If I Were You (16 page)

Release comes over me too soon, and without warning, and I
cling to Chris, burying my face in his neck. He moans as my body clamps down on
his shaft and pushes me hard against his thrust. His arms are wrapped around
me, holding me tightly when he shakes with his release.

When we both relaxed, wine and pleasure have collided with
body-numbing effects, so much so that I am a wet noodle as Chris frets over
cleaning us up and then lays down on the couch and takes me with him. His heart
beats beneath my ear and with the fireplace throwing warmth over us, my lashes
grow heavier by the second. 

Chapter Eighteen

Tonight I felt like I’d finally found him again. He was
different. We were different. It was just he and I, alone in his playroom. I
was so relieved, so tired of him sharing me. It hurts when he shares me, when
he makes me feel I am not enough for him. He says that isn’t the case. He says
I fulfill his every fantasy. That I am a perfect sub.

I will remember tonight forever. Only my hands were bound
and I stood in the middle of the room. He was naked and commanding, and it is
in those moments that I would do anything to please that man. I was wet and
aching with the burn for him to touch me and finally, finally, his fingers
brushed my cheeks, then trailed down my neck, over my breast and nipple. I
shivered from the caress, and goosebumps had lifted on my skin. That’s how much
he commands my body.

His fingers returned to my face, trailing over my lips.
“Suck,” he ordered and I drew his fingers into my mouth, ran my tongue around
him. His eyes heated and…

My eyes snap open, a vague sense of awareness washing over
me, and I blink into a beam of sunshine. Dreaming. I think…I’ve been dreaming
about one of the journal entries again. I swallow against the dryness in my
throat and the wet ache between my thighs. Realization comes to me in a cold
blast of awareness.
Oh God.
I’m not home, I’m at Chris’s, and I’ve
managed to have an erotic dream which may or may not have included him as a
witness to me talking or moaning or…I sit up quickly.

A blanket I don’t remember pulling over me falls to my waist
at the same moment as I bring Chris into focus, his back to me, and become
instantly aware of him being fully dressed in distressed jeans and a brown tee
of some sort, while I am completely naked. His hand is pressed to the living
room window as he gazes out over the glorious new morning rainbow of red,
yellow, and orange in the skyline I can’t truly appreciate. Not when the
dreaded morning after has arrived, glaring with its own colorful glory,
complete with my wet dream that I’m hoping I haven’t shared without my
knowledge. 

Chris seems to sense I’m awake and begins to turn.
Reflexively, feeling exposed beyond my nakedness, I pull my knees to my chest
and the blanket to my chin.

Discomfort does nothing to stop my reaction to this man. He
is truly gorgeous. I drink him in like fine wine, savoring every detail. He’s
wearing the biker boots he’d been wearing at the coffee shop and his shirt has
a Harley logo on it. His jaw is unshaven, shadowed with a sexy stubble, his
longish dirty blond hair slightly damp, framing his handsome face. And his
eyes, those intelligent, unreadable eyes, glisten green and gold in the
sunlight.

He’s staring at me too, his expression stark and unreadable.
I will him to speak, to say one of his witty, light comments I find so
soothing. He doesn’t and I am about a hair away from launching into the
rambling habit I’m determined to leave behind in this new life of mine.

“Hi,” I say when the silence drives me crazy, but hey, I’ve
contained myself to one word. Progress is happening.

He leans against the window, clearly unworried about it
breaking as I had been the night before. Well, for a short bit. I’d forgotten
my fears pretty darn quickly when he’d started touching me. My body heats with
the memory of him pressing me against that very same glass, and I remember the
night before with feverish clarity—his hands, his fingers,
his mouth
. My
breast are suddenly heavy, my nipples aching. My cheeks burn with the impact of
my thoughts.

Chris, on the other hand, remains more stone than man with
tension banding around him. It whips and twists around the room, and begins to
suffocate me, and old faithful becomes my only defense. I begin the dreaded
rambling. “I, ah, it’s morning, but you know that since its daylight and well,
it seems that…I…didn’t go home.”

Several heavy seconds pass and I swear I can hear the hand
on his watch tick, before he asks, “Did you want to go home, Sara?”

His question takes me off guard and I have no idea how to
answer. I am officially off-kilter. Had I? Well no. I’d been thoroughly
pleasured and I’d all but passed out from pure female bliss. Would I have, had
I woken up sooner? No. I wasn’t in any rush to leave Chris, but I’m afraid Mister
‘I’m Not The Guy You Take Home To Mom And Dad’ will overreact to such a
confession. “I…don’t know.”

“I didn’t.” His voice is soft, and he scrubs his face and
looks upset by this declaration, before contradicting his own reaction by
looking me in the eyes and clearly stating, “I didn’t want you to go home,
Sara.”

I am confused and happy by this news, but…wait.  I shouldn’t
be happy. Should I? This is a fling, an affair, and he will jet off to Paris
and we will be history. I’m supposed to be living for the moment, enjoying what
I can, keeping it light.

“You didn’t want me to go?” I ask, unable to stop myself
from seeking confirmation, from craving more from this man — the question is
‘more’ what? Pleasure, I promise myself. This is about pleasure.

He studies me for such a long time; I fear I might ramble
again, but thankfully, he saves us both my undoing. “I don’t bring women to my
apartment, Sara,” he informs me, his tone hard, gravelly, almost angry. “I
don’t have sex without condoms and I don’t ask about their pasts. And I
sure
as hell
don’t talk about mine.”

Of all the things he’s just said, I hone in on the one of
the least consequences considering I’m supposed to be trying to keep this about
a sexy fling. Nevertheless, I do it anyway. My brows furrow. Is he really
inferring he’s talked to me about his past? Because if he is, and he considers
what he’s told me about, then I assume any real information I might garner
would be downright criminal.

I study him and there is a fizzle of discomfort expanding
and taking shape inside me. He seems really upset, as if…is he blaming me for
making him do things he doesn’t want to do? He is. I can see it in his face. Oh
good gosh. He’s blaming me. A hot spot in the center of my chest begins to
burn.

I drop my feet and clutch the blanket. “I should go.”

“Please don’t.” His voice is soft, but it halts me with the
raw vulnerability in its depths. There is true distress etched in his handsome
face, as I imagine I must have on mine as well.

“You’re confusing me, Chris.”

“That makes two of us, baby,” he says, and pushes off the
window. “Give me just a minute.” And just like that, he heads past me and up
the sunken living room stairs, leaving me where I’m sitting.

What? Where is he going? I twist to watch him disappear down
a hallway. Brows furrowed all over again, I face forward and search for my
clothes without luck. His shirt isn’t anywhere nearby either. I’m captive. I
can’t leave. Do I
want t
o leave? I think maybe I should. Or maybe I
shouldn’t. This man has me in in a whirlwind of…feelings? Emotions?
Passion.
That’s a safe word. Or is it?

Footsteps sound behind me and Chris hurries down the steps
and is in front of me in a snap. He is squatting in front of me, close, and he
smells woodsy and fresh and to my complete surprise he is sliding a navy cotton
robe about three sizes too big around my shoulders. There is a protective
quality to his actions and I am not sure I have ever felt more delicately
female than in this moment. Never safer than with a man who is virtually a
complete stranger, never with a man I’d almost called my husband. The rightness
of this man and of walking away from my past, resonates through me. That
decision brought me here.

I’m still clutching the blanket and Chris glances down and
back up, wordlessly urging me to let it fall. A low burn is expanding in my
belly, sliding through my limbs. I want him. I want him in a way I barely
recognize as within the realm of my capacity.

Our eyes lock and hold and I see the shadows in the depths
of his stare, and I think…I think he’s letting me. My chest tightens with this
realization, this
certainty
. I let the blanket slide into his hands, and
I am naked, but I feel as if he is naked, too.
I never bring women to my
apartment.
There is something happening between us and I pray I was wrong
last night. I pray it’s not the beginning of two damaged people tearing each
other apart. Some part of me needs Chris. Maybe we need each other.

Eternal seconds pass, and we don’t move, don’t speak. His
gaze drops, sliding slowly, hotly over my breasts. “God, you’re beautiful,” he
murmurs, a husky tormented quality to his voice that says more than the
compliment.

I am shaken by the rush of emotion his words send through
me. Yes. Oh yes. There is definitely something happening between us, something
rich with promise, and ripe with potential heartache, but I can’t seem to care.
My hand goes to his hair, stroking it, urging him to come to me, to be with me.

“Put your arms in, baby,” he orders, and I sense his
struggle, some internal battle that tells him not to touch me. I do as he
commands and he pulls the robe shut and ties it. 

He looks at me then, and he’s found a place to bank whatever
he was feeling. His eyes are lighter, his mood seemingly cooler. “I make a mean
omelet. Are you hungry?”

His shift in mood flits through me without much resistance
on my part. I’ve seen this in Chris several times before, and I’m coming to
expect it. Being able to make him smile holds growing appeal.

I smile. “You’re always feeding me.”

“And yet we never seem to finish a meal.” He rotates
slightly to indicate the pizza boxes on the table behind him. “We didn’t do the
pizza justice.”

“No and you were right. It was really good.”

His lips quirk. “In our defense we had other things on our
minds.” He doesn’t give me time to blush and remarkably, considering what I’ve
already done with this man, I would have. He pushes to his feet and pulls me
with him, towering over me, and reminding me how big he is, and why the sleeves
of his robe swallow my hands.

“I’ll cook if you make coffee,” he bargains.

“I’ll take that deal if I can find my hands.” I hold them up
and they are lost in navy cotton cloth.

He laughs and starts rolling one of the sleeves up. “You’re
melting away. Another reason to feed you. How’s your head this morning?”

“If you mean from the wine, apparently I’m fine.” I can’t
resist teasing him. “And I guess you weren’t worried about taking advantage of
me when I was intoxicated?”

He doesn’t laugh as I’d hoped. His hand freezes on my sleeve
and his gaze lifts. “I’m no saint, Sara. I’ve told you that.”

“Yes,” I agree tartly. “You have. Repeatedly.”

“But you won’t listen.”

“I’ve heard every word you’ve said.”

“Maybe I haven’t said enough.”

Exactly,
I think
.
“You haven’t said anything
besides stay away and don’t go.”

His brows dip a moment before his lips curve into a smile.
“You don’t mince words, do you?”

“Not with you it seems. Or…hmmm…when I’m drinking.” I cringe
with the memory of the night before. “The wine got the best of me after you left
last night. I marched up to Mark and told him that I didn’t want to be involved
in whatever your…well…” I press my fingers to my forehead. “I can’t believe I
said this.”

His brows lift. “Now you’ve got me curious.”

I drop my hand and dare to repeat the out-of-character words
I’d spoken. “I told him I don’t want to get in between whatever the
‘cock-fight’ is you two have with each other.”

Chris barks out laugher. “I would have loved to have seen
both of your faces when you blurted that one out.” He motions toward the
kitchen. “Come. I need to feed you, woman.” He reaches for the pizza box,
apparently without any plan to explain or deny the ‘cock-fight’. Why? What is
it with these two?

“Bathroom,” I say, pointing the direction of the room I’d
used the night before. “I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

He grabs me and pulls me close, his breath trickling warmth
on mine, “Just so we’re clear, Sara. There
is no
in between.” The air
crackles with electricity, and I am sure he will kiss me and I burn for a taste
of him. My body quakes inside and out.
Please. Now.
Kiss me.

I am hanging on a thread when he turns me to the bathroom
before smacking me on the ass. I yelp with the unexpected swat, and unbidden,
with a rush of heat and memory of him doing the same thing the night before to
my bare butt. His lips press near my ear. “Go now. It’s never a good idea to
keep a starving man waiting, Sara. You’d be good to remember that.”

I suck in a breath and have no idea why, but I launch myself
into action, as if I must follow his command, stopping only to grab my purse
when I spot it on the ground. He is still behind me, watching me, tracking my
every move. Every inch of me is tingling and warm with awareness, responding to
his hot gaze, responding to his words, to his touch. Why is his hand on my
backside so damn erotic? How can Chris redefine everything I know of myself in
a matter of days? And what the heck did he mean ‘there is no in between’?