meaning of life—unknowable and recognizable to him at the same time.

  “Jack…don’t go so slow. You’re killing me with the slow…”

  “I’m not killing you, darlin’, I’m giving you life.”

  He snaked one arm around her waist, the other beneath her weak knees, and carried her to the bed.

  “Oh, thank God,” she muttered.

  He placed her down on the edge of the bed. “You can thank Jack for this, darlin’. I want to hear my name more than God’s on your lips, you hear?”

  She groaned because he raised her right leg up, that toned bare leg, and kissed the inside of it up to her inner thigh, just above the knee. He lowered her leg and himself to the floor. On his knees before her, he positioned himself between her legs. He stared into her hooded brown eyes as he reached under her loose skirt to pull down her panties. They were lacy and turquoise blue and very damp, and he admired them as he let them fall to the floor. She placed her hands on his chest, seemingly in awe of his muscular body. She traced the scars with her fingertips. He placed his hands on her shoulders and gave her a playful shove, encouraging her to lie back on the mattress.

  She did. He tugged the waistband of her skirt down past her hips, kissed her from her pelvis up to her breastbone, pushing up the hem of her tank top as he went. By the time he reached her breasts, she was trembling all over. He circled her nipples with his tongue before kissing them, worshiping them, thanking them for being so enthusiastic ever since he had met her. His hand found her warm, wet center, and he heard his name—and God’s—ten times before she sat up and unzipped his jeans, demanding that he do the right thing and get inside of her immediately.

  He did the right thing.

  He did it until she was hoarse from crying out and they were both slick with sweat. Until they were energized and exhausted from trying so hard to merge so they could understand each other somehow. Or until they could forget about trying to understand why they had crashed into each other so fearlessly and completely. They clung to each other and let go of their pasts, for a moment or an hour. It didn’t matter.

  They felt good. For a moment or an hour. It didn’t matter. It was good, and it was true. Even when it was over, at least they’d had each other for one night.

  It wasn’t dark yet, so Jack could see the tiny scar on Catalina’s forehead. She was completely naked, and her eyes were closed, and her breath was slowing, and she was so beautiful. But all he could do was touch the scar on her forehead with his fingertip and wonder what else he could do to erase her memories of what had scarred her and—if erasing those memories would also erase his.

  23

  WILLIAM DEXTER

  You Can Viscount on Me by Fiona Walker – Chapter Six (alternate version)

  My Darling, Irrepressible Wife,

  Bloody hell.

  It has been two long hours since you stormed out of my study. Two unbearable hours since you fled our home, leaving me alone to inhale the infuriating, divine lingering scent of you. Two infernal hours in which to live with the chilling memory of my treacherous words.

  Yes, I admit, my words were treacherous. Yes, I realize you are not a child who must be scolded. Yes, I meant what I said.
Yes, the things you said before you left shook me to my core.

  But you must understand this—you are now my wife and a viscountess. You are married to the heir to the Earl of Camden. Members of the British aristocracy do not publish novels of a romantic and immodest nature. They do not publish novels at all. Use of a nom de plume would still carry a risk—your identity could be uncovered. I require you to put this stubborn, foolish notion out of your head. I demand it.

  But I also regret it. Because, despite all evidence to the contrary, and much to my dismay, I desire your happiness. I am thrilled by your mind and all thoughts that emerge from it. It is unfortunate, to say the least, that your mind (or your heart or some other rather unladylike part of you) must spew forth such literary nonsense. But, despite all that, I must admit that what I read was engaging.

  I must admit, everything about you engages me.

  Everything about you engages and torments me.

  Body and soul.

  I have been bred to resist my baser instincts, but you know precisely what my instincts are when it comes to you. You know precisely what you do to me. You know what you make me want to do with you.

  I should not have let you flee to your parents’ house.

  I should have done the very thing I wanted to do—all the things I wanted to do with you.

  Do you wish to know what I wanted to do with you, dear wife?

  Please read on if you do…

  I wanted to grab you by your rigid, slender, lily-white shoulders and press you up against the door. I wanted to pin you there with my heated gaze so I could revel in your magnificent flaring nostrils and defiant chin and flinty stare. I would have watched with pleasure as your eyes became glazed and hooded, your lips parting as you writhed around beneath my grip. I’d keep you at arm’s length while you struggled to kiss me because, my darling, you are dazzling when you are aroused and enraged all at once. Those trembling hands, those flushed cheeks, the alarming words muttered under your ragged breath.

  Once I had deemed you suitably frustrated by your inability to kiss your devilishly handsome husband, my lips would have covered yours—possessively, fiendishly. You would have grasped at my waistcoat, moaned into my mouth, tried to bite my lower lip because you instantly regretted revealing your desire for me. Then you would remember just how easy it is to determine how much your dashing husband desires you.

  You would have slid your trembling hand down to my groin, and your confidence would have grown, along with the prominent bulge beneath your palm. I’d have seized the soft curves of your buttocks, still devouring your mouth while you tore at the flaps of my trousers. When you drew your head back to catch your breath, that is when I would have lowered mine to kiss your swelling bosom, and you would have cried out in ecstasy. Frantic and desperate to devour you in all ways. I always melt into you there, at the heart of you. So dizzy for you, and yet you steady and nurture me when I kiss you there.

  You would have hiked up your skirts and jumped up to wrap your legs tight around me, begging me to take you. I would have obliged. How could I say no to you? My quivering, eager wife. Soft and warm and wet as you welcomed my hot, stiff, throbbing member inside. Swift and vigorous, that’s how my lady would require it. My throaty groan, my shuddering limbs and feverish, determined thrusts. This physical evidence of my adoration for you, that’s what would have excited you. Knowing that you owned me so completely in that moment. After all I’d said, here was the true meaning of every word I could ever say to you.

  I need you.

  I want you.

  Every part of me loves every part of you.

  After we’d both screamed out, after I’d emptied myself into you and disappeared from the world for a blinding moment, I would have held you close and let you down easy. I would have aided you in tidying yourself up because, after all is said and done, I am a gentleman.

  Silent for several minutes, you would have avoided my gaze for as long as possible, but you would not have been able to resist a glance up at me. Soon as you caught sight of my grin, we would have erupted in laughter. Because there’s nothing else to do but laugh in the face of such a terrible, unavoidable truth—we are married to each other. It will always come down to this.

  And so, I suppose I can see the appeal of these books you’re writing.

  I am well aware that I share neither your fine penmanship nor your talent, but you must admit that was rather…moving.

  Whether I possess any talent beyond loving you or not, Lucy, you do inspire me.

  Come home.

  You are the feminine embodiment of a wish and a dream, a dare and a fear that I had never acknowledged out loud, and yet somehow you heard me. You came to me, and you ruined my life in the most perfect, dreadful way. Come back to me now. Do not make me spend one night here without you.

  You need to write. I understand that. I respect it. I can acknowledge that you have given up the life of an unfettered commoner to join me in a life of esteemed peerage and suffocating manners. I don’t apologize for wanting to share this life with you. I would die if I thought you regretted marrying me. But I would also die if I knew you were forced to be any less you for me.

  In my body, I am enslaved by my unbridled lust for you.

  In my mind, I know I must claim your needs as my own.

  In my heart, I already know what I must do.

  In my soul, I have been yours all my life and will be your husband for all eternity.

  In my trousers…well…you know full well what’s going on down there.

  God help me, Lucy.

  As your devoted husband, all I can do is ask you to give me time.

  Do not attempt to publish your book yet.

  Wait.

  I will not beg and plead.

  I simply ask that you trust me to navigate the hedge maze of my emotions and of my family’s and society’s inevitable response to your planned irreverence. It will require patience on your part and the utmost humility on mine.

  This is marriage.

  In the end, you are mine and I am yours, and that is all. I have no need to attempt to fool you anymore. I have come undone for you, over and over, and I shall be undone by you again and again if that is what it means to love you. I committed to you, fully and completely, when I committed to the notion of wedded bliss. My anger has passed. You can count on me to stand by you. It is not as if I were a stranger to scandal before I met you. All I ask is that when we go down, we go down in flames together.

  Do not leave me again, as I will not leave you.

  Yours in scintillating matrimonial agony,

  William

  24

  Dear E,

  I don’t even know what to say, and as you can imagine, this rarely happens. That chapter is lovely. I wasn’t expecting it to be lovely. Thank you for sharing it with me. I don’t even have any notes to give you, but it certainly makes me want to read the rest of the book. I love that you’re exploring a new side of Jack’s character. The title is perfect… Okay, that’s about the limit of compliments I can give you at this point without breaking out in hives. But I liked what you sent me very much.

  I actually love that Rumi quote. How did you know? I wasn’t able to ship my entire book collection here, but my Rumi book was one of the few that came with me. I always keep it by my bed. Ever since I met you, I’ve thought of you when reading some of those poems. Even when I didn’t want to think about you.

  Okay, I also have to tell you that I love that you gave Catalina a scar behind her bangs. I, myself, do not have one. In case you were wondering, I wouldn’t say that I have any emotional scars either. I’m guessing you do. Why the sad eyes? I’ve always wondered. Are you divorced? Is there a One Who Got Away? Is it okay for me to ask? You don’t have to answer, but I do want to know. What’s your story?

  It will be difficult, seeing you in class. I’ll manage to feign indifference. I have no doubt that you will too. It’s almost as if we exist in three separate parallel universes now.
In these letters. In our manuscripts. And in the real world, on campus, where you are a grumpy assface. Just know that in the real world, beneath my sassy demeanor is a rapidly beating heart. And there’s a good chance that beneath the shirt there are two overly enthusiastic nipples that long for your touch.

  Best,

  Me

  Dear F,

  It was, indeed, more difficult to feign indifference to you in the workshop today. I applaud you for your efforts at hiding your overwhelming attraction to me, but your attention-seeking nipples have failed you, as usual. I really wanted to have a word with them after class, but I knew that any attempts at disciplining them would be futile. Furthermore, it would have been the end of my very brief career as a professor. From what I’ve seen, they are A + nipples. But I will once again request, quite seriously, that you wear some form of nipple-minimizing undergarment and several more layers of clothes over them. Thanks in advance.

  I really liked the chapter you sent me. I love that you’ve made Lucy a would-be romance author. The writing is emotionally vivid, and William’s dedication to Lucy is very moving… I’m not sure if it’s appropriate for me to critique your work here… That chapter is very well-written and engaging. I’m just wondering if it’s too early in the book for that level of conflict and resolution. You haven’t shared an outline in class, and I don’t know if you have one. I don’t always write outlines myself, so I’m not saying you need to turn one in. I’m just wondering if you’ve got the character and story arc all mapped out in your head or not. Sorry. I’m an asshole for mentioning it in this letter, but I couldn’t refrain from commenting. To be clear—like William, I also understand that you must write romance novels. I’m no longer advising you not to. Not that you would have taken my advice in that regard anyway, my darling, irrepressible student.