Chapter 13 - Zelda #2
Ash blinked at me, blew out a breath as ragged as hurricane gusts, and rocked his body against mine like he couldn't help but get the last word.
He was thick and hard, and if he hadn't frowned at me after holding himself against my body for a heavy-lidded beat, I would've locked my legs around his waist and begged him to finish what he started.
But I'd made it uncomfortable and now Ash was busy overthinking.
"Why did you tell me that?" he asked.
There were no words. Truly, no words. I didn't have an answer for him and even if I did, the erection throbbing against me was the only thing on my mind. The words available to me now included yes, condom, and please.
Fortunately for me and rhetorical questions everywhere, Ash continued. "Why do you want me to know that, Zelda? Do you want me knowing there's nothing between you and the sheets? Do you want me thinking about you that way?"
Since I didn't know how to help myself, I said, "I think you'll do it anyway."
There was a moment when he was completely still and silent, and I was even more aware of the places where our bodies touched and formed a new topography. Ash dropped his head to my chest, asking, "And if you're right about that?"
His words reverberated against my breast and I stayed quiet a few extra moments in case this was another question not meant for an answer.
Also, I really loved the sensation of him speaking directly to my breast. Eventually, I said, "You tell me, Ash.
What does it mean to you if you're thinking about me naked? "
With that, he climbed off the sofa. He gave me his back, not allowing me the pleasure of seeing his war of arousal and agony.
I believed I would've enjoyed that. Would've enjoyed it very much.
Watching him struggle against the things he believed he wanted and the things he actually wanted was becoming one of my favorite pastimes.
"Fuck, I need to take another shower." As he stalked toward his bedroom, he called, "Do me a favor. Don't come in here, love. Even if it sounds like the ceiling has collapsed and I'm pinned under a ton of rubble, don't come in."
"Got it, boss," I replied, though I was certain he didn't hear me over the slam of his door.
For someone with an extensive track record of shattering ordinary moments with extraordinary feats of strange and unusual, I was rather skilled at smoothing over even the stickiest of situations.
My method was ridiculously simple: pretend the stickiness didn't exist. Deny, deny, deny.
It hadn't happened and you were nuts if you thought it did.
Nothing was easier than that.
Case in point: a handful of years ago, I was walking down the center staircase in the Clark building at Colorado State.
That place had more wings than a 1970s-era maxi pad and at least a million stairs, give or take a couple thousand.
There I was, descending the stairs like everyone else until I snagged the heel of my shoe on my too-long pants and went for a tumble while everyone watched.
I was bruised to shit and broke several fingers in the process but I wasn't about to acknowledge that stickiness in any fashion.
No, I stood up and walked away as if my ass and legs weren't already black and blue from thumping down the stairs, as if my pinky finger wasn't bent at an unnatural angle, as if I hadn't felt a damn thing.
And I did the same this morning.
While Ash showered, I rifled through his kitchen cupboards and refrigerator. For someone who'd spent the last week away from home, there was no shortage of fresh ingredients. That was curious yet not unexpected. He struck me like a man who always had everything in order.
I made him a breakfast sandwich because I was required to return the ribbing he'd given me.
But I did him one better than the hastily slapped together sammy I'd packed for myself before hitting the road; I whipped up some silver-dollar pancakes in place of toast. The pancake sandwich was the top dog in my breakfast repertoire.
I didn't wait around to inform Ash of this or watch while he picked at the syrupy tower of pancake, egg, bacon, and cheese.
As much as I liked watching him experience all manner of things he'd convinced himself he neither wanted nor needed, this wasn't the time for that.
It was the time for pretending away the moment we shared this morning and the one from last night too, and all the other moments when we'd wandered too close to the borderlands between emotionally needy cuddling and emotionally needy fucking.
Though I wasn't the one with the erection or the rhythmic thrusting, I'd dragged us straight into that land long enough for Ash to regret it.
And I couldn't leave it to him to know better.
For once in my life, I had to know better.
I had to avoid hurtling toward the edge with my parachute in shreds.
In this reincarnation of me, I didn't rely on men to know better, to do better.
I relied on me and that meant teaching myself to trust me too.
Leaving the pancake sandwich for Ash, I retreated to the guest room I had yet to use for its intended purpose.
I showered and did my best to assemble a summer weekend dinner party with friends and family outfit though I'd never experienced such a thing.
Then I spent five pointless minutes fussing with my hair.
I knew it wasn't going to do what I wanted, not without backup from a curling wand or round brush, and neither of those had earned a spot in my luggage.
But the fussing gave me something to do. The alternative—being still and quiet and settled enough to hear my thoughts—was too daunting for a pancake sandwich Sunday kind of day.
In truth, I needed several more pancake sandwich Sundays before I could contend with my thoughts. The murky ones I only acknowledged in the worst of times, the dangerous ones that made me examine my choices and motivations in a way that invited gasping, overwhelming shame.
Yes, those thoughts could wait. They always did.
And until I was ready to plunk myself down in the thistle and rip out the roots, I'd fuss with my hair and smooth my suitcase-wrinkled skirt.
After all, I'd run away from my life with nothing more than a vague note in my wake because I had to.
I was allowed to fixate on my hair and skirt.
After an appropriate amount of obsessing over insignificant things, I emerged to find Ash in the kitchen, his hand on his hip while he glared at his phone in the other.
He wasn't wearing his sling but that was the last thing I noticed because he was wearing a polo shirt that must've been tailored to fit every inch of his torso to perfection.
His hair, still wet from the shower, was boyishly floppy.
The most bizarre urge to slide my hands into the pockets of his navy shorts and feel the body beneath the fabric consumed me.
Without glancing in my direction, he grumbled, "You didn't have to cook for me."
"I know. I did it anyway." I spotted his plate beside the sink, a streak of maple syrup the only remnant. "Hated it, didn't you?"
This earned me his full attention and he'd barely blinked before saying, "Goddamn. What are you wearing?"
Frowning at my plum paisley skirt and its topography of wrinkles, I held my hands out. "Calm down, Ashville. Long, summery skirts aren't meant to be perfect. I'm currently operating as if this is a crinkle fabric. I'm not changing. You need to deal with—"
"I'm not sure what you just said," he growled as he approached me. He lashed his arm around my waist, closing the remainder of the distance between us. "I didn't catch any of it but I don't want you to change a single thing."
Something happened to me then, something like altitude sickness mixed with a tequila buzz, all divided by hunger pangs as if I hadn't eaten in days.
It was a strange dizziness that made my eyelids heavy and my lips part and my body want.
And it wouldn't let me dismiss Ash's words.
I couldn't form a response. It wouldn't take shape.
The only thing I could manage was "Where's your sling? "
"Don't need it," he said, still holding me tight.
I watched as his gaze traveled from those heavy lids to my parted lips and then down, down to my sleeveless top in the palest of pinks. It wasn't the top that interested him. It was the space between my breasts, the valley only visible from his vantage point.
I didn't have a lot going on there, nothing more than the average, but the way he sucked in a breath and growled at that valley like it belonged to him only made me dizzier, hungrier.
With his gaze locked on my cleavage, he said, "I need you to know something, Zelda. If we do this, if we go to my parents' place—"
"Well, of course we're going," I interrupted.
In that measured, managerial voice he favored so much, he repeated, "If we go, you won't be able to undo it. I need you to know that."
"Why does that sound like an ominous warning from a practiced skeptic? Like, one doesn't simply sneak into Mordor."
"Because it is, love. You can back out of this. Stay here. I'll handle the explanations."
"Why don't you want me to meet your family? That is, the portion that didn't invite themselves into your bedroom the other day."
He tapped a finger against my belly. "For one, they'd want to keep you."
"What's so bad about that? Your mother and sister are amusing as hell, especially when they literally stared at us in bed and carried on a conversation where they took turns insisting I'm Not Millie.
Given this, I'm sure everyone else is equally amusing.
And I'm not against being kept. As you might've noticed, I'm not that difficult to collect. "