A Moment (16 page)

I wish I knew what he was hiding, but then again, maybe I don’t want to know. Sometimes the wounds run too deep, and they’re ugly and painful, and worse than you could ever imagine.

Somehow, I’m pretty sure that’s the case with Ryan.

So I pat his knee, over and over again until his fingers relax and the vein in his neck no longer stands erect from clenching his teeth.

His mouth’s tipped down and the light that’d sparkled in his eyes all night is gone. This is new, we’re on the precipice and intuitively I know that the only way to reach him isn’t to demand he open up, but to approach like I would a stray dog-- with a gentle hand and a loving touch.

He doesn’t look at me, but he grabs my hand and holds on as if for dear life all the way back to his apartment.

***

Ryan

Grabbing a carton of egg whites, a bag of spinach, some mushrooms, and cheese I make her an omelet.

It’s just her and I. Alex had walked inside, grabbed two motrin’s, drank them down with some juice and locked himself into his room to sleep it off.

Leaning over my shoulder, her breasts pressing into my back, she sniffs and then moans. “Mmm… I love omelets.”

And I all I want to do is say screw it, fling the pan into the sink and take her to my bed. It’s a test of wills to stay and not react.

“I’m sorry I don’t have real eggs,” I mutter, shifting, trying to get my erection to go down, not be quite so noticeable.

She lays a gentle hand on my arm and my body runs cold. This is harder than anything I’ve done in a long time. Pretend like I don’t want this, her, now. I don’t just want to have sex with her either, I want to know her, consume her, make her mine in every way so she’ll never forget, never look back and wonder if she’d made the right choice tonight.

But tossing her over my shoulder will only turn her into every other woman I’ve ever brought home and she’s different. She doesn’t deserve to be treated like just another easy lay.

Tonight something changed between us. Something huge and impossible and I don’t want to blow it. So I clench my teeth and act like her touch isn’t driving me insane.

“I’ve never had a guy cook for me. In fact,” she walks around me, “I’ve never had anyone other than Ade cook for me. You have no idea how much I’m loving this right now.”

“You know, a guy can get used to these kinds of compliments.”

Folding the eggs over the filling, I gesture for her to bring the plates.

The egg splits apart as I slide it on.

She laughs, the sound so open and light that it almost hurt’s to hear.

“Encoded in your DNA, huh?”

“Pft,” I drop the pan in the sink and then grabbing two forks, head toward the table, “I never said it would look pretty, only that it would taste good.”

“Hmm, we’ll see.”

I love the way she constantly challenges me. Sick, but true. I’m not one of those guys that feels emasculated by it, I like that she wants me to prove myself, because it makes me want to do it, reach deep inside myself and be the best.

Sitting, I push one of the forks toward her. “Well?”

Stabbing the egg, she tears off a piece and then looking me straight in the eye, slips it in. It’s one of the most erotic sights I’ve ever seen-- the way her mouth curls around the food, how her tongue slips out, teasing the crumbs inside, and the kittenish purr that falls from her lips when she swallows.

“Yummy. So,” she hikes up a leg on the chair, flashing a long expanse of thigh and my mouth goes completely dry, “where’s yours?”

“You’re a tease, Liliana.” I grab my fork and slice into the other half.

Her smile turns serious, but her gaze stays soft. “Does it bother you? I feel so free around you, like I’ve known you my whole life. Like I can be myself.”

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Pretend you don’t want her.

Don’t need her.

I swallow my bite. “I want you to feel like that with me.”

“I had a really great time tonight.”

I keep waiting for the impatience, the hurried tension I always feel when I invite a woman over, the need for her to get out of my house. To leave me in peace so I don’t have to keep seeing her face, keep smelling her scent.

But it isn’t coming.

“Me too,” I say. “How long do I have you for?”

Demolishing her half, she quickly sets her fork down and drinks the chamomile I’d brewed earlier. “A while. I think my mom is hoping we’ll have a ‘When Harry Met Sally’ moment.”

I laugh. I’ve never watched the movie, but I’m pretty sure I knew which scene she’s talking about. The breakfast scene when Sally pretends to have an orgasm.

“You’re hard on a man, Lili.” Pushing the plate aside I stand and hold out my hand. “I’m tired.”

Her knuckles turn white as she grips the edge of the table.

Slowly, Ryan. Slowly. I remind myself.

“Not my room, no funny business. I was thinking maybe I could lay my head on your lap on the couch.”

“Only if you get me a blanket,” she glances down at the hem of her skirt, “otherwise I might think you’re trying to get a peek.”

“Awww,” I mutter, even as I walk down the hall to the linen closet and extract the first thing I find. One of my old military, army green scratchy ones. “What am I going to do now? I had the whole scenario planned, stretch my arms, pretend to yawn and then…” I let the thought dangle.

I hand it to her when I get back. Snatching it from me she swats my ass with it, then standing, wraps it twice around her slim frame before gliding to the couch and dropping down into the farthest cushion, plopping her feet up on the coffee table. She pats her knee, an expectant look on her face.

I never sleep with clothes on, but I know how she’ll take it if I start undressing and I want to prove to her that I’m a man of my word. But maybe there’s a way around this, a way to keep her comfortable and
 
myself.

Grabbing a fistful of my shirt, I slip it off.

Her eyes are wide, roaming over my skin and I swear I can feel the heat. My nipples pucker and my stomach flexes.

Movement flutters at the corner of her lips. “I was right. Killer.”

When she looks at me like that, all soft, with sexy bedroom eyes it’s hard to remember why going slow is the right thing. Flexing my fingers, knowing this is a true test of just how far I’m willing to go for her, I settle down beside her, laying my head in her lap and try not to think how much my balls ache.

The stillness is loud, echoing like a pulse in my eardrums. One of those strange quiets that grows in intensity, makes me aware of noises I never think of-- the ticking of a clock, the gentle whoosh of the ceiling fan.

Her fingers brush my forehead, then slips through my hair.

I love when she does that, makes me just want to lay like this forever and let her pet me.

I hadn’t been tired before, and I’m still not, but I suspect I might be headed toward nirvana. Everything inside me relaxes, every muscle softens, lengthens, my spine curls, my breathing settles into an easy rhythm. I close my eyes and start to drift away.

Sometimes silence is painful, but this isn’t one of those times.

“Did you learn to cook like that from your mother?” she asks after a while, breaking the stillness first.

I shake my head, voice rumbling from deep inside me. “No. She was too type A to ever let me in her kitchen. I learned in the Marines.”

Wonder gleams in her bright green eyes. “I wish I could have seen you in uniform.”

“Yeah?” Shifting, I study the graceful silhouette of her profile. The way her cheeks slope toward her lips, how they move as she tastes her words.

My heart is a cannon in my chest.

“Mmhhmm. I’ve always liked a man in uniform.” Her fingers trace random patterns across my skin.

Closing my eyes again, I chuckle. “I’ve still got mine hanging in the back.”

“You’d wear it for me?”

“Not out in public, but I guess.”

I find myself drifting off again, lost in the cadence of her voice, the touch of her hands. But I don’t want to sleep yet, I want to stay awake as long as possible, because each moment I sleep is a moment away from her.

“The other day, in the car,” I start.

Her lips tug down. “Yes,” she asks, sounding confused.

“When you were singing.”

Thin, black brows knit together. “Oh? What about that?”

“Fleetwood Mac?” I chuckle. “Aren’t you a little young to know who they are?”

She shrugs, her hand stilling as her eyes take on a faraway look. “Well, how old are you?”

Putting my hand over hers, I nudge her fingers, asking quietly for her to resume her caresses. “Twenty five,” I sigh as her fingers loop through my hair again. “What about you? Twenty-one, right?”

“Yeah, surprised you remember.”

Wasn’t much I didn’t about her.

“So I guess that means I’m into older men then, huh?”

“I’m not that much older.” I tickle her ribs, liking the way that sounds, that she’s into me, because I’m sure as hell into her.

She swats my hand. “Don’t worry, I’ve always had a thing for older guys.”

“When’s your birthday?”

“February first. When’s yours?”

“New Years Eve,” I tug on the slip of hair that’s fallen over her shoulder.

“Really? That’s cool. Everyone celebrates your birthday, must be nice.”

I shrug. “It’s annoying. Never felt like that day really belonged to me.”

Probably because most times my parents could hardly be bothered with trying to remember to do the whole cake and card thing when they were more concerned about which party they’d attend.

She pouts, “poor baby.”

“Anyway, let’s talk about you. Why Fleetwood Mac? Why not Katy Perry, or Beyonce?”

“My dad used to tell me I had an old soul. It’s his fault really, he brainwashed me.”

There’s a twinge of sadness behind her last statement, waving her fingers, she resumes petting my hair.

“Dad was a musician, really good one actually. He loved classic rock.”

“What’d he play?”

“Guitar. He taught me to play too. I’m nowhere near as good as he is. But I’m decent.”

Imagining her plucking guitar strings makes my pulse speed. Not that I’ve ever really been into chicks that play, but there’s something compelling when I imagine her playing to me. Maybe after lovemaking, both of us wrapped up in nothing but her voice and her music.

Blood throbbing, I grunt.

“I bet you’re good,” I say, forcing myself to focus.

“Good enough that Javi likes it. It’s weird, he didn’t know my dad all that long, three years. Not long enough for him to make an impact. Or so I thought. But I think he misses him.”

Grabbing her fingers, I play with her pinky, running my thumb along her nail and caressing the soft webbing between.

“Why do you think that?”

Her eyes are steady. “Because of what you heard me singing in the car. Fleetwood Mac, that was my dad’s favorite band. After I had…” she pauses, lips pursing, “Javi, dad would lock himself in the garage for hours. Playing on his guitar, cranking Fleetwood, and drinking beers. When Javi was two I’d see him sometimes sitting in front of the door, his ear pressed to it and so still I’d think he was dead.”

Voice cracking, she gives me a self-effacing grin.

I squeeze her hand, letting her know I’m here, and its okay.