Chapter 11 Mara #2
He looks very normal. Very safe. He doesn’t look like he sends women severed hands if someone else touches them.
A part of me thinks that’s boring, and that alarms me almost as much as anything else that’s happened in the past weeks.
"Go talk to him," Claire urges, finishing off her martini.
I hesitate. "I don't think—"
"Go. Talk. To. Him." She practically pushes me off my stool. "You need to get out there. Forget whoever that other guy is.”
The man smiles at me again. He looks nice. His hair has a light curl to it, like that new actor playing Superman. He’s very handsome, I realize.
Taking a deep breath, I slide off the velvet stool to the semi-drunk encouragement of my friends, and head over to where he’s sitting.
He's even better looking up close—tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing a button-down with the sleeves rolled up in that way that shows off muscled forearms with just a hint of veininess. His smile broadens when I reach him.
“Hi.” He holds out a hand. "I'm Daniel."
I shake it. He has a good handshake, firm but not too aggressive. His palm is warm and he has callouses on his fingertips. It makes me wonder if he has an interesting hobby, like playing guitar. “I’m Mara. Nice to meet you.”
"Can I buy you a drink, Mara?"
I bite my lip. "Sure. Why not?"
He orders for both of us, and we fall into an easier conversation than I expected.
I find out, unsurprisingly, that he works in tech—something to do with app development that I don't fully understand but nod along to anyway.
He's from California originally, but moved to New York three years ago, and loves it.
"What do you do?" he asks when he’s finished explaining a bit of his backstory.
"I'm an art consultant." I take a sip of the martini I ordered, another of the pink, herby one that I started with. It is really good.
His eyes widen slightly. "That sounds interesting. What does that involve?"
As I start to explain, he actually seems interested.
Not in the way men sometimes pretend to be interested while really just waiting for their turn to talk, but genuinely curious.
He asks follow-up questions. He admits he doesn't know much about art but would like to learn more. He's charming without being over-the-top, and he’s funny. He cracks jokes and puts me at ease the longer we sit there, until I realize that I’m genuinely enjoying myself.
I tell him about some of my more interesting clients and the frustrations of the ones who just want the most expensive piece with no real reason behind it, and he tells me about his aspirations of a startup and the new apartment he just moved into. It’s a refreshingly normal conversation.
"Your friends are leaving," Daniel says after a moment, nodding toward the door where Claire is making exaggerated gestures at me—a thumbs up, encouraging nods, a not-so-subtle wink.
I wave at her, and she grins before heading out with Emma and Jess.
"Do you need to go?" Daniel asks.
I should say yes. But I’m not ready to give up this feeling quite yet. I feel like my old self. Like the Mara from six months ago, before I got so focused on work that my personal life died and then I ended up with a crazy stalker.
"Actually," I hear myself say, "do you want to get out of here? My apartment is just a few blocks away."
His smile widens. "I'd like that."
The cab ride back to my place is charged with anticipation.
Daniel pays, a true gentleman, and then hi's hand finds mine in the back seat, his thumb tracing circles on my palm.
It's a sweet gesture, almost innocent, and I try to focus on that instead of the voice in my head asking what the hell I'm doing.
I'm reclaiming my life. That's what I'm doing. I'm making a choice for myself, not because someone is watching me or controlling me or claiming me. This is my decision.
If I.S., whoever he is, is watching, maybe this will be a hint that I’m not interested. That I don’t want any part of whatever possessive obsession he’s created for himself.
Aren’t you, though? A small voice in my head whispers. Didn’t you like the gift of the hand? The promise that someone who hurts you will pay? Didn’t you like your avenging angel?
I ignore the voice, reaching for Daniel’s hand. “What are these from?” I ask, tracing the calluses, and he chuckles with a throaty sound that tells me I’m turning him on.
“Guitar,” he says finally, and I laugh. “I know that sounds stupid—” he starts to say, and I shake my head quickly.
“No, I don’t think it’s stupid. It’s just what I guessed earlier, to myself. I can’t believe I was right.”
The alcohol has made everything soft around the edges, and I'm glad. It makes me feel more at ease, less anxious when we pull up to my building and I look around to see if anyone is watching. I don’t see anyone, but then again, I haven’t seen anyone this entire time.
"Nice place," he says as we walk in, looking around. “I actually looked on this block, but nothing was available.”
“Sorry I grabbed the last apartment,” I joke, locking the door behind us. “Can I get you something? Wine, maybe?”
"Wine sounds good."
I pour us each a glass, and then we sit on the couch, close but not quite touching, and talk some more. He tells me about his family in San Diego. I tell him about going to college here. It’s a frighteningly normal conversation, and it feels good.
And then, just as I’m about to ask if he wants another glass, he leans forward and kisses me.
He’s a good kisser. His lips are soft against mine, not too demanding.
His hand comes up to cup my face, and I can taste the wine on his lips.
He doesn’t push his tongue into my mouth too fast. In fact, he’s not demanding at all.
He’s letting me lead, letting me decide how fast I want to take this, and after everything that’s happened in the past weeks, that should be good. That should be what I want.
Instead, it feels like there’s a craving in me that he can’t begin to satisfy. I want him to grab me, push me back against the pillows, show me how much he wants me. I’d bet he’s hard, but he doesn’t make any move to draw my hand toward him, or deepen the kiss. He’s gentle, tentative.
He’s a gentleman. And I want anything but gentle.
I finally shift toward him, and part my lips. The kiss deepens at last, but he’s still slow, still careful. His hand slides up my side, and I should be feeling something—desire, excitement, connection.
But I don't.
I feel nothing.
I feel like I'm watching this happen to someone else. Like I'm floating above my body, observing this scene with clinical detachment. Woman on couch with attractive man. They're kissing. His hand is moving higher. This should be arousing.
But it's not.
It feels hollow. Wrong.
Alexander Volkov’s—or I.S.’s?—blue eyes drift back into my memory. He made me feel electric, alive, with only a look. I can only imagine what I’d felt if he’d kissed me. If he’d touched me in any real way.
This isn't that.
This is just... nothing.
Daniel's hand finally reaches the curve of my breast, and I pull back.
"Wait," I say, breathless. "Wait, I'm sorry."
He stops immediately, pulling back to look at me with concern. "Are you okay? Did I do something wrong?"
"No, you didn't. You're great. This is great. I just—" I run a hand through my hair, trying to find words that won't make me sound insane. "I'm sorry. I think I'm moving too fast. I'm not... I'm not in the right headspace for this."
Confusion flickers across his face, followed by something that might be annoyance. "Oh. Okay."
"I'm really sorry. You're wonderful, and any other time I would—" I stop myself. "I'm just dealing with some stuff right now. Work stress. It's not you."
He stands, straightening his shirt, and I can see him trying to get his bearings. "It's okay. I get it."
"I'm really sorry," I say again, standing too. "I shouldn't have—"
"It's fine." He pauses, clearly trying to decide what to say next. "Maybe we can try again sometime? When you're feeling less stressed?"
We both know that's not going to happen. "Yeah. Maybe." I bite my lip, and I can see the disappointment on his face, but he just nods and leaves.
I go to lock the door behind him, leaning against it and closing my eyes. A wave of disappointment washes over me, too. I tried to be normal, tried to reclaim my autonomy and my life, and I failed.
Even with a handsome, charming, perfectly nice man, all I could think about was how wrong it felt, how utterly devoid of the intensity I've been craving since Boston.
I'm broken. I.S. has broken me. I pour myself another glass of wine and sit on the couch where Daniel and I were just kissing, and I think maybe I hate him.
I feel sure that I do.
But when I go to my bedroom, undress, and slide into bed, my hand slips between my thighs almost immediately.
I wasn’t aroused at all when Daniel was kissing me, but now I’m wet.
My clit is swollen, pulsing against my fingertips, and I moan softly as I start to rub back and forth.
I.S.’s face springs back into my mind, those blue eyes, that strong jaw, and I gasp, my back arching as I fumble in my dresser for a toy.
I don’t want a vibrator tonight. I want to be filled while I rub myself with my fingers. I want to pretend it’s his cock while I touch myself for him.
I imagine him kneeling between my thighs in this bed as I reach down and slide the thick toy into myself.
His hands on my knees, pushing my legs apart so he can see my pussy, wet and open for him.
Those sharp blue eyes watching my fingers as I rub my clit so he can see.
His cock, disappearing inch by inch into me, making me moan as he stretches me.
He’d still be clothed, looming over me as I lay naked under him, utterly vulnerable while he had all the control.