Chapter 18 Sab
Sab
I tell Galen to come on over.
Then I check on Esme, moving her to her own bed and disposing of the soggy sablé she’s hidden under my pillow.
By the time I’m done, Galen is knocking at the door, and I’m glad we’ve skipped the part where I have time to anticipate how I’ll feel when he gets here.
I open the door and find him waiting in the porch light, tiny flecks of sleet in his auburn hair, an expression I can’t immediately read on his way-too-handsome face. “Hey.”
Galen grins a little. “Bonjour, like.”
If it’s possible to make French sound gloriously Irish, he’s done it. And I can’t help smiling back. The air of awkwardness we parted on last time…it’s still there, lurking in the shadows, but for now at least, it doesn’t bear a Christmas candle to how good it is to see him.
I step back. “Come in.”
Galen hesitates. Maybe. It’s so fleeting I can’t be sure it’s real. Then he’s in my house, shutting the door behind him, and it doesn’t seem to matter so much.
It should matter. Galen’s never been weird about my house before.
But even though he’s quiet tonight, his presence consumes me.
His broad shoulders and strong back, muscles bunching as he slips out of his coat.
His hair catching the glow of the crazy-lit tree in the garden.
The memory of his skilled hands that hits me as he turns to face me again.
“Did I get you up?”
“Hmm?”
“It’s all dark down here.” Galen frowns. “Were you in bed?”
“No, I was at one with the tree.”
Galen rotates again, taking in the extra string of lights. “You can see that from Kerry, eh?”
“Probably.”
“And you didn’t overload the sockets?”
“No, I promise.”
Galen rolls his lips together and a pause expands between us. I fill it by flicking a lamp on, and I don’t regret a thing as the soft glow gifts me a better look at him.
“Did you work today?”
“Late shift.” Galen tracks me as I move around, following me to the kitchen. “That’s why I thought you might’ve gone to bed.”
I glance at the microwave. It’s gone midnight. Merde. When did that happen? I have to work in the morning, and every morning until Christmas Eve. “I was up.”
“You said.”
“Right. You want a drink? Something to eat?”
I open the fridge.
Behind me, Galen makes a growly sound that’s barely audible, but somehow I feel it in my fucking bones. My skin tingles, hair rising on my arms and the back of my neck, and a tremor rocks the hand reaching into the fridge. “I have some chicken pie. Take it home if you’re not hungry now.”
Silence.
I glance over my shoulder.
Galen’s not there. I abandon the pie and follow the sound of the radio to the living room.
He’s crouched in front of it, spinning the dial. “This won’t wake Esme?”
“If she can’t eat it, she’s not waking up. Surprised that thing still works, though. She dropped it on the patio a few weeks back.”
“I know. Only time I’ve ever heard her cry.”
“From your house?”
Galen hums, frowning at the wall-to-wall Christmas tracks, reminding me of the night we met in the pub and the someone he’s never mentioned since, until he finds a mellow rock station he can live with. “I was sanding. Had all the doors open.”
“She doesn’t cry much. Only when she’s angry or sick.”
“Which was this?”
“Fucking fuming she couldn’t hear Uncle Tam through the speakers. Thought it was a phone.”
Galen chuckles. “Clever girl.”
I know that. I’m also certain Galen didn’t come over here to make sure of it. Because he came over to browse a swingers app so we can find someone to fuck together before he bails on me.
Not what he said.
Galen rises and comes to where I’ve drifted to a stop in the doorway. He has his phone in his hand and I find myself wanting to chuck his device at the wall too. “Can I get that drink?”
“Beer?” I offer before I remember he drinks cider. “Or my dad’s apple brandy, if—”
“Sounds grand.”
All right then. I find the bottle my parents left last time they were here. Stubby and old-fashioned, the brandy glowing amber in the low light, scruffy raffia tied round the neck.
I pop the cork. The scent of spiced apples filters out, warm and festive. It smells like home. It smells like him.
Galen.
He watches me pour brandy into glasses that look like jam jars. Fuck, they are jam jars, but though I can’t comprehend the intensity he’s observing me with, I take a punt that he won’t give a shit.
I hand him the brandy. “It’s pretty strong. I usually only drink it round Tam’s.”
“Why’s that?”
“Being drunk and alone is probably a bad idea for me.”
Galen nods, and I realise it’s one of the things I like most about him. That he’s intuitive enough to hear the things I don’t say, and bold enough to ask when he doesn’t.
He takes a sip of the brandy. Whistles. “That’ll put hair on your chest.”
“?a, c’est clair.”
“I like it, though. Seems rough, then it’s kinda sweet.”
I nod and bring my own glass to my lips while we lean against the counters, in the kitchen again, quiet again, only the radio in the other room filling the silence.
My dad makes good brandy. The burn is cathartic as it slides down my throat and like most things, I enjoy it a little too much, until fear clouds the pleasure and I set the glass aside, aware of Galen’s watchful stare.
Hating how flayed I feel with a man who’s had me naked in his bed and I didn’t feel exposed at all.
Maybe I’m all right with dude sex now.
Maybe it’s just him.
Either way, he didn’t come here to watch me drink.
My phone’s in the living room. I incline my head for Galen to follow me and return to the couch.
It’s not as big as his, and I’ve had to turn the cushions over in the past few months, thanks to Esme and her felt-tip pens, but there’s plenty room for both of us.
We don’t need to sit all up in each other’s business.
We do it anyway. Shoulders and thighs pressed together. Fuck, Galen’s so warm. And it’s not even literal. Not even his apple pie scent. It’s his mere presence. His existence. Doesn’t seem to matter how close I am to him, I fucking know I could be closer.
I lean forward and grab my phone as the rock station betrays him and chucks out a song from the John Lewis Christmas ads.
Galen doesn’t seem to notice. He’s still watching me. And it feels like a test. But for what?
I swipe the phone, my thumb hovering over the FlingIt icon.
My shaky thumb.
Merde.
I bottle it and push the phone on Galen. “You should do this. You know what you’re looking for.”
Galen seems to move in slow motion as he takes my phone, his reply delayed as the muscle in his jaw tics. “That’s not really how it works. Not for me, anyway.”
“How does it work then? For you?”
He almost smiles, but as his gaze darts between me and the device in his hand, the flicker of humour winks out. “I don’t always know what I want until it’s right in front of me.”
I don’t know what to say to that. So I say nothing as The Verve plays out and Galen blinks first.
He opens FlingIt and taps out of our message thread. The action lands him in my crowded inbox and his auburn brows creep up his forehead.
I avert my gaze, hiding from the dick pics. Then it occurs to me that maybe he’s seeing something he likes—or someone he knows—and my gaze snaps back so fast I give myself whiplash.
Galen doesn’t notice, merci mon Dieu. And he’s not in my inbox anymore. He’s on the search screen typing away, and I can’t make sense of the conflicting emotions roiling in my belly. How fucked up is it that arousal licks through me at the same time as roaring jealousy?
I want Galen in any capacity he’s prepared to want me back, a scenario I know he’d never agree to if he knew where my head is at right now. And…can’t lie, the thought of him naked in any capacity, sweat beading his pale skin, eyes hooded with pleasure, his lips curled in that soft snarl…
Fuck, it gets me hard thinking about it.
Picturing it.
Feeling it.
Then reality bites and I realise to see it I’ll have to watch someone else put that look on his face, and the fire gaining traction in my blood falls into a dank puddle.
I avert my eyes again.
Galen nudges me. “You want to see?”
“See what?”
“I found a couple of profiles that could work.”
Merde.
I steel myself and swing my gaze back. To him. Not the phone screen lighting up his face, catching every killer angle, every shade of green in his eyes.
Say something.
Me, not him. “Uh. What kind of profiles?”
“Bi couples. Like we talked about way back when.”
Truly, I can’t remember how we got to this point. Maybe I don’t even know. Motherfucking-fuck, this feels like utter madness.
Yet still, that thrum of arousal, that lick of heat, as I stare at Galen, it sparks again, and I find myself nodding. “Show me?”
Galen swipes through a few profiles.
I fixate on the images filling the screen.
Hot women.
Even hotter blokes.
Bios that imply they’re what we’re looking for. What Galen might be looking for if he wasn’t babysitting me. “What would you do with these people if I wasn’t involved?”
He frowns and I realise I’ve asked the question in French.
I repeat it, and that cinch between his brows deepens.
“Why do you want to know that?”
“I’m curious.”
“About me or them?”
The question feels loaded. And though I know the answer—it’s branded on me at this point—pure bullshit comes out of my mouth instead. “Uh. Both?”
Galen rolls his lips again. Then seems to give himself a shake, all while never breaking the eye contact tethering me to the world.
“If I was hooking-up with one of these couples, it would depend what they wanted. Bi-ness is a spectrum as much as anything else, and I’m pretty much in the middle, so… ”
He searches for the words.
I find them for him. “So you’re up for anything?”
“Most things,” he corrects. “But it’s just sex, Sab. It doesn’t mean anything.”
He really believes that—I see it. But it’s a long way from what Tam’s been trying to tell me, and as much as I like Galen—it’s more than that—my brother’s rarely wrong about matters of the heart.
I can’t do this.
The thought hits sudden and strong, but as I brace myself for a physical reaction, for my body to fall in line with the absolute certainty filling my brain with harsh red light, the arousal in my blood, it doesn’t fade.
My dick still aches with need, my pulse keeps thundering in my ears, and I can’t stop watching Galen scroll on my phone, his thumb flicking at a pace so rapid the images on the screen blur.
His set jaw calls to me. The arch of his neck as he leans in to see the screen better. God help me, I want him, even as my mind screams no, but the rest of me leans closer, and I drown in his spicy, fruity scent.
He doesn’t notice at first, gaze still fixed on the screen. Then he must feel me, and he pauses mid swipe, glancing up, his lashes catching the light.
The air shifts.
Or maybe it’s me.
Maybe it’s him.
Doesn’t matter. Something changes—everything changes, and we’re on each other before I can draw breath. And, fuck, we’ve collided before, but not like this. Not with kisses this desperate. Hands this rough, yanking at clothes as though we’ll die if we don’t reach the bare skin underneath.
Galen’s mouth crushes mine and I meet him head-on with zero hesitation. Zero nerves. We strain together before my base instincts kick in and I let him topple me over.
My back hits the sofa cushions and Galen wedges a thigh between mine, grinding down, and I’m already right there, heat shooting up my spine, sparks in my blood.
Sparks that have my fingers digging into him, raking down his spine in the space I’ve claimed beneath his clothes. Clawing at him, as sheer feral need tangles us together, and his growled moan dizzies me.
I hook a leg around his hip, forgetting about the parade of faces on my phone, and the miscommunication I’ve committed to put them there. Forgetting we’re in my living room, not his. That Esme’s sleeping upstairs and there’s no way we’re going to fuck on this couch.
Because I feel like we might. Like I want it, and as Galen curses, low and guttural, kissing me harder—pushing me harder—three words become a mantra in my head, pushing all rhyme and reason aside.
This is it. The moment.
We’re going to fuck.
It feels inevitable.
And I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything for myself my entire fucking life.
His jeans are already unbuttoned.
Did I do that?
I’m not sure, and I don’t give myself much room to think about it.
I slip my hand under his waistband and find his cock, while he tugs at the old sweats I’m wearing, and we’re a mess of scraping teeth and twisted clothes.
Of snatched breath and sharp sounds, that place deep inside me crying out for more.
I lose my head to it, I want it that much. I don’t stop—I don’t want to. I can’t. His dick feels so right, so hot and heavy in my palm, but I know it will feel so much better somewhere else.
Inside me.
Merde, I want that. I crave it.
Tell him.
I take a breath—
Galen solidifies, stilling in my arms like a witch has cast a spell on him. “Fuck,” he chokes out. “Fuck.” He braces a hand on my chest and pushes back, up and away from me, putting air between us. Space. “I can’t do this.”
I go from fire to ash, struck dumb as mortification seizes me, my heart plummeting as Galen scrubs a rough hand over his face, like he can claw whatever he’s feeling right out of himself.
He’s still on top of me.
Then he’s not. He’s scrambling from the couch until he staggers to his feet and yanks his jeans back into place. “I need to go.”
Right.
Because he can’t do this.
With me.
That’s how it lands, cold and merciless, and my throat sears with words I can’t formulate, questions I can’t shape as shame and self-loathing crashes into me.
I screwed it up.
I don’t know how, but I did, and it fucking hurts.
My clothes are a disaster. I straighten them, dragging shaky hands over my rumpled t-shirt, and rise from the couch, trailing after Galen as he blows through the house and stamps into his shoes. “Are you okay?”
He doesn’t answer me.
Just opens the door, cold air flooding in, and turns to give me one last pained look.
Then he’s just…gone, leaving nothing but a cold breeze and a breath of apple pie in the air, and I’m a fucking statue in his wake, hollowed-out and frozen.
It takes me a second to reanimate and shut the door, pressing my forehead to the wood as if it can ground me enough to have a clue what just happened.
It doesn’t, obviously. And behind me, the radio gets in on the fun, shifting from Roxy Music to a track so ironic I want to scream.
Lonely This Christmas.
Fucking hell.
At this point the song was written for me.