Chapter 13
Alaric kissed me like he’d been thinking about it for eighteen years and my body responded with the enthusiasm of a horny, hormonal teenager, clamoring for every caressing, demanding pass of his warm lips and hot slide of his tongue.
I felt crazed, and the frenzy of my hunger for him only increased as I felt the answering desperation in how he moved, how he held me, how he gripped me so tightly I could barely breathe.
I found myself being crushed. Not violently, but like a flower pressed between the pages of a dictionary, forced to preserve the moment, made permanent by it.
Nothing about this kiss was polite. Not even close.
It was a wet, starved, open-mouthed thing that wanted to know the shape and texture of me.
He groaned, and I felt it in my body before I heard it, the vibration running straight through my bones.
His hand slid up into my hair, grabbing a fistful at the base of my skull and tugging, opening me wider for the welcomed invasion.
My brain finally caught up and cataloged everything at once.
The taste of vodka and something sweet; the faint scent of his aftershave still clinging to his skin and clothes, more citrusy than floral; the way his stubble grazed my chin and lips and left a burn that would probably show up in mirror I did a quick mental check to see if I was okay with that.
Yes, actually. Yes, astonishingly, yes.
My knees buckled a little, my limbs growing liquid along with other parts of my body, requiring that I grab hold of him for purchase. I dug my hands under his sweater and ran my palms up the hot skin of his torso.
He responded with an intensity that was, honestly, a little terrifying.
His hand tightened in my hair. Not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me that he held a tender part of me in his strong fist. The other hand—when had it moved?
—was at my hip, an anchoring weight, so that I couldn’t move except in directions he permitted.
I don’t know how long the kiss lasted. Thirty seconds? Five minutes?
I became aware, at some point, that I gasped for air, and that he’d begun kissing his way down my jaw, his mouth finding the sensitive spot between my jaw and neck and closed around it, sucking hard enough to leave a mark.
My hands, with a mind of their own, snaked under his clothes and around to the bare, hot small of his back, where the muscle was thickest. I let my nails drag across it.
Alaric made a noise, one I couldn’t decipher, and in the next moment he’d caught my wrists and pinned them between us. Then he broke away, panting, and pressed his forehead against mine.
“Wait, wait a minute.”
I heard the words, but I couldn’t parse them. I was drunk on dopamine. “What?”
He closed his eyes, breathing impossibly hard, then drew back just enough to look at me. His pupils were blown, irises just a ring of blue around black.
“How much did you have to drink?” he asked, voice rough.
“What?” Apparently, this was the only word my brain had available.
Inspecting my face, then my mouth, then my eyes, his breathing changed. “Did you have one drink or two? Just now?”
I replayed the past half hour at high speed. I’d poured a rocks glass of vodka, and then another. Which, at my body mass and fatigue level, meant I was tipsy but not obliterated.
I tried to focus my eyes, failed, then tried again. “Two. . .?”
He groaned, but this time it was so much different than the one he’d given me earlier. Releasing my wrists, he stepped back, and dragged both hands through his hair, clutching at the roots.
“But I’m not that drunk,” I insisted.
He let out a laugh, a single huff of air. “Aly,” he said, perhaps as a sobriety test.
If I’d been sober, the use of the nickname would’ve irked me and I would’ve said so. But it didn’t bother me now. I kinda liked it. In fact, I hoped he’d say it again.
So, I tried to prove my sobriety by standing up straighter, but the wall was still behind me, so I mostly just rebounded off it and then gave up. “I’m not that drunk,” I repeated. “And I promise I won’t regret anything in the morning.”
He closed his eyes while shaking his head, a bitter smile twisting his mouth which only made me want to lick it off his face.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s get you to bed.”
Whoa. That was easy.
My heart leapt and the knot in my lower abdomen twisted impatiently. “Yes. Let’s.” I held my arms out in what I hoped was a come-hither gesture.
He regarded me for a moment, then with a slow, careful movement, he scooped me up, arms under my knees and back. I yelped, because even though I’d been expecting it, I hadn’t been prepared for it. My eyes had trouble communicating with my brain and therefore my sense of gravity was askew,
Alaric started down the hall and I pressed my face to his neck, which radiated heat and smelled wonderful. I licked his skin, right under his jaw. He jolted, stumbled a step, but quickly recovered.
“Alaric,” I said, wanting his name it in my mouth. “I’ve always wondered what you taste like.”
He made a strangled noise, carrying me into my bedroom swiftly. Once inside, he deposited me carefully on the bed, as if I were delicate and precious. His care for me sent a bundle of emotions to my throat and I swallowed them down, not wanting feelings right now. At least, not the heavy kind.
Straightening, he hovered at the edge of the bed, eyes on me in the dark. A minute passed, maybe two.
Impatient, I sat up and tugged at his sweater. “Aren’t you going to—?”
Alaric leaned down and kissed my forehead, whispering as he pulled away, “Goodnight, Alybear.”
By the time I found my bearings, the door had closed behind him, and I was alone.
I lay there, stunned, feeling the aftershocks of unfulfilled longing radiate from every nerve ending. Then I rolled over and punched the pillow as hard as I could, growling in frustration.
What kind of man spends eighteen years wanting you, then tucks you in like a little kid?
Glaring at the ceiling, I whispered, “Coward.”
But I wasn’t sure if I meant him or me.
* * *
The next morning, I sat in the back seat of Brad’s car, arms folded so tight I was starting to lose feeling in one hand.
My jaw ached. Maybe from grinding my teeth, or maybe from the relentless replay of last night’s events, which my brain seemed to believe could only be exorcised through full sensory recall.
At intervals, I shot lethal glares at the back of Alaric’s head in the passenger seat, where he’d opted to sit today. He was oblivious or pretended to be.
Unlike last night upon our arrival to his house, today’s silence was aggressive.
Even Brad, who liked to hum tunelessly to fill any audio gap, had picked up on the tension and kept his lips zipped, eyes fixed straight ahead.
In the rearview, I caught his gaze a couple of times. He looked away instantly.
Alaric hadn’t said more than two words to me since I’d exited my room.
Now, as we approached the city limits, it occurred to me that if Alaric didn’t bring up the kiss soon, I might be forced to say something first. The thought made me want to tuck and roll to escape this moving car and the possibility of initiating the conversation myself.
“We’re almost there,” Alaric said to Brad, who nodded and changed lanes.
In my defense, I did tell myself to talk to Alaric this morning, but the words kept getting stuck behind my teeth.
I hadn’t felt this way in years, not since asking Alaric for those calculus notes our senior year of high school.
Apparently, whenever I wanted something from Alaric, the act of asking for it became a Herculean task.
I pressed my forehead to the chilled window and watched the landscape change from rural hills to the moneyed, vertical blandness of high-rise hotels and dual-use urban store fronts.
It was snowing and grey and the overcast sky would’ve aligned with my mood better if there’d also been thunderstorms and tornados.
Add in a flying witch or monkey and it would’ve been a perfect match.
Brad took the turn into a hotel driveway and we glided beneath the portico of what was, by any measure, a sincerely fancy hotel. Gleaming brass doors, liveried staff, gigantic planters with little holly trees. I side-eyed the entryway and wondered who we were meeting.
It can’t be Duke, can it? This seemed like the type of place my biological father would frequent, a place where only a willingness to spend money mattered.
“Stay warm,” Brad said, pulling the car to a halt directly under the awning.
I was the first out. As soon as the door cracked, cold air filled my lungs, raw and stinging. I stepped onto the curb, holding my blazer closed with one hand as I lifted the other to shield my eyes from the wind.
Alaric also exited the car, circled to the trunk, and began rummaging. I watched, unwillingly curious. After a second, he emerged holding a giant gift bag by its two twisted rope handles. An illustrated snowman donned both sides. Inside were several wrapped boxes in gaudy blue and silver paper.
I pointed at it. “Who are those for?”
He gave me a sidelong look. “You’ll find out soon. Let’s go.”
I considered refusing to move, refusing to participate, but my curiosity and the cold was greater than my petty urges. I fell in step behind him, letting the glass doors whoosh open to reveal an ornate lobby. I was struck by a strange, subversive impulse to commit a little vandalism.
I’m sorry officer for spray painting tits on the velvet, life-sized Santa display, but this man made me think I was going to orgasm last night and then left me hanging on a cliff. And, yes, this is only one of two outfits I currently have with me. Sorry for the smell.