17. Teala #2
Somewhere during our kiss, he lost his towel, and he’s fumbling in the bathroom drawer and comes away with a condom.
He tears the package open with his mouth and has it rolled down his erection in mere seconds.
I realize that’s a skill well practiced.
My back is against the bathroom wall again as he fills me.
He fucks me so hard he leaves his hands on either side of my shoulders flat against the wall and pins me and my weight with only his hips and dick.
It’s a quick, blissful pace, but he’s kissing me with the same passion as before. He chants my name like a prayer in between stealing my breath .
This time it’s quick, and my orgasm takes me fast and hard. I slump over his shoulder when he comes, his cock buried as deep inside me as it will go. Minutes pass, and we stay connected that way. Him holding me while I’m tangled around him. We end up back in his bed, under the covers.
I’m rolled onto my side, looking at him as he gazes back at me.
He looks like he’s trying to figure me out.
The feeling is mutual because from this angle, lying in bed with him, I want to know what it is about him, too.
I trace the planes of his face with my fingers.
He doesn’t take his hand off my hip and the side of my stomach.
“I’m glad you told me,” he says. His voice is creaky. Neither of us has spoken for what seems like forever.
My nail brushes over his bottom lip. It’s so full. “I didn’t know how you would respond. If I knew it would be with orgasms, I would have told you sooner.”
He offers a soft smile. “Consider me felled, Teala.”
I flick my gaze up to meet his. “Yeah?”
“I don’t say things without knowing for certain I meant them. Especially ones as significant as those. Let’s not label our feelings, though. Don’t call it something. Then it won’t be the same.”
Love. He won’t say it. And I’m so in shock right now, there’s no way I want to hear it anyway. This is what he’s saying without using the word. Isn’t that exactly what Carina told me? This indescribable feeling that’s different for everyone?
“I feel the same way,” I admit.
I’ve regained my composure enough to scoot toward him for a small kiss. Macs crushes me to his chest and kisses every place on my face he can fit his lips.
“You just became everything.”
“I can’t become something, Macs,” I say into the crook of his neck. “Especially everything .”
He sighs. “Tell that to my heart.”
My own heart leaps out of my chest. There’s no harried panic in his admission, just truth, and it puts me at ease, and I think this is the happiest I’ve ever felt.
I relax against a man, in his bed, for the first time in my life.
He falls asleep before I do, and he does call it something, because Macs sleep talks.
He tells me he loves me four times before I fall asleep, wondering how many more times he can take my breath away with three simple words.
“I do a lot of things well, but cooking isn’t one of them,” Macs exclaims, standing in front of his new range with his hands on his hips.
It’s early. So early the sun hasn’t risen, and the coolness of night still warps the air.
I’m wearing one of his T-shirts that hits mid-thigh and no panties.
We made love this morning. And I finally realized there was definitely a distinction between the two.
Fucking is hard and selfish. It’s about orgasms and carnal desires—about slick openings and hard, throbbing cocks that taste like salted caramel.
Making love is a completely different animal.
It’s slow and thoughtful. Perhaps it’s best described as giving what you think you don’t own and taking what you don’t think you deserve.
I ask him if he has plain oatmeal, and he looks pleased he does and sets off on his task to not fuck up oats for our breakfast. He tells me, sort of surprised, that oatmeal is his breakfast of choice too.
“I’m going to look around,” I tell his wide, muscular back.
He grunts his approval, and I take my mug of steaming coffee and wander down the hallway on the opposite side of the house. The guest bedrooms are over this way.
“Careful in the back room. I’m building a bookshelf, and there’s some equipment in there,” he calls out.
It truly is a marvel what this space looks like now compared to what it did when I first came over.
He turned it into a home. I can imagine myself spending time here.
My stomach starts spinning, but I don’t let it control me.
I open a door and see a large, disassembled bookcase.
Books are neatly stacked in piles, lining the bare walls.
Some titles I recognize as the classics.
The thick tomes that you have to be in just the right mood to tackle, he also has an equal number of non-fiction works.
The types of books you read when you want to read, but you also want to learn.
I’ve never really understood that practice, but I can appreciate it.
I walk in and head for the back window. It’s long and rectangular.
The view is just as stunning as my view at home, yet completely different.
The sun is rising, and the colors are magnificent.
Buildings block my view of the sunrise. The pinks create a halo around the burnt oranges and reds.
It’s silent still. The time of morning I usually spend by myself, flipping through social media on my phone, huddled over oatmeal before I head in to teach the early class.
I swallow at the reminder of change. Not all change is bad, or even that life-altering, I remind myself.
Some change happens without disturbing anything else. It’s possible. It has to be.
“Your gourmet oatmeal is ready. I sweetened it with honey and raisins. Figured it was a morning to celebrate,” Macs says, his voice commanding the small room. His bare feet make a firm noise as he approaches from behind. “Some view, huh?”
“I was just making a pros and cons list. This might top my view, and I never thought it possible.” Because I never considered any other options. The dark of night is giving way to the dark royal blues of morning, the sky lighting the surrounding area.
Macs pulls me against him, my back against his chest. My head tilts back automatically. “What time do you have to go into work?” he asks, his lips already skirting the edge of my neck. It’s a whisper of a kiss.
Tilting my head to the left so he can continue his assault, I close my eyes and grin. “My thighs are still sticky from sex less than an hour ago, Macs,” I breathe.
There’s no conviction in my statement. He knows it. My appetite for him is probably even larger than his for me. My core clenches a few times at the thought of having him inside me again.
“Let’s go eat, and then we can take another shower,” he rasps into my ear.
I make a joke about the zoo, and he holds my hand all the way to the high bar in his kitchen. He goes to switch on the news, but then turns the television off again. He’s not used to having company in the morning. Old habits die hard. I understand completely.
“Should we talk about last night?” I ask in between bites.
The oatmeal is a little firm. I make a face when I crunch on a bite. He apologizes with a cute grimace.
Macs has a way of masking any emotions he may not want to show. The thing is I now know when he’s doing it, so I’m able to see when he’s trying to hide something. It’s just as telling. He does it now. I clear my throat.
“I’m not sure what to say. Can we let last night speak for itself?” he asks, taking a bite.
I take a sip of coffee. “The thing is I’m going to have to answer to people, and I’m not sure what to say, and it seems crazy I even have to ask. But assuming makes an ass out of you and me.” Humor. Again.
He shrugs. “Call it what you want.”
Macs doesn’t comment on the fact that all of my friends know about us, but his friends don’t even know what the hell is going on. He’s like me. A master at evasive techniques. We decided not to label it, so I decide we’ll be together. That’s good enough for me.
We finish our breakfast and our coffee. The conversation is light and breezy as we discuss the facets of his kitchen.
I don’t have to pretend to be interested.
I truly am. I tell him I want to redo my kitchen, and his eyes light up at the prospect of another project.
He takes our bowls and mugs to the sink and disappears down the hall to the bathroom.
It’s where my stuff is, so I can’t get ready yet.
Approaching the sink, I wash the dishes myself .
I startle when someone pounds on the front door.
My heartbeat leaps into my chest as I peek around the corner to peer out the window.
His driveway is hidden by the garage, but I see the uniform right away.
I’ve never seen Macs wear it, but I know merely by sight this is one of his teammates.
The severity of the slamming on the door forces me over.
I unlock the deadbolt and pull the door open as quickly as my fumbling hands allow.
This man, this beast of a man, looms over me like a goddamn nightmare.
Where Macs is beautiful, this man is…rugged.
His eyes flare the second the door opens and he sees me.
“Oh,” I say, pulling at the hem of my shirt. “I’m sorry. You didn’t seem very patient,” I explain. “I’ll go get Macs.” For a second I think I should introduce myself, but then I decide against it. Macs should do that.
He shakes his head, closing his eyes. “I knew it. I fucking knew it,” he says under his breath.
Macs rounds the corner with his towel slung over his shoulder, wearing only his boxer briefs.
His whole demeanor changes when Macs sees this man. “Tahoe. What the fuck?”
“Time to stop playing fucking house. Grab your shit. We need to leave. Like now. Like fucking yesterday,” the man named Tahoe explains using a gruff, emotionless voice.