Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Dean
You can do this.
I ’ve been staring at her front door for what could be hours or microseconds, trying not to rustle the bouquet in my hand - buying it seemed like the right thing to do - and I’m steeling myself to knock.
My gut is full of butterflies, my mind is racing at ten miles a minute, and my heart rate is even faster than that.
I don’t know if this is a good feeling or a bad one, but… I kind of like it.
It’s one hell of a cocktail. Nerves. A hint of terror.
A lot of anticipation. And want . Pure, unfiltered, and raging through me like a burst dam.
I don’t know how this is going to go. I know everything changes after this point, and life opens up like I never believed it could. And I can’t wait.
But I also feel like leaving the flowers at the door and running home is probably the smarter, safer idea…
Get it together. I refuse to even entertain the idea.
And I will not think about the past. This has nothing to do with Callie, or Whitmire, or anyone else from Nolan High.
This is about Liaden. It’s about today.
If I think too much about yesterday, I’ll spiral downwards, and that just can’t happen.
So I focus on one more deep breath, staying in the moment, feeling it travel all the way to my toes and back up, the way several therapists taught me.
Any man alive would kill to be standing where you are right now.
Fistfuls of gorgeous pink hair. The smell of pears and wild flowers on the pulse point of her neck.
The smooth sweetness of her lips, peachy soft as they brushed over mine.
I want to taste them again. I want them running over the rest of me as well, like when we hugged that time and her mouth brushed my throat…
…and all I have to do to make that happen is knock on this fucking door .
Liaden
I was so right when I thought my dream about dogs was significant in some way.
“Listen, I think he’s at my door, but if we could drop by sometime to see him, that would be great,” I say to my friend Daphne via Skype.
She’s helping me out with an idea I’ve had for Dean, and, having done my research, everything seems to be coming together so perfectly for this plan that it’s eerie.
“Sure,” she says easily, “just give me an hour’s warning whenever you like.”
“Thanks so much. See you soon.” I end the call and dash to the door, taking one final look in the mirror in the hallway.
I’m wearing my favourite blue tea dress, and my hair is loose because I think he likes it that way.
I’m not wearing much makeup because panda eyes after a roll in the hay is never the best look.
A shiver of delicious excitement tingles along my spine.
My anticipation has been running high, especially after yesterday’s kiss, and I have a brief mental flash of opening the door and climbing his mouth watering body like a spider monkey.
Ripping his clothes off with my bare teeth like a woman possessed. Fornicating with him where he stood.
Maybe another time .
When I open the door, he’s standing there holding the most beautiful bunch of flowers, the scent of pink roses and white freesias filling the space between us.
They’re almost as gorgeous as his shy, nervous smile.
I’m developing a genuine fetish about his beaten up leather jacket, and his black jeans and charcoal grey henley look brand new.
His hair is still damp and curling at the ends from, I assume, a shower, since it’s not raining.
Smart man, Dean. I’m gonna dirty you up like you wouldn’t believe…
“How lovely,” I say, pointing at the flowers, “are they for me?”
His smile widens in relief as he hands them to me. Glad you like them.
“I love them,” I assure him as I invite him inside and he toes off his black trainers - again, looking pristine enough to be new.
I pop the roses in water in my best vase, still in the plastic wrapping.
Arranging them can wait. I love being given flowers as a gift, and it’s been a while since I got them from a romantic interest rather than my publisher.
He takes his jacket off and hangs it up, placing a small backpack on the floor in front of it.
I watch him as he wanders a few paces, taking in my home.
I wonder what he thinks of what he sees.
The minimalist approach, the white walls, the alphabetised bookshelf.
A few splashes of colour here and there, like the bright blue wall hangings from my trip to Peru and the yellow Orla Kiely cushions on the grey sofa.
To me, my flat is just a place to sleep, easy to pack up when my fellowship at the university comes to an end and I need to move on.
Now that I look around with a critical eye, it is a little showhome-y, but the girls seemed comfortable enough during our sleepover.
They didn’t pass comment. So it can’t be too cold and sterile.
But if homes are a reflection of their owners…what does he see when he looks at this place, at me? Hopefully not a lack of warmth. Or impermanence.
From the way his eyes soften when they meet mine, I can’t imagine he’s thinking anything bad.
I beam at him and place the vase in the centre of my coffee table.
“Pride of place.” They really are stunning, not a single wilted rose, not a brown mark on any of the petals, and I lean up on my tiptoes to give him a thank-you kiss on the lips.
Before I can retreat, his hand comes up to cup my jaw, keeping me in place so he can kiss me on and on.
His mouth is so warm, gentle but firm. I’m left in no doubt from the way he gathers me as close to him as he can manage that he’s been looking forward to this.
I guess home isn’t the building in which you live, after all.
It’s a pair of arms engulfing you in warmth, kisses, a face you know.
In the few short weeks I’ve known this man, I’ve somehow become attached and gone all in with him without realising it was happening.
I don’t really see how anything else could have taken place.
And it hits me just how much power he has over me, how badly I want him, and not just physically.
That’s alarming. But it can’t be any other way, so I ease myself into it. Acceptance is the right path.
I smile at him when we finally pull our mouths away from each other to catch our breath. “Hi.”
Hi , he mouths back, kissing my forehead and resting his head there for a moment, like I’m steadying him.
But then he lets me go fully, and takes a step back. Before we go any further, I need to tell you something. The warmth in his eyes is still there, but they’re more serious than before he kissed me. More nervous.
Oh dear.
Possibilities flash through my head. I’d put money on him not being married or gay. Maybe he has a sexual hang-up, or an intriguing fetish?
Whatever it is, he has my support.
He heads back to his rucksack and pulls out his tablet, turning it on and opening an app before handing it over to me.
It’s a Word document on the screen.
Hey, Liaden.
I’m not making any assumptions about what’s going to happen here - everything at your pace, I promise - but there’s something you should know because it IS relevant to what MIGHT.
The thing is, I’ve never had sex with anyone before.
My experience stops at second base, so anything we do beyond that will be my first time doing it.
So I will need you to guide me and tell me what to do, and rest assured I’ll do anything you want.
But I just didn’t want you to wonder why I’m not better at whatever we end up doing.
I really do want this to be good for you, so please do let me know how to make that happen. I WANT to be told, because you deserve better than guess work. And hey, you can train me up exactly the way you want without having to break me of any bad habits? [Insert nervous laughter here…]
I hope this isn’t too much of a problem, but at the same time I will understand if this isn’t something you want to do because you want competence and experience in the bedroom, or if taking my innocence [lol] just ain’t your bag.
You look beautiful, by the way.
I’m…
Speechless. I was not expecting that. How is that even possible? He can’t have been lacking offers… Why didn’t he take any of them?
I’m caught between stunned disbelief that this sexy, devastating man who’s been haunting my dreams day and night is a virgin - much as I take issue with the spurious connotations of that word - and wanting to smother him with kisses for being so open and honest with me.
But then, it’s so Dean: honest, careful, and wanting to do right by me.
He’s like that when he’s drawing on my skin with needles, and he’s carrying the policy over into the bedroom.
“It’s not a problem at all,” I assure him softly.
His face and shoulders both relax, like he was holding his breath for my response and preparing for the worst. “You don’t have to answer, but may I ask why?
It’s not that there’s anything wrong with it, not at all.
It’s just that it’s so surprising, because…
well. You’re a very attractive man indeed, and I can’t deny that I’m…
well, shall we say ‘taken aback’?” A possible answer occurs to me. “Oh - is this for religious reasons?”
He looks stunned, a little thoughtful, and holds out his hand for his tablet. As he starts to type, my manners come screaming back to me.
“Would you like anything to drink? Tea, coffee? Or I have a rather nice blackberry flavoured water, or grape juice, I think…” I’m babbling.
Water would be nice, please? By the time I’m back with it, he’s done, and hands his tablet back to me, putting his hands in his back pockets and hunching his shoulders.