Chapter 2 #3
I lace my hands in hers and give a reassuring squeeze.
“Don’t even worry about it.” I tilt her chin back to me and gently catch her lips with mine to show her it’s okay.
And holy shit. She tastes like she smells: tart, fresh, electrifying.
Every swipe of her tongue against mine leaves a tingle in its wake.
And when she arches her hips into me, dragging her nails down my back, I lose the power of speech entirely.
Every thought, every word, all logic and reasoning go up in smoke.
With a swift movement, I pick her up and do exactly what I wanted to do.
Carry her across the threshold and into the bedroom.
It’s not as smooth as I’d hoped in the darkness in an unfamiliar apartment. But the silver moonlight filtering through the blinds offers enough light to find a wide cedar dresser with an attached mirror. I set her on top of it, her thighs clinging to either side of my torso like a lifeline.
“Is it okay if I take this off?” I ask between kisses, tugging at the back of her tank top.
She nods and helps me pull it over her head.
“Fuck,” I barely manage as her breasts fall out. I’ve always considered myself more of an ass guy, but I’ve officially changed my mind. I’m so fixated, I barely notice she’s made quick work of getting my shirt off.
Her gaze blazes from my chest and down my stomach, followed by the soft pads of her fingers. “Whoa. Sorry, I just…haven’t touched real abs. Ever.”
“You’ve touched fake ones?” I clarify, trying to maintain an iota of control as her hand drifts to my waistband, where things are growing more and more uncomfortable by the second.
“I once dated a guy in high school who had so little body fat, he had a bit of a six-pack. But yours look hard-earned. Do you even eat carbs?”
I slide her a cheeky grin. “More than you’d think.”
“Liar,” she whispers, her thumb dipping lower and lower beneath the hem where my skin burns, wanting her.
“Do you have a condom?” I whisper, trying to suppress the urgency. “I don’t have any on me.” Hooking up with a woman was certainly not on my agenda for this trip home.
“I might.” She hoists herself upward a little too hard, smacking her head on the mirror behind us.
“Jesus. Are you okay?” I ask, cradling the back of her head as she hops down from the dresser. That sounded like a hard hit.
She plops on the edge of the bed, defeated, head in hands.
“I’m sorry, I’m absolutely shit at this,” she informs me, her tone sour as she flicks on the lamp by her bedside table.
Her room is smaller than it looked in the dark, though still fairly nondescript.
The furniture is nice and new, but there are still no photos or personal items, aside from a small bookcase overflowing with paperbacks, a bottle of pink nail polish, and some hair ties on the side table.
“We don’t have to do anything,” I say genuinely, lowering myself onto the mattress next to her.
“And not because I don’t want to.” I really fucking do.
But in the yellow glow of the lamp, she looks…
sad. If she’s not in a good state of mind, maybe hooking up with her isn’t the best idea.
The last thing I want is for her to wake up tomorrow morning filled with regret.
She nods, biting her bottom lip before leaning back against the wooden headboard. “I just feel bad. I got you here under the pretext of food and sex and you got neither.”
“Even without food or sex, this is the best night I’ve had in a long time.”
“You’re not just saying that to make me feel better?” she asks skeptically.
“I don’t lie to make people feel better, Andi.” I look her in the eye when I say it, because I mean it and I want her to know it.
She nods, seemingly accepting it, however reluctantly.
I debate whether I should take this as a cue to leave. The last thing I want to do is linger and overstay my welcome. But she still looks sad, and honestly, I like her company. I want to know more about her, so I settle myself on the side of the bed.
“So you mentioned you’re a writer?” I ask, hoping it’ll lighten her mood or at least take her mind off what just happened.
“A wannabe writer, I guess. I’m not published or anything. No one has ever read a word of anything I’ve written.”
“Doesn’t mean you’re not a writer. If you put pen to paper, you’re a writer.”
She shrugs and bites her bottom lip again, unsure.
“What do you write?”
Red flushes her face. “I’m scared to tell you. You’ll make fun of me.” My gut twists at the idea that she feels like her passion isn’t something to be proud of.
“Why would I make fun of you? Do you write knock-knock jokes or something? Instruction manuals for bizarre household items?”
“Pet obituaries, actually.” She holds the lie for all of two seconds before folding, erupting into a laugh along with me. Seeing her smile again feels like pure sunshine breaking through the dark.
“For the record, it’s a noble profession. Pets are purer than most humans, and they should be honored,” I argue.
“Sorry. I know. I’m avoiding. But since you asked…
” She watches me for a second, the mattress creaking as she shifts closer, like she’s telling me a secret.
“I write romance novels. God, it feels weird to say that out loud.” A deep breath escapes her lips, and the tension in her body melts away. She actually looks relieved.
“You write full-length novels?”
“Well, I’ve written one and a half so far.
I just started. My first is about strangers, Bryce and Layla, who meet on a train, connect, and agree to meet up on the same day of each year for five years.
One year, he doesn’t show up, and then a year later, they become coworkers.
I’m starting on my second, about a prime minister’s personal assistant.
I’m going to call it The Prime Minister & Me. ”
Holy shit.
“Andi, do you realize how cool that is?” I lean forward, astonished by how casually those words came out of her mouth. Why is she not an ounce proud of herself?
Another shrug.
“You’ve literally written an entire book and a half.
Who else can say that? Not many people.” At least not people who I come across day to day.
When she still refuses to admit how kick-ass she is, I continue on.
“Actually, my sister, Emma, loves romance novels. She used to steal my grandma’s old paperbacks and hide in the closet reading them, way past her bedtime.
I think she has one of those e-readers now.
Anytime she can get a break from the kids, she’s glued to it. ”
She glances up at me, encouraged. “Your sister sounds like my kind of girl.”
“She’s sweet, but she has a dark side. If I ever interrupted her while she was reading, she’d literally hiss at me.”
“Never get between a woman and her happily ever after,” she warns, a smile flirting at the edge of her mouth.
“I’m guessing you’re a hopeless romantic like Em?”
She turns her soft gaze back to her lap. “Not really. I’d consider myself more of a realistic romantic.”
“What does that mean?”
She lifts a shoulder and pulls her legs tight to her chest. “I think true love exists to some degree. But that happily-ever-after, everlasting romance we’re told to hold out for?
I’m not so sure. In my experience, those initial butterflies, the lust and sexual chemistry in the first few months or years of your relationship, fade with time until you’re left clinging to what was. ”
Wow. I didn’t expect her answer to be so bleak, even if it isn’t far from the truth. “Damn. Who hurt you?”
“No one in particular. Life, I guess. Don’t get me wrong, I think those lightning-in-a-bottle moments exist. The ones that sweep you off your feet and leave you winded.
The moments that inspire all the great love stories and make you believe in magic.
That’s what I love about writing romance.
You get to capture that snapshot in time when real life is better than any dream.
The moments that make life worth living.
Will the characters experience hardship later on?
Fight? Fall out of love? Maybe. But we as the reader or writer get to experience the pinnacle of their love.
It’s joy in the purest sense. It may not always be realistic, but it makes me giddy and hopeful in a way I haven’t felt since I was a little kid who believed in Santa and the Easter Bunny.
It makes me feel like anything is possible.
At least, for a moment,” she finishes, voice wistful, almost hopeful.
I’ve never been a romantic myself, but I could listen to this woman talk about her writing all night.
There’s something beautiful about the way she describes it.
The way her eyes glint, starlit with possibility.
The subtle curve in the warmth of her smile.
It stirs a deep ache in me. A longing, a homesickness for a feeling I’ve never actually felt, if that’s even possible.
How can I miss something I’ve never had?
I’ve also never heard anyone talk this openly about love. When you’re in my line of work, conversations about love go about as far as a crude joke in the mess hall.
“And no one has read anything you’ve written?” I ask, bewildered by this woman.
“Nope. I don’t know if anyone ever will.
I thought about trying to get published.
I did all the research on the best agents and publishing houses, but I’m also considering self-publishing online.
I don’t know. My new job is proving to be pretty demanding, so finding pockets of time to write is hard. ”
“If that’s your dream, writing, I mean, I think you should pursue it. With everything you have,” I tell her.
She eyes me for a moment. “How can you say that when you haven’t read my work? What if it’s complete crap?”