Chapter 8 #2
Maybe she shouldn’t need a few words of affirmation from the man who held her in his arms, but it was a beautiful thing that she had it.
She hadn’t been waiting for it, not really.
She would never let it go now.
He lowered her slowly onto the bed, kissed her neck, down her collarbone, to the plump curve of her breast, the edge of her lace bra cup.
“Are you wet now, Lydia?” he growled, his lips against her skin.
She nearly flew off the mattress. “Yes,” she whispered. “Not from the shower.”
He growled against her skin, and her internal muscles clenched tight with need.
Sex as a fantasy was one thing. It was gauzy and sweet in her mind. It felt good, but in an impressionistic way. Out of focus dabs of pleasure coming together to create a half-imagined scene. This was not that.
It was sharp. In great, detailed focus. Every pinpoint of desire was fully realized. Drawn in exquisite detail.
The way his lips touched her skin, his tongue tracing shapes there.
The way his hands moved over her body, the weight of him as he settled over the top of her, the heat of his mouth.
She was so aware of the shift of fabric as he unhooked her bra. How rough his jeans were against her thighs. And all of it was good. Brilliant, wonderful.
He kissed a line straight to her nipple, sucked it deep into his mouth, the sound of satisfaction on his lips stoking the fires of desire deep within her.
Then he moved to her other breast, the attention he lavished upon her decadent, glorious. She had always considered herself a practical girl. This was not practical. It was not simply about maintenance. It was simply extra.
It was the joy and ecstasy of being human in a way that she had never quite experienced before. It was connection.
Was it the same for him?
She hoped it was. She wished it could be. So much. Down to the depths of her soul, that was what she wanted.
He kissed his way down her body to the waistband of her panties. He pulled them down, and she didn’t even have time to be embarrassed. He dragged them away from her legs, cast them on the floor, and then he was kissing her, right at the tender part of her inner thigh.
And then higher still.
Right to the place where she was wet and aching for him. And then he devoured her. As if she was the most glorious feast he had ever set eyes on. It was glorious. She had never felt anything like this. She had never even imagined that pleasure like this was real.
She had thought it was the bastion of fake orgasms on late-night cable TV, and overly florid descriptions in the romance novels she had stolen from her mother’s bedroom when she was a teen, only to discard them because they had hurt too much when she had realized what she wanted from Remy, and that she was unlikely to ever get it.
But now she knew. She knew. It wasn’t fake. It was very, very real. White-hot pleasure scalded her. Her desire built and built until she shattered. Until she clung to his shoulders and cried out his name.
Then he moved up to kiss her on the lips, and she heard the drawer to his nightstand open.
She thanked God that he had the presence of mind to protect them both, because she certainly didn’t.
She put her hands on his belt buckle, and undid it slowly. Then she helped him strip his jeans and underwear off. Until he was naked in front of her.
She just about lost her nerve then.
He was big and thick, gorgeous and glorious.
She had never seen a man quite like him. Of course, she had never seen a naked man before. Not in person.
She hadn’t imagined that she would find one quite so beautiful. But Remy was perfect. He was everything. Everything she had ever dreamed of and then some.
Tears pricked her eyes, and she blinked them back. She didn’t want to be emotional about this. It was difficult not to be.
She had gone from being so certain that this was something that would never happen, to living in the reality of it.
And finding out that he was better. More than she had ever hoped he could be.
He tore open the condom, and she watched as his large masculine hand guided it over his hard length.
Excitement coursed through her, along with just a little bit of fear.
But not enough that it was going to stop her from having this. From having him.
He kissed her, deep and long, put his hands between her thighs and stroked her until she was whimpering again.
“We’ll take it slow,” he said.
He pushed one finger inside her, then a second. He stretched her gently, and she arched against him, begging for more with a wordless plea.
She wanted him. All of him.
He withdrew from her, and then positioned himself between her legs, pressing the head of his arousal against the entrance to her body. He entered her slowly, inch by agonizing inch. And she gritted her teeth as he stretched her, as she took all of him.
She clung to his shoulders, dug her fingernails into his skin. It was perfect. It was wonderful.
It was everything.
And then, Remington Lane was inside her. Just as she had dreamed, but also more than she had ever dreamed. Because this was deeper, more profound than that impressionist painting in her mind. It was more than simple fantasy or sexual arousal. It was much more.
Better. Deeper.
But she did wonder if she had miscalculated. Because this was nothing half so simple as an event she could experience and draw a line under. Something that she could have once, then get over.
But it was too late now. And when he began to move inside her, she couldn’t regret it. Not one bit. Pleasure built in her core as he thrust deep, over and over again.
She could feel his control beginning to slip, and she wanted it to. She kissed his neck, his ear.
He shuddered.
On instinct, she wrapped her legs around his waist, so she could take him in even deeper.
“Yes,” she whispered.
He lowered his head, burying it in her neck.
And he thrust one last time as her orgasm unraveled her entirely. He groaned out his own release, his whole body shaking.
And then she held him. As he held her.
She wanted to stay. But she didn’t know what his policy was on that. He was so against relationships and . . . she did have the animals.
“I should go,” she said.
“You don’t have to.”
“I do, though. Because in the morning I’m going to have to get up really early and take care of all the critters.”
He regarded her, his gaze steady. “What if Hank and I went to your place for the night? He’s got his crate. So that should keep him away from the animals that don’t care for him much.”
Oh right. Pascal and Maleficent didn’t like Hank. As if she needed another barrier between herself and Remy.
“That’s really sweet,” she said.
He touched her face. “It’s not sweet. We were just together, and I wouldn’t feel right about us sleeping apart tonight.”
“Is that what you do with Everywoman? Or is that just me?”
The answer to that question probably wouldn’t make her very happy. In truth, she shouldn’t have asked it. But she had. Because she didn’t have the fortitude to not ask.
“No. I don’t spend the night with other women. But you’re not other women, Lydia. You’re you. And you mean a hell of a lot to me.”
“You mean a lot to me too.”
But she knew she meant it in a deeper way than he did. She wasn’t going to dwell on that. She wasn’t going to let it hurt.
So she let him pack Hank’s crate up. Let him load everything into his truck and follow her back to her house.
When they opened the door, all her animals were beside themselves. Hank was on a leash, and Pascal paused on the counter to give him deadly raccoon side eye.
“Pascal,” she said. “You need to behave yourself. He’s not going to hurt you.”
Hank really had proven to be a perfect gentleman in every venue he’d visited so far. He had been lovely to Wesley, and totally fine at her parents’ house. But here, his size was an issue. He was making her poor wary animals nervous.
But they were going to have to get over it. Because Remy was going to be spending the night at her house. And Remy and Hank were a package deal.
Just as she came with . . . well, all this.
Pascal was highly irritated, his body language completely indignant.
“Sorry,” she said.
And then Maleficent burst down the hallway, barking and barking, her Chihuahua rage knowing no bounds. Chewy loped behind her, entirely unbothered, as he always was. Lydia bent down and scooped Maleficent up. “Now,” she said. “You’re fine. Hank is nice.”
From her high-up perch, Maleficent was entirely too confident. And when Lydia tried to lower her to greet Hank, she growled at him.
Hank, for his part, didn’t react at all.
It wouldn’t be fair to him to turn Maleficent loose on him.
Chewy and Hank sniffed each other, and Chewy went to lie on his bed after about thirty seconds of sniff introduction.
“I’m going to put her in her crate. I’ll give her a Kong with some peanut butter in it, and maybe she won’t feel so maligned.”
“I guess I don’t know the story of how all your different animals came to you.”
“A lot of them were supposed to be temporary,” she said.
“But I couldn’t let them go. I am the biggest cause of foster fails at the whole shelter.
But I usually don’t end up with dogs or cats because I’m smart enough not to take them in—I know I’ll adopt them all.
Maleficent and Chewy are the only two dogs I have.
Maleficent got torn up by a couple of pit bulls that lived in her household. She still hasn’t gotten over it.”
“Who would?”
“She holds a grudge. And then there’s Chewy. But he’s the world’s most docile yellow Lab.”
“Yellow Labs are big,” he said, gesturing to Chewy.
“Yes. It took her a while to warm up to him too.”
“So she could warm up to Hank.”
“Possibly. Pascal . . . The problem with wild animals is that they’re so unpredictable.
But I got him when he was so little, he still had his eyes closed.
There have been some attempts made at rehabilitation, but he just doesn’t see the point.
He likes to be inside. He never really learned how to be a raccoon.
At best, he’s sort of a weird dog. But with hands. ”
“Yeah. I’m aware of the hands. I find them menacing.”
“They really aren’t. He’s very sweet. He loves the dogs, but I think because they are an established pack, he’s quite protective of the order of things.
He’s a bit of an old man. In the wild raccoons barely ever live this long.
In captivity, though, they can get close to twenty years old. Like a pampered house cat.”
“That’s a very long time to have a raccoon.”
“Well, I’ve had a whole decade with him, and another one won’t be enough.”
“It seems like a lot of work.”
“It is. But . . . I often think that I was such a strange child, if I hadn’t had a soft place, a soft nest to be in for most of my life, I would’ve been very unhappy.
My parents were that soft place. It feels right to be a soft place for other creatures.
The ones people don’t want. The blind ferrets and the one-eyed chickens.
The voles that need a place to recover, even just for a while.
I know it doesn’t make sense to most people but . . .”
“It’s actually beautiful,” he said, the earnestness in his eyes surprising her.
“Because you’re right. I know what it’s like not to have a soft place.
To be the kind of kid that nobody wants.
I’m way too familiar with it. Sometimes a soft place is miraculous in ways that I can’t even explain.
It can change your whole outlook on life.
On everything. If it hadn’t been for your parents. . .”
“I’m glad they were there for you. But I hope you understand that when you really care about somebody, it’s not a burden.
I hate to compare you to a homeless raccoon, but Pascal’s not a burden.
All my time with him has been a gift to me.
It’s a funny thing. By making space for people and animals that need help, you’re actually opening yourself up to the miraculous.
My family is better for having had you in it. ”
He looked stunned by what she’d said.
“It’s true,” she said.
“Well, I appreciate that.”
“I care about you,” she said. Because she felt it needed to be said. “Not as a project or anything like that. And I didn’t sleep with you just because I’m a sad late-twenties virgin. I actually wanted to.”
He moved toward her, gripped her arm and pulled her toward him. “I slept with you because I wanted you. Not because I owed you a favor, not just because you wanted to lose your virginity. Not even because the idea of some other guy doing it made me see red.”
“Did it, though?”
“Hell yeah.”
“Well, I’m kind of pleased about that.”
“Don’t be. Don’t encourage me.” He sighed heavily. “Pascal can’t go back out to the wild.”
“No. He’s too . . . different. He’s too used to being around people. He doesn’t have the ability to survive on his own.”
“Because sometimes, if you’re small enough when the bad things happen, you can never really become what you were meant to be. You sort of think you’re a dog, or whatever.”
She felt a sliver of ice slip into her heart. “Yeah. I guess that’s true.”
“I might be like Pascal.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I just want you to be aware of that. Because it has nothing to do with you. Just like Pascal’s limitations have nothing to do with you. He’s better off for having you. So am I. But . . .”
“How about this. You stop trying to anticipate what you need to say to me. You just let this happen.”
He let out a long, slow breath, and she could see that it pained him. “Yeah. I guess I can do that.”
“Good.”
They made sure that all the animals were where they needed to be, separated from one another, and fed. Then she took Remington Lane into her bed. Into her arms.
But she couldn’t tell him that she had also taken him into her heart.
Because he simply wasn’t ready to hear it.
She had to hope that this was just the first step, and someday he would be.
Because if he was going to go ahead and use metaphors about animals, so was she.
She had never met a wounded animal that she didn’t believe deep down she could fix.
She would fix him too.
Or she would break her own heart trying.