13. Payload
THIRTEEN
PAYLOAD
Trish
“I’m fine. Totally fine.” Hiccup . “Everything’s fine.”
Rose snickers in the back of Flynn’s Mustang. We had to take his car as Jackie’s restored ’62 ‘vette is a two-seater. It’s a symbol of just how much Flynn loves Jackie that he didn’t even blink when he turned over his keys to her after lunch.
Jules and Jackie smile like only sober people can at those who aren’t, seeing as they couldn’t drink today due to some sort of astronaut training tomorrow.
For the first time in our friendship, I’m the tipsy one. But after the bomb they dropped about Ian’s father, followed by them revealing they all know about my romance novelist alter ego, the anxiety wouldn’t stop climbing.
Hence the glass or two of champagne I knocked back at the bridal salon. For medicinal purposes, of course.
“Did you hear that, ladies?” Jules asks. “The porn writer is just fine.”
Throwing my shoulders back, I give Jules my haughtiest look. Which is somewhat hard to do as I’m still in sneakers, trying to look down my nose at her while looking up at her. “I’m a romance author. I don’t write porn.”
“Okay, Shortstack.” Jules claps me on the back, causing me to stumble against the Mustang. “Whatever you say.” She leans down, whispering so only I can hear. “You may have come clean about a few things today, but you still owe me an explanation about the private eye, you know?”
I nod, the reminder sobering me some.
At the bridal shop, I’d told the girls what I told Ian. I grew up dirt poor. I write romance. And I once was a stripper.
Okay, so I haven’t told Ian that last part yet, but with the way my friends didn’t even bat an eye at my less than stellar origins, I’m feeling more confident about my newfound decision to confess to him.
Before, I had tried to play uninterested, avoiding the topic of Ian at all costs. But now that they think he and I are together, it’s easy asking the girls to tell me everything they know.
And so I heard how Ian has never dated anyone that they knew of.
How Jules and Ian often lament their power-hungry, douchebag fathers.
Jackie confessed that if it wasn’t for Ian helping her be less awkward at work when they were both EVA officers, she never would’ve had the courage to become an astronaut.
Rose, not to be left out, waxed poetical about Ian’s ass.
All of it making me like Ian that much more.
“Shortstack, you are the least fine I have ever seen you. But it’s a good look on you.” Jules hands me the keys to my truck, which she had to drive home from Boondoggles for me, then raps her knuckles on the top of Flynn’s car. “Pop the hood, hooker.”
“Do not mess with Flynn’s car, Julie Starr,” Jackie threatens, ruining the effect when she adjusts her glasses.
Hands up, Jules backs away toward the rear of the car. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Darling.”
I giggle. “You two are funny.”
Jules pulls my bag from the trunk containing my bridesmaid shoes and hands it to me. “You need an escort inside?”
“No, no. I got it.” I have plans to warm Ian up with sex before I spill my guts, and I don’t need Jules messing up the works.
“All right then.” She rounds the car, sliding into the passenger seat.
“See you soon!” Rose calls out, smushing her face against the small triangular window of the backseat, her lips pursed in a kiss.
Once down the drive, Jackie revs the engine. In a very uncharacteristic move, she guns it, shooting down the road in front of Ian’s house, nearly taking out Veronica and her friends.
Veronica jumps to the side, tripping onto the grass as the vintage car barrels past, her affronted squeal audible even over the Mustang’s engine.
Stifling a laugh, I wave after my girls, already well down the road, and then to the three- woman pileup of blondes on Ian’s front yard. It’s too late for their morning powerwalk, so seeing how Ian’s car is visible in the garage, they must have ventured out for an afternoon snoop session.
Veronica flips me the bird.
Laughing, I spin on my sneakered foot and skip into the open garage, past the Audi, and into the house.
“Honey, I’m home!”
Silence. Huh.
The kitchen and family room are empty. On my way to the stairs, I peek into the office. Empty.
I stumble once going up the stairs, but I blame that on the shoe bag throwing me off balance, not the amount of alcohol in my system.
I don’t hear the sound of water, so if he isn’t taking a shower, he must be taking a nap. Don’t blame him; it sounds wonderful. After dropping the bag in the guest room, I tiptoe into the master bedroom. “Ian?” The bed is empty.
Bam . The closet door bursts open, Ian lunging out.
“Son of a biscuit!” I stumble back, slamming into the dresser.
Ian’s bent at the waist, hands on the bed, his chest heaving with large gulps of air.
After a second of shock, I step forward, my hand tentatively resting on his back.
“Ian, what’s wrong?” I glance into the closet, wondering what in the world would’ve possessed him to go in there.
Though most would consider it a massive walk-in, for someone with claustrophobia it would be a nightmare.
His hands fist the duvet. “I… just… need… a moment.”
“Okay, sugar. Okay.” I sit down on the bed, urging him forward. Without resistance, he drops to his knees, his head in my lap.
For the next five minutes, while Ian focuses on controlling his breathing, I stroke his back, pat his head, and play with his hair. Anything I can think to soothe him.
“Sorry.” Ian pushes up, turning to sit next to me but avoiding my eyes.
“What happened? Did you get stuck?”
“Ah, no. I closed myself in.”
I smack him upside the head I’ve just caressed.
“Ow.”
“Why in the world would you do that, you numbnut?”
Ian’s lips twitch. “Numbnut?”
“Obviously I’ve been spending too much time with Rose.” I poke him in the chest. “But don’t avoid the question. Why would you close yourself into the closet knowing full well this would happen?”
Ian sighs, dropping back on the bed. “I was doing my homework.”
I stare at him, hoping he’ll start making sense.
“The therapist, Dr. Brown?”
I nod.
“She told me to try exposure therapy. Thought it might help.”
I arch an eyebrow. “I think we can safely say that it didn’t.”
That gets a laugh out of him, even if it sounds exasperated. “I think it might be my fault though. I was supposed to start off small. Like close the door in the bathroom where there are windows. Or go into a windowless room but leave the door open.”
“So why did you start with a closet?”
He drapes an arm over his eyes, probably trying to hide his embarrassment. “I thought if I skipped the easy part I could get over this faster.” His words are mumbled, and I work hard not to laugh. He’s just so cute.
I lie next to him, curling up to his side. “Besides the homework, how did the appointment go?”
“Fine.” His drops his hand to his side, blinking up at the ceiling.
“She thinks my claustrophobia might be a learned behavior. A combination of watching my mother slowly being trapped in her life and me feeling the same in mine.” He snorts.
“My dad’s fault. No surprise there.” Groaning, he rolls his eyes.
“Jesus, listen to me. I sound like a tormented teenager blaming my parents for shit.” He tilts his chin down, grinning at me. “Real attractive, huh?”
“Yes.” I rise up on my elbow, eyes never leaving his. “Very.”
He doesn’t have time to question my sudden seriousness because I’m kissing him. Kissing him for being so open with me, for being so caring and willing to work through his past and present fears. For being so gosh darn attractive.
We kiss for hours, or maybe minutes, I’m not sure. Then an idea forms.
I straddle him, never breaking the kiss, taking one of his hands in each of mine, pulling him to his feet before pivoting and pushing him into the closet. Before he can react, I attack him with my mouth again.
Blindly reaching out, I find the closet light and flick it on, the overhead florescent lighting as unflattering and unromantic as you can get, but honestly, who gives a fig? I make sure to leave the door open.
“Trish,” he says against my lips. “What are you?—”
I reach down his pants, grasping his cock, smiling when Ian’s head drops back on a groan. Up and down I pump him, watching his breath come out in pants. From desire, not panic. Soon his hips are moving with the rhythm of my hand, lost in sensation.
My hands pull wildly at his belt, the metal of his buckle clunking as I struggle to open it. Ian reaches down to help, but I slap his hands away. While Ian’s fear is clouded by lust, I’m the one about to have a panic attack. I need this. I need him. I need to do this for him.
Belt pulled free, I wrench open his expensive-feeling suit pants, the waistband of his Calvin Klein boxer briefs barely containing his erection.
Of course he’s wearing Calvin Klein. How very Captain American of him.
I drop down to the floor along with his pants. A careful downward tug on his Calvins and he’s free. My mouth opens wide to take him in.
“Fuuuuuck.”
I smile, or smile as best I can with him in my mouth. He sounds so very un-Ian-like all worked up like this.
Good, he’s too worked up to think about the small space he’s in. I rub my thighs together, trying to ignore how worked up I am.
I bob deep, trying to get to the base but choking slightly in my determination.
“Careful, sweetheart.” Large hands cradle my jaw, his voice soothing. Worried. “Careful.”
Dang it. I don’t want him thinking about anything except how this feels .
I bob again, flaring my nostrils, breathing deeply through my nose until I reach the base, pulling back and dragging my tongue under the underside of his cock.
His hands slam against the open doorway, his hips surging slightly forward, as if chasing my mouth.
Again I bob, and again, until my throat is relaxed and I can go deeper still, swallowing once I reach the bottom, rubbing the tip of his cock with my throat.
“Fuck. Yes. Fuck.” Each word is punctuated with another jerk of his hips.
Through slitted eyes, I see Ian’s wallet half falling out of his pants pocket. I know this moment should be about him, that I should ignore the throb between my legs, but…
I snag his wallet, grabbing the condom inside.
Thank heavens Ian is such a boy scout, always prepared.
With one last deep suck, I pop my mouth off him, surging up to kiss him before he can process that I’ve pushed him farther into the closet.
One hand sliding down the latex, the other pushing my leggings and panties off my hips.
Suddenly Ian takes over, spinning me around, pushing my shoulders down until I’m bent at the waist. I have enough sense to spread my legs as far as they’ll go with my leggings at my knees before he surges inside.
My scream could shatter glass.
This is not lovemaking. This is not even sex. This is grunts and slapping. Two animals rutting against each other. Running from something. Chasing something.
Both his arms wrap around me, pulling me up and back until my socked feet leave the floor. Thrusting deeper and deeper. I don’t know how he is doing it, but it feels so good . He’s hitting a spot I didn’t know something other than a curved mechanical assistant could reach.
“Trish, Trish, Trish,” Ian chants over and over as he pounds into me.
I have no purchase, no grip. My body in Ian’s arms is simply a tool to help him banish his demons.
We come. Him grunting, me screaming, both our bodies convulsing almost painfully as pleasure rips through us.
I have enough consciousness to push us toward the open doorway as we stumble to the floor, our spent bodies falling out into the bedroom in a sprawl of loose limbs and heaving breaths.
Ian exhales in a huff, blowing tendrils of hair out of my eyes. “Exposure therapy is the best.”