Chapter 31
I have a mind vise, and I’m not afraid to use it.
Even though I’ve been bitten by the love bug, I can still depend on my special skill—separating emotions from actions as if they’re whites and darks in the laundry.
Back at the apartment, I zone in on Josie’s hair and only on her hair.
Admittedly, the sharp, chemical odor of hair dye helps matters. Hell, maybe I’ve found the one thing about her that doesn’t turn me on. This shit stinks.
Josie is parked on the closed toilet seat in the bathroom, decked out in leggings and a bra, with a towel draped over her shoulders. I stand behind her, painting pink onto the ends of her hair.
“Do you think this is your new calling?” she asks as I wrap a section of her newly pinked hair in tinfoil. “You seem to be a good hairdresser.”
I stop, bend my face near hers, and speak sharply. “If I were you, Miss Josie, I wouldn’t be mocking the guy holding a paintbrush full of hair dye.”
“I was just teasing,” she says softly, but with worry in her tone. “You know that, right?”
“Yes. I do. I’m just giving you a hard time,” I tell her, since that’s what I have to do to make it through this. Joke, tease, play. Bring us back to who we were before.
“I appreciate you doing this,” she says, tilting her face up at me.
Fuck. Those green eyes. Those pretty lips. She makes it too difficult to give her a hard time when all I want to do is kiss her.
But duty calls, and I paint another strand. “I’m not doing this because I have hairdresser aspirations. I’m doing this for you.”
She moves her arms behind her and wraps them around my thighs. “Thank you.”
Even though all my instincts tell me to drop a kiss on her lips, or whisper something sweet in her ear, I don’t listen to them. I ignore them completely and finish her hair.
At some point she lowers her hands and folds them in her lap. Briefly, I wonder if she can feel the tension in the room. If she can sense the shift.
When I’m done, she stands and looks at me. Her eyes are etched with worry—maybe fear, too. “I have to let it sit for twenty minutes. Do you want to watch another episode of Bored to Death?”
I say yes, and we settle in next to each other on the couch.
We started bingeing on this HBO show a few days ago. The first time we watched an episode was Tuesday night, after a wildly hot session under the sheets during which we learned that we’re one of those couples that not only loves, but is really fucking good at sixty-nine.
Fuck.
I didn’t mean couple.
But, boy, did we rock that position. Neither one of us skipped a beat. I devoured her sweet pussy while she went to town on my cock, and we climaxed within about sixty seconds of each other.
And now I’m aroused while watching Ted Danson. Great. Fucking great. I’m not even touching Josie, she smells like a chemical factory, and yet the mere memory of her coming on my face is enough to get a hell of a rise out of me.
Hmmm.
Maybe I need one more time with her.
Yeah, I definitely need a final round. We don’t have to sixty-nine for me to be a happy camper. Any position will do.
When the show ends and she clicks off the TV, I offer my services. “Want me to rinse that out?”
“Sure.”
Back into the bathroom we go. Josie drops the towel from her shoulders and strips off her leggings.
She unhooks the bra, and the white lace falls to the tile floor.
I strip off my clothes, too, while she turns on the faucet.
As the water heats up, I reach behind her head and undo the tinfoil pieces, balling them up and tossing them in the trash.
Then she tips her head toward the shower.
She doesn’t have to say it. But I swear I can hear the words on her lips. One last time.
Or maybe it’s just an echo in my head.
“Ladies first,” I say, and open the shower door for her. She stands under the stream, and I join her in the heat as she lets the water rinse out the color. Pinkish waterfalls slide down her body, over her breasts, down her legs. The dye splashes on the tile floor in a bright fuchsia puddle.
I grab her shampoo, pour some in my hand, and lather up her hair.
She sighs happily, like a cat being petted.
That’s one of the very many things I love about her.
She welcomes touch. She’s amazingly good at giving pleasure, and accepting it, too.
Not every woman can bask in the moment and savor someone adoring her body.
But Josie can. She opens herself fully to feeling good, to being worshipped as she fucking deserves.
And it’s maddening how much it turns me on.
I concentrate on the task of washing her hair. Once she’s all lathered up, I tip her head back and rinse out the shampoo. When her hair is sleek as a seal’s, she raises her head out of the stream.
“There,” I say, and she opens her eyes and loops her arms around my neck.
She lifts her chin and says a soft, “Thank you.”
“Anytime,” I say, trying to keep it light, since I feel anything but.
She runs her finger over my top lip as the hot water beats down. “Did you know I’m on the pill?”
All the air rushes from my lungs. I nod. “I did know that.”
That’s the thing about sharing a bathroom and a medicine cabinet. We don’t have too many secrets.
“Do you want to do it without protection?”
I groan, and somehow my dick thickens more, practically begging me to get down to business this second.
Josie is killing me. Just fucking killing me. Max was right. I’ve got to get out of here. I can’t be near her. I can’t resist her.
Right now, I don’t intend to.
I shift her to the wall, push her back against it, and slide my hand between her legs. I stroke her pussy and marvel at the feel. It hits me that she’s this turned on simply from me washing her hair.
Jesus Christ.
In some alternate universe I’m the luckiest bastard on the face of the earth, to have a woman who’s so wildly aroused.
In this one, I’m just the schmuck about to enjoy his final benefit.
But make no mistake, I’m going to enjoy the ever-loving hell out of it.
I hook her leg around my hip, holding her tight, then rub my dick against her sweet, wet center. A sexy moan falls from her gorgeous mouth, and I slide home.
It’s extraordinary.
And I never want to wear a condom again because this is motherfucking heaven. Her heat envelopes me. Her walls clench around my hard-on. Her breath catches, the most desperate sound I’ve ever heard her make.
Then I fuck her.
In my head, I say that word over and over.
This is fucking. This is fucking. This is fucking.
This isn’t making love.
This is just the final screw before I go. I can’t care about the way she threads her hands in my hair. I can’t linger on the murmurs she makes. And I can’t give a second thought ever again to how she clutches me and cries my name when she comes, as if I’m the answer to her every wish.
I won’t let myself think about how she sounds just as lost as I am.
Because seconds later, I’m coming, too, and the pleasure blots out the empty ache.
* * *
A little later I’m dried off and dressed. I zip up my backpack, which contains a few changes of clothes. Footsteps sound behind me, then a question.
“What are you doing?”
I turn around, take a breath, and rip off the Band-Aid like I promised I’d do. “I’m going to stay with Max.”
Her jaw drops. “What?”
I nod. “Just for a little while.”
“Why?” Her brow furrows as her voice wobbles. She stands in my doorway, dressed in jeans and a cute green blouse. Her hair is blown dry, and the ends are bright pink now.
I step closer. “I think the cake is baked now, baby,” I say softly, remembering I have to do this. “It’ll be easier this way.”
“You’re just leaving?”
“I’ll be back. I promise.” Though, right now I don’t know how to be near her when I want her this badly. “We always knew we had to stop. I can’t stop when I’m living in the same six hundred square feet as you. It feels like we’re playing house.”
She bites her lip as if she’s holding in all her sadness. “You think we’re just playing house?”
I glance around and wave at the walls, frustration building inside me, mixed with hurt.
“We can’t just go on like this,” I say. Then I can’t help it.
I’m done. I just can’t hold it in anymore.
I unleash my heart. “I wake up next to you, and I want to touch you. I watch TV with you, and I can’t stop kissing you.
Hell, I dye your hair and we wind up naked in the shower.
I can’t just cut this off like it’s a growth and go back to watching Bored to Death without wanting to make love to you,” I say, then wince because I’ve made my great mistake.
I swallow nervously, but stand my ground.
Her eyes pin me, and she says nothing for a moment that lasts too long. When she speaks, her tone is soft and tender. “Was that what it was for you?”
I won’t go first. “You tell me.” My voice is gravelly. Broken.
She crosses her arms. She doesn’t answer me. Instead, she purses her lips then speaks softly. “I don’t want you to leave.”
I reach for her elbow, desperation spiraling in me. But I’m not even sure what I’m fighting for—for her to see what we could become, or for her to let me go. “You want to stay friends, don’t you?”
She nods. “You know I do.”
I grip her arm tighter. “And you said this had to end. Josie, it’s too hard for me to be here right now. You’ve got to understand.”
A tear slides down her cheek. Then one trickles over the other. More fall, like a summer rain shower. She swipes at her cheeks, but she’s fighting an uphill battle.
I’m torn between wanting to pull her in my arms and comfort her and needing to protect myself. But there’s something else at play, too. Morbid curiosity. That wins. “Josie,” I say, and she draws a sharp inhale and looks up. “Was it that way for you?”
She parts her lips, but no answer comes because a loud rap of knuckles reverberates through the apartment.
“Did you order lunch or something?” I ask.
She shakes her head and turns on her heel, heading for the door. “The doorman called a few minutes ago. He had to take care of something on our floor so he offered to bring up the package.”
The knocking continues. “Ah, your rolling pin.”
“Probably.” Her voice is empty.
She peers through the peephole then nods at me. She unlocks and opens the door. A short, stout man in a green blazer stands at the threshold. The day doorman.
“Ms. Hammer, this is for you,” he says, then hands her a white envelope. The legal size.
She regards it curiously. “What is this?”
“I signed for it yesterday. It’s a certified letter.”
He turns to go, and she lets the door fall closed. She looks at me then at the envelope. I shrug and gesture to the item in her hand. Open it. She takes out a sheet of paper and reads.
After a minute, she blinks and meets my eyes. “It’s from the landlord.” Her voice is a barren whisper.
“What did he say?”
“Mr. Barnes needs the apartment for his niece,” she says heavily, then shakes her head like she can’t believe the hand she was just dealt. “We have to be out in a month. We’re losing our home.”
Looks like our days of playing house truly are over.