Chapter 18
Roman
Her face goes blank, and my heart skips a beat. Then, the most endearing, genuine smile slowly spreads across it, and I feel like I could fly, or at the very least spin around with her above my head like an Olympic figure skater.
“Does that freak you out?” I turn the question back on her.
She laughs as if it’s an absurd thing to ask. With apparently newfound confidence on skates, she flings her arms around my neck and pulls herself to my chest.
“As long as it doesn’t freak you out that every morning I’d secretly wish you’d be there,” she confides, giving me smile so big my cheeks hurt.
Her blue eyes dazzle up at me under the bright lights of the arena, and I never want to lose this very view. “So, after these five days—”
“Oh my god, I know him!” Ren gasps, pointing at a TV hanging above the eating area by concessions.
I can’t believe I was so close to saying something so reckless, so selfish. Thank God I don’t think Ren caught a word I said. I watch the TV, feeling like I just dodged a bullet.
On the news, a sixty-something-year-old white man walks down the courthouse steps to a mass of reporters’ microphones and cameras. The ticker at the bottom reads, “Cult Leader Indicted for Fraud along with Several Big Oil Executives.”
“This is crazy,” Ren says for the third time on our drive back home—well, my place.
She’s been devouring articles on her phone about Johnathon Willis, the “Divine Elder” she saw on the news.
“Apparently, these oil companies had been intentionally contaminating our water and soil to conduct studies on toxicity and exposure to different chemicals and such. Because we were so insular, our community was the perfect control group.”
“That’s inhumane,” I say, disgusted.
“It’s awful!” she agrees. “And these companies are supposed to get signed waivers and consent from everyone taking part in their experiments. But instead of telling any of us, Willis forged all the forms and pocketed all the compensation we were supposed to get for literally being poisoned.”
She goes silent for a moment, then, for the second time in an hour, gasps loudly in utter shock. “Oh my god. I got an interview.”
I don’t know why my chest sinks at the news, especially when she’s clearly elated. “I thought you were taking time off for a little bit?” I selfishly hope whatever the new job is, it doesn’t start before Christmas.
“I am. This is for a volunteer position at a gorilla sanctuary. I thought I could fulfill little Ren’s dream until I find something paying for big Ren.” She laughs.
“That’s great.” I reach over to place my hand on her thigh. “I’m really happy for you. When’s the interview?”
“Tomorrow at one.” She sounds a little nervous. “They wanted to squeeze it in before their office closes for the holidays. Which, I think, is a good sign, right? Like, even if they aren’t eager to interview me specifically, they must be trying to fill the position quickly.”
“I’m sure it has to do with you being the applicant. Do you want me to drop you off at your place so you can be ready for tomorrow?” I try to keep my tone neutral even though I’d be crossing all my fingers and toes if I could.
“It’s after lunch so I figured I could still spend the night.
” It makes me pleased and, for some reason, a little proud that she assumed she would be sleeping over again.
I must not show it on my face because she starts, “I mean, if that’s cool with you, or I could go home. I don’t know what you had in mind—”
“What I had in mind”—I stop her spiral in its tracks—“is taking advantage of your tree-decorating expertise, then taking advantage of you in bed—” I tilt my head side to side as if indecisive.
“Or in the kitchen or on the couch, hell, even the hallway floor. I’m not that picky.
Then waking up to a repeat of this morning. ”
I finish just as we pull up to a red light, so I can look over and see her perfect, closed-mouth smile that’s a combination of bashful and giddy.
She picks my hand off her leg and presses a kiss to my palm. “I very much like the sound of that.”
Ren
The overhead lights are off in Roman’s living room, and he’s seconds away from plugging in the ones on the Christmas tree when I realize, “We forgot the star!”
I switch back on the room’s lights and immediately start digging through the bag from the thrift store.
After tossing all the extra paper used to protect the ornaments, I find our star buried at the bottom.
It looks like something someone DIYed, tubes of cardboard formed into points then slathered with Mod Podge and doilies.
Roman crouches down in front of me. “Get on my shoulders.”
“What?”
“Unless you have another idea for reaching the top of the tree.” He makes a very good point.
Hesitantly, I clutch the star to my chest then lift one leg over his shoulder. Once I’m fully seated, he folds his arms over my shins and asks, “Ready?”
“Yep,” I say, surprised with how sturdy I feel—I think there’s a metaphor somewhere in there, but any deeper meaning is lost on me once he starts standing. I wobble back, but his arms are like bars across my legs and I easily right myself.
He takes a step closer to the tree. I love the smell of the fresh pine. The star fits perfectly over the top sprig.
“Done!” I proudly proclaim, and he lowers back down.
Once I’m back on my own two feet, he looks at me. “Lights?”
“Yes,” I say excitedly. I go to turn off the lights, and he goes to plug in the tree. I remind him one last time, “Don’t forget to close your eyes!”
“One, two, three,” he counts down. I squeeze my eyes shut and flip the switch while he closes his and plugs the cord into the outlet.
I start blindly shuffling toward the tree and hear him doing the same.
“No peeking,” he warns unnecessarily.
“Please.” I wave my arms in front of me. “I take this very seriously.”
My hand hits something hard but squishy, and Roman chuckles. “I knew you were an ass girl.”
He must turn around while I’m laughing because the next thing I feel is both of his hands grabbing mine.
He pulls me to him, then wraps his arms around my shoulders, hugging my back to his chest. His chin rests on top of my head, and I think this singular moment is the happiest I’ve been in a really long time.
I almost don’t want to open my eyes, fearing that it all might actually be a dream.
On the count of three again, we open our eyes together and . . .
“That is a couch,” Roman states.
I laugh, realizing we’re turned around, and he spins us to face the tree.
And there it is in all its glory. A string of rainbow lights woven between the limbs and the sad, plain ornaments that were once all alone, now with plenty of friends.
He hums approvingly. “Well done, Miss Calloway. Well done.”
Later that night, I’m reading one of Roman’s books in Roman’s bed, wearing Roman’s giant tee shirt.1It feels like a scene stolen from the future. One of an unremarkable couple doing unremarkable things but being remarkably happy.
Despite the short time we’ve known each other and the unconventional way we met, I feel safe, comfortable, and completely at ease.
And I think that’s all I ever really wanted. If I were being the good girl, I just wanted someone to be good to me in return. Somehow, that was always too much to ask for. Roman has shown me it’s not.
He comes out of the bathroom, a white towel just barely able to wrap around his waist. A few rogue drops of water from his shower remain, cutting down his chiseled chest and abs. He looks down at the book in my hand. “I hope you don’t mind I started this?”
“Not at all,” he says with a distant tone that makes me wonder if he even heard me. His eyes trace my bent legs where I sit on top of the covers. My heart beats a little faster, like it does anytime his attention zeros in on me.
He steps up to the side of the bed. I’m about to put the book down when he says in that gravelly tone that makes my pussy clench, “Don’t stop.”
He grabs my ankles, then spins my legs over the side of the bed. I hold tightly onto the book as he flips me onto my stomach next.
“Keep reading,” he orders, and I hear his towel drop.
He tugs my hips to the edge of the mattress, my toes grazing the floor.
My body hums with anticipation, my bare pussy put on display when he pushes the shirt up my back.
My chest pounds. His hard cock slides against my ass as he rocks slowly back and forth, in no rush to get a condom.
Earlier this evening, Dr. Romero called us both separately to inform us our tests came back clean.
“Tell me again why you didn’t want to postpone the doc’s visit,” he says in such a deep, hungry tone, it’s almost a growl.
“Next time you use me like your own personal fuckdoll, I don’t want anything in between us.” My words come out feathered and quiet even though saying them exhilarates me.
“Mm-hmm.” He groans. “Now, keep reading while I use this tight little cunt for my own pleasure.”
I gasp loudly when he gives me no other warning before slamming inside me. “God—” I quickly bite my tongue and force myself to focus on the book in front of me. I start a sentence I have no hope of finishing as he withdraws part way, then pounds back in.
His hands on my hips pull me back on his every thrust. “Fuck, baby, you really are so goddamn tight like this.” He’s right. I’m just wet enough that it doesn’t hurt, but just barely.
“Mm-hmm,” I whimper.
“You’re hugging my cock so perfectly, so fucking good for me, aren’t you, sweet girl?” he croons, slowing his thrusts to hard, sensual rolls of his pelvis.
“Yes . . . please.” I don’t even know what I’m pleading for. All I know is that I want to be a good girl for him.
“Please what? Please stretch your tight little pussy?”
“Yes, yes,” I mewl.
“Please use you like a good little whore?” He picks back up his pace, shoving me against the bed with every punch of his hips.
“Please fuck you until I get what I want then leave you desperate and dripping for more?” His voice gets rougher with every question, like the more he taunts me, the more he’s torturing himself.
“Or maybe I want to leave you a trembling mess, make you come again and again for me.” Every word, every stroke, every finger digging into my hip claws at my inhibition, at any preconceived ideas about what I should want or enjoy.
And as they shred, I’m left only with my desire, every wonderful, wanton spark of it.
“Yes. Please. All of it,” I beg. He reaches over me and plucks the book from my hand.
In my periphery, I catch him using the dust jacket flap as a bookmark before setting it on the nightstand. He pulls out completely, then grabs me by the waist before tossing me farther onto the bed. I lie flat on my stomach now, only my feet dangling off the side.
“Stay just like that,” he demands.
The bed rocks as he climbs onto it. He kneels, straddling my thighs.
His palms knead my ass, then move up and down my back.
“You’re so beautiful like this, all laid out for me.
I could spend all night tasting every inch of you.
” I moan in pleasure as he massages my shoulders then sits back up.
“But that won’t be tonight. So right now, I need you to lift your hips for me, beautiful. ”
I draw my hips up. “That’s my girl.” He groans as he slips into my now soaking pussy. With his hands planted by my sides, he forces my pelvis back down with his.
When he thrusts, the weight of him on top of me expels all the air in my lungs with a moan.
His hips pin me down so tightly that each time he pounds into me from behind, my clit rubs against the bed. It’s rough and deep and still not enough. Every spike of pleasure is followed by the hope that the next one will be stronger, harder.
“Fuck me into the mattress. Fuck me into the matt—” I stutter.
He delivers, pinning both my hands behind my back.
Soon, I can’t catch my breath, my pussy is throbbing, and my clit is pulsing. All I can do is bite the sheets and take it.
“Is this what you wanted? For me to wreck your greedy fucking pussy?” he rasps hoarsely.
I nod deliriously. “So—good—” I try to speak between each forced exhale. My head swims. Desire and pressure is all I can focus on, the building tension, my muscles constricting for a release. “I’m going to—about to com—fuck, fuck, Roman, please.”
He releases my hands and flattens his chest and stomach to my back, wrapping one arm across my chest. His breath is hot against my neck. My body clenches under him, my needy whines incoherent.
He keeps his thrusts heavy and hard as he whispers roughly in my ear, “That’s it. Come all over my cock like my good fucking slut.” And I shatter.
I shatter like a fucking supernova, hot and bright.
“Fuck, fuuckk,” he growls, my pussy milking his cock as he comes, hard and hot, his body enveloping mine.
His supporting arm shakes as he tries to catch his breath, panting into the nook of my neck. His weight and heat are the most comforting things and exactly what I need right now. Maybe all I ever needed.
It feels wholly inadequate, but I say it anyway, breathless and blissful. “Thank you.”
1. Play "Lights On"—H.E.R.