I wake wrapped in Gavin’s arms, my body curled and pressing against his chest. Snuggling into him further, I inhale his beachy pine scent before he lays me on my bed and pulls the comforter over me. Beneath the covers, I undo my jeans, sliding them off and tossing them to the floor. He plants a kiss on my forehead and starts for the door.
“Stay.” It is all I tell him. All I croak out in the darkness.
He spins around and his eyes search mine. Indecision highlights his face. So, I fold back the comforter on the other side of the bed and pat the sheet. I have no idea what the time is, but it is late and he has to be tired. No need for him to request an Uber at this late/early hour when he can just stay here.
“Are you sure?” His voice is riddled with insecurity.
“I’m tired. You’re tired. We both need to sleep. So, just come lay down and get some sleep.”
My words sound simple enough, but is the notion of sleeping in bed with Gavin really so simple? Sex is the furthest thing from my mind. His arms around me, though…
He hesitates a minute, watching me with an unreadable expression. Soon, his will caves and a thump hits the floor as he toes off his shoes. A second later, he tugs his shirt over his head and drops his jeans to the floor. The bed dips under his weight, the comforter shifting as he gets situated. When he stills, I roll to my side and snuggle close to him. Into him.
Oh god, how I have missed this.
For a solid minute, I swear he stops breathing. I lay my hand to the left of his sternum and feel his heart beating a vicious rhythm beneath my palm. Is he nervous? Why on earth would he be nervous?
“Gavin, is this okay? Me being this close,” I whisper against his skin.
As his breath returns, his hand covers mine and holds it in place. His other arm snakes around my shoulders and hauls me closer. “Yes, better than okay. It’s just been a long time.”
I press my lips to his chest and settle against him, cocooned in his embrace. “Good night, Gavin.”
“Night, baby.”
My body is hot. Like I have been tanning in the sun for countless hours during mid-August slathered in tanning oil. Every inch consumed by heat and sweat. The sweltering heat inescapable and becoming far beyond unbearable. I may suffer heatstroke any second.
On the cusp of sleep and awake, I shift between the sheets and kick a leg out, hoping to cool my body. As I scoot closer to the edge, pushing the comforter down to my waist, the bed shifts beside me as a hand crawls across my belly.
In a matter of seconds, I go from foggy and semi-alert to eyes wide open and body hyper-aware.
A groan rumbles next to me, a weighted thigh draping over my waist, the calf falling down my leg. The black-out curtains in my room make it close to impossible to see anything in my room. Under normal circumstances, I would be ecstatic not to see a single thing in my room. But that doesn’t apply in the current situation.
Moving as slow as humanly possible, I turn my head and look to my side. Next to me, Gavin lies asleep. His face relaxed and flaunting the soft yet masculine lines of his face. I take this quiet moment, the one where he isn’t studying my every observation or movement, and absorb all the parts of him I have missed over the years.
With my eyes, I trace the thick curves of his brow. Drift down and get lost in the feather of his long, dark lashes. Follow the line and curve of his nose to the philtrum above his upper lip, the small indentation masked by a day’s worth of dark stubble. Stubble I want against my soft skin. And then resting on his full pink lips.
Seconds become minutes and I can’t seem to locate the strength to look away from his mouth. My own mouth waters at the sight, the temptation to lean forward and wake him with my lips pressed against his grows with every beat of my heart. But as much as I want this man—this beautiful and enigmatic man—part of me screams to keep my heart protected. Memories flash in my head like old photographs, providing me with glimpses of the past and how I crumbled when he left. How impossible it was to breathe without him here.
With every cell inside my body, I want to believe what he tells me. That he is moving back. That he has never stopped thinking of me or us or the future we always wanted. And that his only desire is to be with me again. Believing those words, those sentiments, is all I have longed for with him. All I need. I want to breathe again.
But listening to your heart and protecting it don’t always go hand in hand. They are two different plates on the scale and weighed separately. And I need to make a choice on which matters most. Giving in to what my heart desires or shielding my heart from future pain.
“Good morning, baby,” Gavin rasps, my body jumping at the sound.
My eyes bolt to his as if I have been caught doing something forbidden. The top length of his dark hair sits partially on the pillow and his forehead. I gaze into his steely-gray eyes, the irises a thin outline of his dilated pupils—which are immersed in me. His fixation on me is possessive and powerful. And as captivated as I am, I am also fearful and nervous.
What if we do this and we find out we are not who we used to be?
What if the affection is one-sided? Or too lopsided to make things work?
What if he moves back and it negatively impacts his career—or both of ours—and he resents me? Can we continue a happy and healthy relationship in that instance?
What if we get back together and everything is perfect?
I allow the last question to tumble through my thought processes for a moment. Allow myself to believe that us coming back together is nothing short of amazing and perfect. Allow myself to believe this is our chance at a happily ever after. One can only hope we are fortunate enough for life to ebb and flow with ease and bliss.
“I can practically hear the cogs in your head cranking. What could require so much thought this early in the morning?” Gavin’s eyes bore into mine, a lighthearted act meant to bring my thoughts to life.
“It is early.” Closing the gap between us, I give him a chaste kiss before continuing. “And way too early for in-depth conversations. Maybe after we have some coffee and breakfast.”
His fingertips trail along my cheekbone, tracing to my ear and leaving a current in its wake as he tucks my hair behind my ear. “Breakfast sounds fantastic. Here or out?”
“I think I have everything needed here, so let’s stay in. Plus, I think Luna is upset with me and the lack of attention I’ve been giving her over the last week. She needs a little mom time and affection.”
Gavin groans as he closes his eyes, his arm drawing me in closer to his warm body. He caresses the tip of his nose over the flesh of my collarbone, skimming up the front of my throat and inhaling deep below my ear. When he speaks, his words reverberate from his chest to mine and dampen my panties.
“Mmm, I can understand the need for time and affection. If I purr and rub on your leg, will I get something in exchange?”
My breath hitches as intensity and hunger bloom between my legs. As much as I want to play-shove him, I ache to bring him impossibly closer. To tear off the remaining clothes on our bodies and rememorize every freckle and scar and curvature that has changed over the years.
But I am not ready for us to take that step yet. At least that is what I keep telling myself. Maybe if I repeat it enough times, I will believe it.
“You know you’re making it really difficult to leave this bed,” I whine.
“Maybe we can have a different form of breakfast,” he coaxes.
“As tempting as that is, I’m going to vote we do the real food thing. I’m not sure I’m ready…” I trail off.
His thumb brushes over my cheek, eyes sweet and conveying his agreement. “Baby, I will wait forever for you. It feels as if I already have. When you’re ready” —he kisses me tenderly— “that’s when I’ll be ready.”
Although I am not ready to voice the words aloud again, all I can think about is how much I love this man. How I have always loved him, even when I had found a way to shove every memory of him and us into some d
esolate corner of my mind. He is my foundation, cracked or whole.
“Thank you.” The words barely audible.
“For you—” he says. “Anything.”
And without a care in the world, our lips and tongues do a dance as old as time.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Gavin
This view will never get old.
After a half hour of lips sucking and tongues tasting and hands groping, we finally decided it was best for us to get out of the bed. Not that a bed is required for the many things I want to do with her. Although we have already had sex, that time of our lives was different. Back then, everything was awkward and new and questionable.
But now…
Our time apart is not something I relish, but it does give both of us a different vantage point. For me, I respect people and life on a whole new level. Everything has a fresher perspective, is more eye-opening. That is not to say I don’t do stupid shit from time to time—because don’t we all. Just that I now know, understand, and am willing to deal with the consequences of my actions. Whatever they may be.
Right now, I refuse to disguise my ogling of Cora’s body. She moves around the kitchen—her back facing me—in a black cotton ribbed tank top. The hem clings to her hips while the bust line accentuates the curvature of her tits and shows a hint of natural cleavage. I know she isn’t wearing a bra beneath the tank as evidenced by the occasional visual of her firm nipples against the fabric. Below the tank, cherry red low-cut boy short panties cover most of her round ass cheeks.
Watching her—I groan internally—has my dick hardening and my mouth watering. Her body is not the only part of her I love, but it is a nice bonus. The last time I got such an intimate view of her body, we were teenagers and our bodies still had a year or two of developing to go. Cora’s body is as curvaceous now as it was then, but not quite the same. She has taken care of herself—diet, exercise, enjoying life as best she can—and it shows.
Cora moves around the kitchen—slicing strawberries and apples, adding them to a bowl with blueberries and squeezing a lemon over top. Stirring a large frying pan loaded with shredded potatoes, chopped onions, oil, herbs and spices. Flipping a few “sausage” links—I learned this morning Cora is slowly eliminating meat from her diet. And occasionally checking the time on her Instant Pot, where she cooks a batch of cinnamon steel-cut oatmeal.
When she told me she was removing meat from her diet, I rattled off twenty questions asking why. I also questioned whether or not the food she was making would be any good. But the savory aroma of garlic and the sweetness of maple and cinnamon flitting through the air has me hungrier than ever. The true test will be when I taste it all. Honestly, the links are the only thing I am questioning. Everything else is somewhat normal.
The Instant Pot signals it is done cooking the oatmeal as she flips the potatoes one last time. One thing I remember from our breakfast excursions years ago, Cora likes her hash browns dark with a crispy crust and tends to pile them high on her plate. And it looks as if nothing has changed in that department.
She heads to the cabinet holding the dishware, grabbing two plates and mugs. Setting the plates beside the stovetop, she pops a K-Cup in the Keurig and presses the large brew button after her mug is under the drip. When it finishes, she repeats the process for me.
Everything about this blip in time is perfect. This is how my life should be. Our life. We ebb and flow in synchronization. Natural. Comfortable. Synergistically.
As much as I tried, I never found another person who made me feel more myself than Cora. Being with her… everything just fits in place. Nothing is forced. It just… is.
“Would you like anything in your coffee? Sugar? Creamer?” she asks, breaking me from my endless one-sided staring contest.
“Creamer. Dare I ask what my options are?” I give her my best goofy-scary face.
“I only have one and it’s coconut milk-based. It’s good. You’ll like it,” she states with confidence.
I nod. “Then that’s what I’ll have,” I tease.
Cora adds creamer to both cups and a small spoonful of sugar to hers. She sets my cup in front of me, then turns back to the stove and begins plating the food. Before I can offer to help, she sets a plate and bowl in front of me. Within seconds, she adds maple syrup, a jar of cinnamon and a jar of garlic between our place settings. A smile perks up the corners of my mouth at the sight.
My love for maple and cinnamon.
Her indescribable love and obsession for garlic.
When we were younger, Waffle House was a regular occurrence—as it is with most teens and partiers. But she always ordered a triple portion of hash browns—scattered and smothered—and brought her own container of garlic powder. The small jar an additional accessory in her purse. I had gotten used to seeing it for the almost two years we were together. It was second nature. But seeing it today has me laughing at the fact she still has the habit.
“What are you laughing at?”
Rather than saying it, I simply point to the jar before spearing a sliced strawberry with my fork.
“There is no shame in loving garlic. If I knew you loved it, I would have added it to the hash browns. Normally, when I make my own, I add at least three or four cloves of garlic. The more, the merrier.”
Shock registers in my expression. “Three or four? In a single serving? That’s a lot of damn garlic, baby. You worried about vampire attacks?” I joke.
“Ha-ha,” she deadpans. “No, goofball. With anything else, you build a tolerance level over time. What would be a potent level of garlic to some, I barely taste. What can I say—it’s not just my favorite food, but it is also good for you.” She shrugs off her response as if it should be public knowledge.
“Next time, just add the garlic in with the potatoes. I’m a big boy. I can handle it.”
“Alright, big shot. As long as you promise not to bitch about it,” she prompts me.
I hold up my right hand. “I swear I won’t complain—” I hesitate, but continue. “Much.”
She sticks her tongue out at me, crossing her eyes and cocking her head to the side. And I fall a little harder.
We spend the work-free day driving all over. She takes me to downtown St. Petersburg, where we stroll along Beach Drive, check out some of the storefronts and visit the Dali Museum. So much of downtown has changed and it is as if I am in a whole new version of an old city.
The St. Petersburg Pier is no longer there. Cora tells me it was torn down about five or six years ago. Now, a large outdoor area has taken its place. A restaurant sits closer inland and the pier is more outdoor activity focused. It is kind of weird to wander around here and not see the old inverted pyramid building. I had so much fun there as a kid. Hopefully the city builds something that adds more flare to the current structure, which seems blah in comparison.
The Dali has also been relocated and looks nothing like the original. Now it resembles a piece of art and is amazing without even stepping foot inside. But we do walk through the exhibit. Dali’s work has always fascinated me, with all the droopy clocks and ants or distorted images of his wife. One of my favorites is the Geopoliticus Child. It just reaches me on some strange level; intrigues me.
When we leave the Dali, we opt to leave Cora’s car in the garage we parked in earlier. Hand in hand, we stroll along the waterfront near the marina and eventually walk toward the shops and restaurants. After about ten minutes, we are trekking down First Avenue North.
As we head for the entrance of a restaurant to grab lunch, I push out a quiet laugh at her choice of location. No matter how much time has passed, some things about her will always be predictable. And I love that those parts of her remain. That time hasn’t changed her completely. She is still the same girl I fell in love with. Only now, she is one-hundred-percent woman.
“Are you laughing at me?” she insinuates.
I squeeze her fingers with mine. “You’re joking, right? I mean, I should have guessed we’d be h
aving Asian for lunch,” I tease.
“Why mess with a good thing.” It is all she says, her shoulders shrugging as if eating what you love should be a given. I suppose she is right.
The hostess seats us at a table, handing us menus and letting us know our server will be with us soon. As my eyes dance over the options—sushi and non-sushi alike—I am a bit overwhelmed at the options available.
“Do you know what you’re getting?” I ask Cora, praying her order will guide me in some direction.
She taps a finger to her lip. “We’re about to see what you really think about me,” she states, her words cryptic and confusing the hell out of me.
“Huh?”
Laughter bursts from her lips, dying quickly before she rambles off her intended order. “Here we go… I’m getting an order of spring rolls, seaweed salad, the vegetable ramen—which comes with a salad—and a yam yam sushi roll minus the eel sauce.”
My gaze locks in place, the sight of her blurring. Is she going to actually eat all of that?
“Um. Is there something you’re not telling me? That’s a lot of food for just one person.”
Cora just shakes her head at me. “Nope. I like ordering a lot so I have leftovers to take home. I won’t eat it all while we’re here. Swear,” she states with a giggle.
Thank fuck. I was seriously worried some other reason had her ordering enough food for two.
“Maybe I won’t need to order anything if you’re getting so much,” I taunt.
“Makes no difference to me. But you should get whatever you want to eat.” Then she smiles and I forget what to do. I snap out of my Cora-fog and shake my head, internally laughing at myself and how easily she sidetracks me.
I scan the menu one last time as the server approaches. Gesturing for her to order first, she prattles off her mile-long lunch order. When the server looks to me, I feel like a pussy for only ordering a shrimp tempura appetizer and a Tampa roll. As if we reversed roles in the food consumption department and my masculinity has been knocked down a couple notches.
Through the Lens (Click Duet #1) (Bay Area Duet Series) Page 18
