19. SIENNA
SIENNA
I don't open my eyes right away.
The sheets are warm and they smell like pine and sweet figs. Adrian's scent. And just like that the memories of last night moves through me in no particular order. His hands on my body, his mouth on my throat, the way he said my name when he came.
Something soft taps my chin.
I open my eyes and the grey tabby is six inches from my face, one paw raised for a second tap, studying me. He seems to find my continued sleeping personally offensive.
"Good morning," I tell him. "You're very cute."
"I believe that's my line," Adrian says from the doorway. "And that's my spot."
He's barefoot in gym shorts, no shirt, a light sheen of perspiration across his chest and shoulders. I take a moment to take it all in.
He is over six feet of pure, defined muscle. Light blonde hair dusting his defined chest, a trail of it running from his navel down past the waistband of his shorts, thick thighs.
He’s leaning in a relaxed stance in the doorway. His grey eyes are lit with something warm and teasing that make my pulse start to beat with increased rhythm.
"Well… You shouldn’t have left your spot vacant," I tease.
He crosses the room. "I never miss my morning run."
He drops to sit at the edge of the bed, close enough that I can see the perspiration sheen on his forearms and shoulders. The cat immediately abandons me and climbs over his thigh.
"Besides." His eyes move lazily over me. "Something tells me I need to stay fit to keep up with a certain sex kitten." He wiggles his eyebrows with theatrical gravity.
"Please," I say. "No bad pussy jokes this early in the morning."
He laughs, and I laugh with him, while he leans in and kisses me full on the mouth. It's warm, certain and entirely easy.
He pulls back saying. "I need a shower."
He stands. Takes two steps toward the door. Stops.
Turns back around, and there's exactly half a second of warning in his face before he grabs me off the bed. I shriek and swat at his butt when he hoists me over his shoulder anyway, laughing.
"You're coming with me," he says.
In the bathroom he sets me down in front of the shower. He reaches past me, presses a button, and steam begins to build immediately. When he turns back to me his hands find the hem of his t-shirt, which is all I'm wearing, and he pulls it over my head.
He steps out of his shorts.
He's fully hard, thick, and entirely comfortable about it.
I've had him in my hand. I know he is big. But seeing it now in the morning light it’s impressive.
I don't bother pretending I'm not staring.
He catches me at it and the corner of his mouth moves.
He takes my hand and guides it to him and when I wrap my fingers around him he exhales, controlled at first, and then he breaks.
"God," he exhales. "Your touch."
He pulls me under the water.
It's warm and the pressure is good. His hands start at my shoulders and move without urgency, unhurried and thorough, like he has nothing to do beyond knowing every inch of me. I tip my head back into the spray and let him.
His mouth finds my neck. His hands slide down my sides and I feel every point of contact separately. I put my palms on his chest and feel his heart. It’s beating fast.
His hands slide lower.
His fingers find me and I gasp with pleasure. He works me slowly, I grip his arm, breathe and revel on the fact that he is taking his time. The steam rises around us. His mouth moves to my shoulder, my jaw, the soft place below my ear.
Suddenly, he turns me to face the tiled wall.
One hand flat between my shoulder blades, pressing me gently toward the tile. I go. My hands find the wet wall.
And then he stops.
I look over my shoulder.
He's staring at my back.
I have a tattoo that covers most of it, shoulder blade to hip. Hummingbirds, hibiscus flowers, peonies and trailing vines in full color.
I feel the familiar flicker of uncertainty
"Do you like it?" I ask, when what I really want to ask is “Do you think it’s too much?”
His eyes come up to mine. He holds my gaze and says "It's beautiful" in a voice that is quieter than his usual register, lower, stripped of the polish he usually carries.
He bends his head and presses his mouth to the top of my spine.
Then the next vertebra. Then lower. His lips move through the ink slowly, following the arc of a peony, the curve of a hummingbird wing. I close my eyes, stand still and let him do it. His hands are on my hips and I can feel him hard against the small of my back.
I reach behind me to touch him. He catches my wrist.
"One second."
He steps back. I hear the rip of foil and the quick practical sound of him getting ready and then he's back, the full length of him against my spine. He takes both my wrists and pins them above my head with one hand. His other hand moves down my hip, between my legs, guiding himself in.
He pushes inside me and we both go still.
I feel him stretch me open, deep and complete, and my breath leaves my body.
He starts to move.
Long strokes first. Slow enough that I feel every single inch of him. Then faster, building pace, alternating rhythm until I can't predict him, until my hips are chasing him.
His free hand circles my clit, steady and deliberate.
The tile is cool under my palms and the steam is hot everywhere else.
His mouth finds the back of my neck and stays there.
A holding bite that keeps me in place. His grip on my wrists tightens.
And I come with my forehead pressed against the wall, shaking, his name half-formed and broken in my throat.
He slips out of me and sinks down behind me, pulling me by my hips to his mouth.
"Adrian, I can't—"
A single sharp tap against my pussy. Not hard. Enough to short-circuit my brain.
"Yes, you can," he says, against me. "Give me one more."
He uses his tongue and two fingers and I try to grip the tiles until my knuckles ache. And I give him one more. It rolls through me in waves, and I am still shaking when he stands.
He turns me around. His hands find the back of my thigh and lift.
I wrap my leg around him. He pushes back inside me, and this time there is nothing patient or measured about it.
He drives into me with a rough urgency that I feel everywhere, and I hold onto his shoulders and go with it.
A handful of deep, hard strokes, his jaw goes tight against my temple and he comes with his hands locked on my hips.
The water runs over both of us. He presses his forehead to mine.
After a moment he reaches for the shower gel and pours some into his palm and starts to work it across my shoulders.
He moves slowly, lathering down my arms, my back, slower over the tattoo.
I take the bottle from him and return the favor, my hands moving across the width of his shoulders, the planes of his back, and we don't say anything, just stand close in the steam while the water rinses everything clean.
He bends to press his mouth to my wet hair once, briefly.
He gets out first. When he returns he is holding a white fluffy towel that he wraps around me. He takes my face in both hands and kisses me hard on the mouth.
He finds me another t-shirt and sweatpants. I do what I can in the bathroom mirror with wet hair, and men's clothes hanging off me in every direction, which isn't much. I feel better than I look and that'll have to do.
He's leaning against the kitchen counter when I get there.
"Do you want to go out for breakfast? I don't have much here." A pause. And then without much intention behind it, "Or I can order in, if you'd rather stay…"
And just like that, reality comes barging in. Quiet and inevitable. This is the morning after. And I can tell by the change in the way he is looking at me that this is the moment to go.
"It’s best if I go," I say. "I'll grab coffee on the way. I need to get my truck."
He nods. Doesn’t add anything else. And proceeds to shoo the cat out, with limited success. The cat is unimpressed.
"Why are you shooing him out?" I ask.
"Because this is not his house." He replies drily.
"I thought it was your cat. He seems very comfortable here."
"He's made himself comfortable," Adrian says, getting the door halfway closed before the cat slips back through. "And now he has overstayed his welcome."
"What's his name?"
Adrian looks at me flatly. "I don't know. He. Is. Not. My. Cat."
He gets the balcony door fully closed this time, the cat watching from the other side with visible contempt.
"He seems to think otherwise."
"Tough." Adrian steps back from the door. "I don't do long term."
Noted. Might as well be me on the other side of the door.
I force myself to act natural. I pick up my phone from the counter and look at the screen, trying to find something to keep my hands busy instead of staying limp alongside my body.
"Come on." He grabs his keys. "I'll drive you to your truck. We'll get coffee on the way."
"Sure," I say. "Let me get my shoes."
After I give him the address to Dev’s house, where my truck is, we drive in silence. He holds the wheel with one hand, easy, watching the road.
The silence doesn't seem to bother him the way it bothers me. I watch the streets speed past us, ordinary and indifferent.
"We still have that Italian dinner," he says after a while, with a forced smile that has no humor behind it. "Tonight. If you still up for it."
I can't tell if he's asking or being polite. I decide it doesn't matter. I’ll let him off the hook.
“We did pizza yesterday, I guess that counts.” I say. And then aiming for lightness I add, "Pity about the private jet, though."
He glances over. "Jet's on lease. No problem there."
I look back at his profile in disbelief. Was he actually going to take me to Italy for dinner?
Dev's street appears before I can decide whether I want to know, and my truck is right there at the curb.
He parks behind it. Neither of us breaks the silence.
And then we both start at the same time.
"Thank you again—"
"I really liked—"
We stop. He smiles first. I follow.
He turns in his seat. His hand finds my face, cupping at my jaw, and he looks at me with those grey eyes that see things I haven't shown anyone else in a long time.
"I'm not in a position to make promises," he says. "I don't want to give you something that isn't real. My life—" He holds my gaze. "I really liked the time I spent with you. I want to see you again. But I'm not looking for a relationship. I can't be." A pause. "You understand?"
I go statue like. No outside reaction while inside I’m imploding.
"I understand," I say. "I liked our time too. If it happens again, great. If not, that's fine." I find a smile from somewhere and it fits well enough. "No expectations."
He looks at me for a moment. It almost seems like he is going to say something.
He kisses me. Soft. Brief.
"I'll text you a lawyer contact. Friend of mine, excellent. He'll represent you well."
Another arm's length of distance. He is tidying me away. His voice is level and reasonable as he says something about conflict of interest but I’m only half listening.
I am using everything I have to keep my face exactly where it is, to keep my hands still, to keep my voice ready for whenever I need it next.
"Sure," I say. "That makes total sense. Thanks for everything." I'm already unclipping my seatbelt. "Have a good weekend."
I get out.
The air is cool as I walk to my truck. My hand finds the magnetic key box above the front tire and I get the key out without fumbling.
I get in. I close the door. One breath in. I close my eyes. One breath out.
I open my eyes. In the rearview mirror I see his car is still there, idling at the curb. I put a smile on, raise my hand in goodbye and pull out into the street.
I drive.
Two miles later I let one tear go. Just one.