15. Chapter 15 Staley
Chapter 15 Staley
T heo leans as if he’s going to savor every inch of me. All I can do is slow my breathing for fear of spontaneous combustion, rob the fire of oxygen, and hope the smothered spark will burn out. Theo not touching me while leaning in so closely is a challenge, one I weigh the pros and cons of pressing up against. Today’s sweater is a gorgeous cream color with tortoiseshell buttons. He’s a warm oatmeal cookie, hot and waiting for me to get my hands on him.
Nothing about Theo makes me feel threatened or unsafe. Whether he realizes it or not, he’s daring me most respectfully, if not seductively, to push the parameters of our working relationship. I want to unbutton his sweater, wrap my hands around his thick middle, and forget my problems. This behavior is out of his comfort zone. A false confidence with this whole me man, you woman talk isn’t planned on his part, I can tell. I would give him all his money back if he could make my skin feel like this again. Luca makes me feel the same way when I listen to him, but this is a million times better, poetry in motion.
All I can think about is pulling him to my face to shut his delicious mouth up, to taste him. Forget stringing words together to make coherent sentences; I’m all out of them. His honeyed breath sweetens my predilection toward him.
I came here hoping to put him in his place, maybe throw my metaphorical hands if needed—quit if necessary. Deep down, my anger isn’t meant for him. It’s for everything else in my life slowly suffocating me day after day. Theo is collateral damage in a fight he knows nothing about, and his life is cush, in comparison to mine.
Theo’s confession of his fears causes me to clamp my eyes shut, hoping he’ll overcome them. Contracts, teacher-student, and job security would go out the window if I forgo professionalism. I hope he’ll take this further, but I shouldn’t. I am hard up, and the affection in his voice captures me.
What is it about his words?
I’d love nothing more than to run away and not reciprocate his staring, but I am desperate for the reprieve of phosphenes behind my eyelids. I release a long-held breath and do a small end-zone victory dance because I didn’t want to hyperventilate and embarrass myself further. When his eyes meet mine, it’s all conflict and desire. The anxiety of losing my job should outweigh the feelings I’m swimming through right now, but they don’t.
Theo is at war with himself, one I’m witnessing play out before me. Before I can ask questions or demand that he return his warmth, Theo retreats to the kitchen with his back to me and his fingers pressing down on the countertop.
The sweat on my back seeps through my top, and it’s one of the many reasons I’m not peeling myself out of this chair right now. Scanning my body, I quickly assess my panic level. He’s left me with jellied legs and a fire in my stomach.
I start to square breathe. I inhale one, exhale two, inhale three, and exhale four.
Wait, Theo gets to turn me on without warning and then fades into the other room without further conversation? No.
Careful not to slip across the mahogany floors, I plant my feet firmly and ground my body. I remind myself who’s the boss here and march right into the kitchen.
Staring at the expanse of his back displaces me and leaves me trying to be brave on a set of grounded feet and shaky knees. The mere sight of him digs up all sorts of feelings. I want to press my front to the back of him so I can rest my head at heart level and allow it to lull me into a state of calm. I’ve never been a woman who has lusted after a chiseled body—yes, they’re lovely to look at—but I much prefer Theo’s stature, broad and sturdy with enough muscle for me to know he could throw me over his shoulder if he were rescuing me from a burning building. Soft enough to be held against while still feeling safe.
“What the hell was that all about, huh?” I demand.
He drops his head, and I feel a smidgen of guilt. Lemons lay sliced on a wooden cutting board with two mugs and a honey jar. Visions of him and I with the amber liquid push into my mind, and it’s sticky and sweet, and lordy, there is licking and hungered kisses.
Fuck. It’s hot.
I’m met with more silence, which has to be one of the most annoying things I’ve experienced as a professional cuddler. It’s so easy to separate myself from the client in all capacities, emotionally and physically. But this client.
Ughhh. Scream internally, Staley.
Theo maintains his pace as if he has all the time in the world. The thing is, I don’t. Every passing minute on the clock is time I won’t get back in the rest of my life. Can’t get back.
He places a spoon in each mug, slides his defined hands through the handles, and turns to face me. Theo extends the warm offering, and I can’t help but take in how his hand wraps around the entirety of the mug. Upon further admiration, I see how his middle finger kisses the tip of his thumb and tuck the image away for a rainy day. Hands, forearms, and thighs are a trifecta of sexy I can’t avoid.
I ditch all common sense and accept the beverage. It’s not coffee, but it’s fine.
Our hands tangle in the crosshairs. He and I are in an invisible magnetic field, our forces pulling us together. Some liquid spills over the side, disrupting our accidental finger flirting. Breath sucks through my cinched mouth, my skin raising at the burn.
“Oh my God, I’m s-sorry St-staley. Are you okay?” His voice is back to tender and quiet but equally worried.
Theo makes quick work of placing the mugs on the counter. He takes my wounded hand in his and pulls me to the kitchen sink. Throwing the faucet lever back, Theo allows the ice-cold water to run freely. All I feel is heat and impetuosity to demand Theo explain himself while getting more of his touches in. There’s nothing wrong with him tending to my wound. He’d do this for anyone, I convince myself anyway.
The tap water hits my reddened skin making me clammy all over. Injuries and me don’t mix. Minor things trigger my anxiety these days. A reminder I can get hurt at any time, and if something happens to me, then who will take care of my dad?
Theo’s shoulder and firm arm cross the front of my body as he inspects the severity of the accident. One thing is for sure: Most of my cuddle clients do not smell this good. A gentle inhale from his sweater makes me dizzy and soft on the inside. He shuts the water off and looks for something nearby to dry my hands. Self-conscious, I attempt to smell myself. I’m sweating so much. How is Theo tolerating me this close?
Theo wraps his hand around my wrist as my pulse ratchets against his thumb. A cottony-soft tea towel pats me dry, and in his grasp, I feel tethered and solid in the best sort of way. His fast intervention reduces the burn, but all common sense has left the building, and I have forgotten how riled up I was three minutes ago.
I let him brush his thumb across my palm because it’s nice to feel good, even for a few seconds. My shoulders settle, and only a bit of heat remains at the burn site; it moves to the sides of my neck and throughout my belly, leaving me slightly disoriented and enamored at his touch.
I clear my throat.
“Thanks. I think I’m going to be okay. It was an accident.”
He nods and lets my hand go with hesitation. A lingering absence radiates on my skin, and the sting of the burn replaces it. Theo’s touch was a soothing salve, and I want more of it.
“How do we k-keep getting off on the w-wrong foot, Staley?”
A smirk is all I can offer.
“The only thing I can think of doing right now is cuddling. Move past it. It’s why you had me come here, isn’t it?”
The question brings a sweeping blush across Theo’s face, and I decide right here, and right now, I need to figure out how to make it happen again. The pink of his cheeks enhances how rich his eyes are, making me want to reach up and adjust his messy hair, giving it a slight tug. His entire aesthetic is an invitation I want to RSVP to.
Shyness looks good on Theo, a vast difference from the sharp-tongued, assertive man from earlier. We return to his office, and for the life of me, I cannot figure out how I’ll read my shitty poetry out loud to him. I could care less about the hundred other students in the class and their thoughts on my words, but his—oof.
Theo sips his drink and leans against the edge of his desk with his legs crossed at the ankle. I take inventory of what’s behind him, noticing the surface lacks the notebooks, microphone, and pens from the previous visit. What can only be a day-old mug remains in their place.
“So, we sh-should cuddle.” His voice’s aching and unsure timbre returns to something milder, not meek but soft.
The way he speaks to me now and all of the times before feels different, cautious, and with an air of questioning. He’s checking in with me, and it’s so attractive. The stutter is there; for all I know, it could be a nervous thing or something more.
“Yes. Some lowered cortisol might do us both some good right now.”
“I was th-thinking the blanket might be okay again.”
“Sure. Position?” I spit the words out without thinking.
Sitting on his face. Bent over the desk. The little spoon with your pants at your knees.
He chokes on his drink and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving his lips glistening all bright and plump from the warmth of the beverage. Without revealing my internal grin, I act as if my question had no innuendo.
“Um, I was th-thinking about Cheek-to-Cheek?”
In my line of work, we call this position butt stuff because we’re incorrigible adults with the sense of humor of teenagers. It’s sweet how he’s simplified the name into a term of endearment as if we’d lie with our faces touching one another. The image crosses my mind, and my body feels lighter at the idea of it. Theo wrings his hands together. The whiplash I’m receiving from who he is in front of me and who he was ten minutes ago is confusing.
Getting a nervous client to drop their guard is one of my strengths. Finding ways to lighten the mood when they are in the throes of heartache and loneliness and cuddle appointments is about creating and instilling trust. I’m here to support Theo in whatever capacity he might need, and he’s showing me that he needs me to change the room’s energy. This calls for an icebreaker of some sort.
I take a running start for the blanket, praying to the universe it will cushion my idiotic trick.
“Incoming!!!”
The blanket acts as a makeshift slip-and-slide as I glide across the smooth wooden floor. Theo erupts in laughter, doubling over at my antics. As I roll over to my side, I pat the blanket.
“Come on in, the water is fine.”
Shiny eyes greet mine; if possible, they are brighter when he smiles, so relaxed and uninhibited with eyelashes that should be illegal. Every session has to start with cannonballing or trying out a Risky Business slide across the floor to see his golden smile again.
Theo sidles up next to me—his back to mine—and we both assume the position, my butt cheeks against his with our spines barely kissing, parallel to the other. I press my bottom into his and rest one of my arms underneath my head for support. The other lies along the length of my body. This cushion of feathers has Theo’s scent baked in. I want to roll myself up in it and sleep for an entire week, drunk on his scent. Citrus smells bring me such a sense of peace and calm.
Our feet curl behind us, meeting one another’s soles until, from below the waist, our legs make the shape of a heart.
Softly, he asks, “Is this okay?”
I nod in reply because clients never ask. Hell, some of them pick the position before I agree to it. I’ve given plenty of lectures to my clients on consent, even though this is a paid service. But, Theo, he’s so careful with me.
So what if he’s not experienced in general? It’s not your business, and you’re here to cuddle him, not cop a feel.
“So ... your mom is a real piece of work.”
The vibration from Theo’s laugh rolls from his back to mine, sending warmth coursing through my body. It’s nice and comforting, easy even.
“Understatement.”
“Does she make it a habit to ask strangers on dates for her adult son, or was I looking extra desperate and lonely this morning?”
Without thinking, his arm reaches for mine, squeezing my hand with assurance.
“No, it wasn’t y-you. You are s-striking.”
Rejecting his compliment, I exalt a small laugh.
“I can’t say I’ve ever had anyone tell me I’m pretty when rocking my Encino Man shirt.”
There’s something unique about knowing someone is smiling without looking at their face. It’s as if Theo’s grin fills the room, warming the corners of my mind where the imbalances tend to hang out. He takes a long, slow inhale and speaks.
“Brendan Fraser as L-link was his best role if you ask me.”
A snort jumps ship from my mouth.
“Agreed. He was most excellent at juice wheezing.”
I’m the sort of person whose sense of humor is often overlooked, so it gives me an ego boost when Theo’s hands course through his wildly messy hair in an attempt to tamper his laughter. We laugh until the other is laughing so hard our eyes and noses leak.
The connection between our bodies is steady and symbiotic. We are two dissimilar organisms, he with his wavering confidence levels and bitchy mother and I with my anxiety disorder and ailing father. But right now, we benefit from the presence of the other.
“I’m sorry about my M-mother. It’s not you, it’s her.”
Shame laces his words, and it causes me to freeze up because he is lovely, and he shouldn’t have to apologize for someone else’s shittiness. It’s not my place, but everything inside me screams to make him feel better. Our elbows knock against one another, and without thinking, my hand reaches for his again. Our pinkies lock, linking us together in a simple but meaningful way. Want floods my entire body, and the rules fight for their place within my brain.
This is fine—a simple cuddle modification, not a rule violation.
“She sounds difficult. Don’t apologize on behalf of other people when they’re capable of owning their shitty behavior. It’s a matter of wanting to, and I suspect your mother doesn’t do anything she doesn’t want to. But she should apologize or be a better human—it might be a tall ask.”
His pinky tightens around mine in a finger cuddle that might as well be a full-body hug.
You’re relieved he doesn’t have a girlfriend. Finger fucking someone else’s man is a big no-no, and you’re relieved.
Shame barrels through my chest because I can’t get lost in what my vagina demands of me right now. Some days, she’s the boss. What can I say? I make the intentional and reluctant decision to disentangle our physical connection.
An uncomfortable silence dances between the small gap of our backs, daring us to press the entirety of our spines against one another more intentionally.
“You’re not wrong. I don’t think anyone has h-had the guts to call her that aside from you and Maeve. She’s a t-termagant if ever there was one.”
There’s her name again. Maeve, not termagant.
Theo and I are strangers in the simplest of terms. It’s taking all of my willpower to trust he and Maeve have never been a thing. There’s comfort in his speaking, and even though there are pauses and detours along the way, it’s clear to me how Theo chooses every single one of his words.
Bravery kicks into gear because I have to know.
“Your voice ...” It’s familiar but not all at once, and I’m wondering if I’m low on vitamins and minerals because my brain is a foggy bathroom mirror after a hot shower.
I hesitate to finish the sentence because I don’t want to make Theo think the way he talks is all I’m focused on because it isn’t, but it is. The melodic and kind parts of his voice and the suddenness of his rich occasional timbre, what’s not to notice?
His body shifts and repositions, pressing back into me a bit more firmly than before.
“My voice?”
He’s as clear as a bell, and my skin pebbles with gooseflesh and heat.
“Do I make you nervous? Sometimes you don’t say much at all, and other times—”
“I sound all wrong y-you mean?”
If I could burrow into the depths of this comforter and hide here forever in a state of embarrassment, I would.
“No! Not at all.”
Theo’s hand reaches from behind to grip the front of my thigh. His hold is strong and willful. The voice from earlier returns, when he lit me up from the inside out with his hand on my waist.
“I’m not nervous if that’s w-what you’re w-worried about.”
“Oh, okay.”
His grip loosens as he gently makes small sweeping movements with his thumb across my quadricep.
“Sometimes my st-stutter gets away from me, and my m-mouth runs a m-marathon. The m-muscles in my face tire, my tongue g-gets heavy.”
“And what about the other times?”
“Other times, when I’m c-comfortable and my stress is low ... situations where I feel in control, I move through speech better regulated. Or if I have time to practice.”
“I imagine that is difficult to navigate, and you’re a poet too. I’m impressed by your stamina—the world goes a million miles an hour most of the time. Does it feel hard to keep up with everything around you?”
I get the impression no one asks him these kinds of questions. It’s been easier to keep people at a distance and let them think he’s an introverted man of few words.
“I don’t bother trying to k-keep up. It’s lonely more than anything. But I d-don’t want anyone’s p-pity or amplified compliments because they think I’m not intelligent or am less of a person due to a stutter.”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I roll up to my knees to meet him head-on, reaching out to touch his face, palming the ridges of his full jaw, hoping he will turn and soften his gaze on me. Theo’s shoulders stiffen at my touch, and all I get is a brittle front that risks breakage if I press into it the wrong way. It hangs in the air creating distance between the two of us.
“Theo?”
Yes, I’m all spitfire and sass mouth, but under no circumstances do I want to hurt anyone’s feelings, least of all Theo’s.
“Theo, I’m sorry. I was showing admiration, not offering aggrandized compliments because I think there’s something wrong with you ...”
Theo embraces my touch, and a breath leaves his body. His eyes catch mine, and he offers a little nod.
“No, I kn-know. I believe you.”
The heaviness of his head softens as he allows me to hold him. I coax my thumb across his gorgeous cheeks where a few days of stubble remain. It would be so easy to lean in and kiss him, take away his worry around me judging him because I like him as he is.
The weight of his words are a treaty for peace in the middle of a war. It’s a gesture of good faith. Whatever his history with other people, he won’t bring it to the table between us.
I can let whatever this working relationship between him and me be whatever it might be. I won’t think about all the chemistry between us unless it becomes clear it will interfere with my class or job. I leave Theo’s with one understanding: I’ll have to practice loads of self-control for the next few weeks.