Chapter 32
He heads to the bathroom to change, then heads out the back door before I know what I’m thinking. I watch through the glass door as he reaches back behind his neck, grasps his t-shirt, and tugs it over his head. Good gravy, that's hot.
It's even hotter when he tosses his shirt to the side and I'm left free to oogle that bare back, all those muscles rippling under that tanned skin.
Tattoos crawl up his side, lines of script and several images that I'm too far away to see.
He leans forward and dives into the water and I bite my lip so I won't groan.
What do I feel for him? There's more than just a sprinkle of lust, I'll tell you that. The swimming pool outside couldn't contain the attraction I have for him. But there's other things, too. Things that are even stronger than the lust.
Mack's a good man. He's been kind, caring, concerned. And I don't think for one second it's just because he wants to get into my pants. That type of guy is always working an angle and pushing, pushing, pushing. They don't have patience.
And I've never felt weirded out--like I couldn't leave my door cracked open for Midnight at night, otherwise I'd wake up to find Mack in bed with me.
He's never made me feel uncomfortable or unsafe for one split second.
The contrary, actually. Having him around is the only thing that makes me feel safe.
But until five minutes ago, I didn't really know he was interested in me that way. I might have suspected it--I mean, making out with someone is usually a good sign--but I didn't know.
Right as I have the thought, I see Mooch take a running leap into the pool. He flops into the water with zero grace and maximum enthusiasm--the same way he does everything. I love that dog. Nearly as much as I love--
Nope. Nope. No way.
I cannot be thinking the L word about a guy I met three weeks ago. That's crazy-town talk.
But as I watch Mack laugh at Mooch swimming around with his ears flippy-flapped to the sides, I can't help it. There's this stirring in me that says this is way more than friendship, way more than casual, even before we've begun.
It's a bit overwhelming. I wish it had come at a more convenient time, to be honest. I wish it had come when part of my life wasn't collapsing in a spectacular fashion. It's like my heart got half ripped out by Alex going missing, then it got an addition put onto it without me realizing it.
It's still bleeding, but it's fuller, too.
And what do I do with that?
I take a deep breath. In a weird coincidence, Mack does too. Then he dives below the surface, presumably retrieving one of those beer bottles.
Maybe I'm overthinking it. Maybe it's way simpler than I'm making it. All I wanted after I found Daniel Bellafonte’s body today was to be wrapped up in Mack’s strong arms. I didn't want him to let me go.
I wanted him to support me and he did. He held me without asking any questions, until I was ready to talk.
Then he made me a margarita and told me he liked me and asking how I feel in return.
How do I feel?
I want him. Not just his body. I want him here, in my life.
Mack resurfaces in that second, and Mooch doggy paddles in a circle with his joy. I feel the same way when I see Mack, I realize. I'm happy. Except for that first night when I was annoyed, I haven't wanted him to be anywhere else except for with me.
Decision made, I set down my margarita and go fish the red bikini out of the paper bag. But by the time I change and retrieve my margarita and head out the back door, Mack is walking up the pool steps.
And oh my gosh, it’s like the start of the world’s best porno--one written, cast, and directed by women for women.
I swear he comes out of the water in slow motion.
Water beads and glistens across all that exposed tanned skin, and trails down his abs.
I want to trace that same route with my fingers.
I have the sudden urge to write an effusive thank you note to the designer of his swim suit. It’s black and relatively short, exposing those thick, muscular thighs that I want to chip a tooth on. Besides, it cups him just so, right there, and I have to drag my eyes away before I start blushing.
His hair looks darker from being wet--nearly black--and as I watch, dumbfounded, he runs his fingers through it, tossing it back out of his eyes.
Those eyes are on me, and I wonder what expression I’m wearing.
Because his eyes seem to darken in response.
The corner of his mouth quirks and I swear there’s a flicker of an expression that I read as finally.
It’s about the same expression I make when I’m starving and the delivery guy takes his sweet time getting there. But then the pizza finally arrives and my frustration and hunger is at an end.
Is that what I’m seeing on his face? Frustration and hunger coming to an end?
Despite the slow motion that my brain gave me, time really hasn’t slowed down.
And I realize that Mack is up the steps and heading my way, his bare feet leaving shadows of moisture on the ground behind him.
He hasn’t said anything, and neither have I.
I don’t know that I could even form a word at the moment.
He keeps walking until he’s standing directly in front of me, so close that water from his hair drips onto the front of my chest. Still, I stand in stunned silence.
Because I realized something just now, something that maybe I’ve known for awhile but haven’t wanted to admit to myself. Mack is hot. Well, alright, I’ve always known and acknowledged that.
But I want him. Not just because he’s the hottest guy I’ve ever seen in my life, but because he’s thoughtful, smart, funny, protective. He’s like everything I’ve ever wanted in a man but thought I’d never find in one package.
You know those online quizzes where you get a budget of ten points and have to build a husband? And it’s five points for hot, two points for kind, that kind of thing? And you never have enough points to build the man of your dreams?
I hate those things--they teach women that you can’t have it all. And sure, no one’s perfect, but we shouldn’t settle, either. I realize right now that even though I hate those quizzes, I still believed them, on some level.
Because there’s a voice inside me that believes Mack is way too good for me.
That he’d never want me back. I’ve been staring at his chest, not really seeing it while I have all these thoughts.
Meanwhile, he’s been studying me, watching my face.
I suddenly wonder what he’s seen--I’m not good at hiding what I’m thinking.
When I finally let my eyes crawl upward, his eyes are blazing. “I’m going to kiss you now,” he says.
I only have enough time for my eyes to go wide before his large arm slides around my back. He presses my front to his. I hardly notice the water seeping from him to me--I’m breathless, overwhelmed before he even ducks his head and presses his lips to mine.
His lips are strong and soft, commanding and responsive, all at once. Kissing Mack is like enjoying the best glass of wine while riding the most exhilarating roller-coaster. I feel both absolutely safe and still thrilled from my head to my toes.
I’m plastered to the front of him and I can feel that I’m not the only one affected by the kiss.
I’ve never known what people meant when they talked about being drunk from a kiss before, but now I do.
I’m trying to press closer and closer, making these embarrassing little noises in the back of my throat--little gasps and sighs of pleasure.
One of his hands clasps me to him. The other is roving, lighting little fires everywhere he touches.
All these parts of me I’d never thought of as sexual come alight at his touch--my shoulder, down my arm, the curve of my waist. He trails a thumb down the side of my neck and presses it into the small hollow above my collar bone and I moan a little into his mouth.
I feel the smile on his lips as he keeps kissing me, and it occurs to me that I’ve never been with a man who takes his time.
At least, not like this. His hand slides over me like he’s trying to memorize my typography.
After he’s covered the rest of me once, twice, his hand slides up and rests on my ribcage, just under my breast.
I’m frustrated and needy, and I fight the urge to arch to put his hand where I really want it.
But just then, Mack pulls back. His eyes are half-lidded.
He looks exactly how I feel--sated but still starving.
He presses his lips to mine once and then again, two pecks like he doesn’t want to stop what we were doing, but is making himself.
Even as I meet him for the kisses eagerly, I wonder what this means.
It’s so cliche, but only because it’s natural to wonder--what are we now?
Friends who make out? Some guys are allergic to any kind of relationship label, even one as benign as ‘dating’, but Mack told me he wants me to be his girlfriend.
Mack presses one more kiss to my lips, ducks his head, and meets my eyes. “You’re mine now. Right, babe?”
I reflexively wrinkle my nose. “Only if you’re mine, too.”
He grins. “That’s kind of how that works.”
“Just making sure.”
Then Mack picks me up, margarita and all, and tosses me into the pool.