Soak (A Navy SEAL Mormon Taboo Romance) (14 page)

Chapter Twenty-Two

“What I don’t get is why you had
to make up a
club
,” Mirabel said, pretending to fluff a pillow. “Why
couldn’t you just invite the guy out for drinks like a normal person? We’d all
show up and be nice, and wouldn’t have to pretend we read some book.”

Ryder frowned at her half-assed
primping, crossing the room and re-fluffing the pillow himself. “I told you,”
he huffed. “Wally’s really fragile. And the only thing that gets him hot on
god’s green earth is apparently books.”

“Still seems weird that you
lied.”

“Yeah, well.” Ryder didn’t have
a come-back. To cover his ass, he went to his Aunt’s fridge and pulled out a
lemonade, after passing over a lone, cold Budweiser. It was only noon, and he
was still enjoying being good.

“Lexi just texted. She says she
can bring someone from her
ladies lounge
.” Mirabel laughed, then pressed
herself into a Downward Facing Dog. Her shapely ass drew Ryder’s attention.

“I know what that means,” Ryder
pretend-groaned. It was a running joke in their trio that Lexi’s “ladies
lounge” was a Manhattan haven for single ladies who sought the company of...
other single ladies.

“Don’t assume, Strong,” Mirabel
said, pressing herself into some kind of lotus. Ryder wasn’t good enough at
yoga yet to remember all the poses. “When you assume, you make an Ass of U and
Me.”

The doorbell rang, and Ryder
went to pay for the improbable six foot sub he’d ordered. He continued to kick
himself mentally for all the fibs, but not all of him was sold. There was still
a chance that tonight could be fun. If nothing else, he and Wally would get to
talk about his favorite book. Who knew what the Lance Corporal would have to
say.

“Should I do a beer run?”
Mirabel finally returned to standing. Ryder shook his head.

“I think we’re cool with snacks
and soda,” he said, clapping his hands together. “And all the fly, untouchable
sapphic scholars as entertainment.”

“Har dee har har,” his friend
said, tossing a pillow at his head.

Chloe’s hands shook. She’d been
fooling herself, all this time. Pretending to be a real New Yorker. She’d
mastered the above-ground grid, but it turned out that there was a whole, huge
world below the city. It was called the subway, and it was terrible.

Lexi had totally hung her out to
dry, leaving some message at the reception desk about a “last-minute
emergency.” She, apparently, had to take a cab back to Brooklyn, but had left
“explicit” instructions for navigating the train to a place called Bed-Stuy.
Chloe already regretted the choice to go anywhere alone at night. The subway
smelled weird, and everything she touched was dirty, and none of the signs for
trains made any sense. What was the difference between ‘Express’ and ‘Local?’
How come some trains were the same number and color, but went to different
places? She hated it, absolutely hated it. When her new bag was caught between
the unforgiving metal doors, she thought she’d never missed Provo more. Quiet
Provo, where people drove cars, and didn’t do terrible, gross things in public.

After much trial and error, she
was finally on an A train, holding her cheap secondhand paperback copy of
A
Confederacy of Dunces.
She tried to keep evil thoughts at bay. There was no
way Lexi was leading her into some kind of trap, right? Maybe all this time,
her new friend had been lying in wait to kidnap the quiet Mormon girl, and hold
her hostage. It had happened to smarter women than she.

“This is a coincidence,” someone
said, on her left. At first, Chloe tried not to look. Though no one had told
her, it seemed like subway etiquette that no one struck up conversations with
their stranger seatmates. But the dude was persistent. He leaned over and
wagged a book in her face, and a small laugh escaped her when she read the
title.
A Confederacy of Dunces.

“Any chance you’re headed to
Bed-Stuy?” the man asked her. He was sort of cute, but bore an intense
expression. His dark eyes were ringed with circles, as if he hadn’t slept in
days.

“Bed-
sty?
Is that how you
pronounce it?”

“I think so. But I’m new in
town, too.” The boy reached out a quivering hand to shake. “I’m Wally. How do
you know Jughead?”

Jughead.
That was a weird nickname. For the first time, it
occurred to Chloe that she hadn’t asked a thing about her host. She’d merely
drawn a picture in her mind based on Lexi, and the kind of book-club hosting
friends she imagined Lexi must have. A boy named
Jughead
didn’t quite
fit the profile.

“It’s the hair,” her seatmate
explained. “Shaggy in the back, you know. He’s got the same hair as the
comic-book guy.” In another surprise move, Chloe felt her heart sink. If their
host had long black hair, he probably wasn’t...no, it didn’t make sense. It was
impossible. It was best that she’d never quite articulated the hope.

“I don’t know him, actually,”
she said. “I’m a friend of Lexi’s.”

“I don’t know Lexi.” The man
said this with so much unexpected harshness that Chloe didn’t know what to say
next. They rode the rest of the way in an awkward silence, and she was worried
when he rose at the same time as her for the doors at Nostrand Avenue.

“I’m sorry,” Wally said, as soon
as they’d both breached the salty Brooklyn outside world. Chloe was immediately
struck by how different this part of the city was from her relatively clean
corner of Manhattan. The streets were diverse, full of dark faces she’d so
rarely seen in Utah. She could smell something tasty cooking, but for the life
of her couldn’t triangulate what kind of food it was. Ditto to some music with
a bass beat; a shop on the corner was blaring a heady dance tune. People passed
by its doors without even seeming to notice.

“Sorry for what?” Chloe asked,
when it occurred to her that she was the one being rude this time. It was so
easy to get dizzy in a new place.

“I have a hard time making conversation.
I sort of hate small-talk, so I have a hard time reading social cues.” Wally
ran a hand through his bushy dark hair. “A little like our friend Ignatius.” He
thumped the cover of his copy of the book, indicating the main character. Chloe
let her guard down a little.

“It’s okay. To be honest? I have
no idea what I’m doing here. I’m a little nervous.”

“You’re not a member of the
club, then?” Wally frowned. Chloe felt the urge to reassure him. Something in
his aspect reminded her of her brother.

“I guess I’m a new member,” she
said, straining to read the addresses of buildings they passed. Finally, they
stumbled past the dull exterior of a red-brick townhouse with big floral
curtains in the windows. Something about the place was homey. Despite the strange
invitation and the even stranger present company, Chloe felt certain that
things wouldn’t go terribly wrong inside. She was glad to be taking a chance.

Taking the stairs two at a time
in giddiness, Chloe smoothed her denim skirt. Angela had been lending her
clothes, and she felt freer and pretty in the red scoop-neck t-shirt that clung
to her curves. She’d taken to wearing her hair in a high bun, like a lot of the
most glamorous New York women walking the streets seemed to. Standing in front
of Wally, who wore light jeans on the Mom-side and a ratty white polo shirt,
she almost felt glamorous. Savvy.

“Alright, Ignatius,” she called,
raising a finger to ring the bell. “Here we go!”

He went to the door, as she
fidgeted with her hemline. She peered into the yellowy warmth of the living
room, refracted through the glass window, and he twisted the knob. They stood
there. Their eyes adjusted to the other. Their minds thought,
no, it isn’t
possible.
Then, he said something:

“Fuck.” Ryder smacked a hand
against the door as soon as the words escaped his lips. Far from a perfect
intro. But she surprised him.

“Yeah, FUCK.” Then, her perfect
face, the face lifted straight from his dreams, broke open. She was laughing.
She was laughing and crying. There was nothing to do but reach out and gather
her up, hold her close so she couldn’t possibly fly away.

“It’s you,” he breathed,
inhaling the perfume of her hair. She dug her sharp little fingers into his
back. He was pleased that he was strong for her, in this moment. That he’d made
himself get strong again.

“It’s you!” She whispered these
words, so they tickled his neck. He gripped her a little tighter.

“Wow. So this is book-club,”
murmured Wally, who Ryder had completely forgotten about. His vet friend
shifted from foot to foot on the stoop, looking incredibly out of place. Not
letting go of her (never letting go of her again), he moved aside so Wally
could enter.

All he wanted to do was run off
into the darkness with her. Hole up in some silent cafe, alone, and hear
everything she had to say. How had she made it out? It was like she’d been a
POW, some lost cause. A lost cause in red. And was that a new skirt? She’d
certainly never worn her skirts that short in Provo...

But he had a party to host. His
mentee was counting on him. “Come in, buddy,” he told Wally, trying not to
giggle at the words. Chloe squeezed his hand.

“Glad to see so much passion
around the printed word,” his young charge said. Then, he made for the subs.

Which left them alone.

Chapter Twenty-Three

If you held a gun to her head,
she wouldn’t be able to tell you the events of that fateful evening. She
vaguely recalled Lexi and her girlfriend canoodling on the couch. At one point,
Wally had surprised the room by delivering a lengthy monologue about post-war
satire, which had really seemed to please Ryder. The six foot sandwich had been
eaten or parceled into purses for later. Then finally, finally, FINALLY, they’d
been alone.

Ryder’s Aunt Tilde had been out
for the evening, at some kind of church group. She couldn’t remember. What she
could remember amounted to: the easy way their skin touched, the electric jolt
the contact gave her, and the outrageous, goofy face he made whenever their
eyes reached across space and found the other.

He looked better. That was
something else she knew for sure. His biceps strained the corners of his
cozy-looking Henley, and his already narrow waist seemed narrower. He laughed a
little more often; she could see that Lexi and the lady-friend brought out
something calm in him. But what she loved best was watching him interact with
Wally. He was patient and kind with the slightly trying guest, and there was
one point in their conversation when she could have sworn they were brothers—they
both yelled and gesticulated the exact same way when they had points to make.
She liked his shaggy hair, too, which had grown several inches in their few
months of absence.
Jughead,
indeed.

When the door clicked shut
behind Lexi—who had winked—there had been a moment of strangeness. There were
lots of questions to ask, and she didn’t want to negotiate any one of them.

“How’s your family?” he managed,
turning slowly. And his big grey eyes had danced with concern, and she’d known
she wouldn’t be able to hide the truth.

“Terrible,” she’d said, sinking
into his aunt’s nubby couch. She’d told him about her lockdown, her terrible
date with Elder Eyring, her family’s icy unwillingness to take her seriously.
When she got to their final show-down, tears had welled up behind her eyes. She
realized she hadn’t cried yet about her leaving. It felt overdue.

Ryder offered her his sleeve,
and listened patiently—if furiously—as she told him everything. She could feel
his muscles tensing when she described Freddy’s lunge in the car, and each time
she mentioned Johnny he bristled in a similar way. Still, he was silent.

“So you’re in New York to stay?”
Now it was her turn to soothe. She smiled wryly, in lieu of a proper answer.
“As long as I can,” she said. He didn’t seem satisfied with this, but he didn’t
ask anything else.

It was getting late. Unspoken
between them lay a long subway ride back into the city. But Chloe couldn’t bear
the thought of being apart from him for one more second, even though their
union felt strange. They were in a different house entirely. She wouldn’t be
running back to her bedroom after whatever came next. If she stayed, she’d be
waking up next to Ryder. His was the face she would see in the morning.

“I’ve missed you so much,” he
said, sincerely. She rested her fingertips on his stubbly cheeks. Words didn’t
seem sufficient. So, she kissed him.

Their mouths, to her surprise
and pleasure, seemed to recognize one another perfectly. It didn’t feel as if
any time had passed. He was pressing and she was pressing, so their lips became
fervent, mutual attackers, and in moments she was on her back on the couch.
When he mounted her, Chloe marveled at his heavy, muscular body. He was being a
little less careful with her—unlike in Provo, when there were moments when
she’d felt like a baby bird in his palm. But she found she preferred it this
way. She preferred to feel every inch of his strength.

He kissed her harder. He kissed
her neck. And soon, thrillingly, his familiar palm had found the roundness of
her breasts. He squeezed and kneaded at her tit over her shirt. That was the
first time Chloe cried out, when there was still so much fabric between them.
His touch felt that good.

“Oh my God,” she cried again,
flailing against the pillows. She drove a palm into the fabric and widened her
legs, as far apart as her denim skirt would allow. Ryder nudged his thick
thighs into the space they made.

“I want you so bad,” he groaned.
God, she was wet. She was already wet. When was the last time she’d been wet?
Certainly, Ryder had been there.

Breathing rapidly, Chloe pulled
herself into sitting. Ryder’s hands shook as he tore at her borrowed t-shirt,
scooting it over her chest like it was on fire. They hovered for a moment once
her skin was exposed to him. His eyes feasted on her paleness, her tender
curves, the taut flesh of her belly. She felt powerful, under his gaze.

Chloe started to tug at Ryder’s
shirt. She was giddy and hungry, and the sight of his tanned, muscular chest
only exacerbated both wants. She pressed greedy fingers into his skin,
delighting when she was met with resistance. He was so fucking strong, her Mr.
Strong.

She kissed his chest. He tasted
salty and sweet. She drew him closer to her, so a small world of heat and
moisture began to emerge between their bodies.
No one will walk in
, she
told herself. They were safe. They were together.

Ryder, apparently, had other
ideas. Her lips were still roving his torso when he rose to standing, and
beckoned her to follow. When Chloe seemed confused, Ryder grinned and picked
her up off the couch, bride-style—so her feet dangled. He began to climb the
little staircase leading, she figured, to his bedroom. She giggled like a
school-girl.

“We get a bed this time!” Chloe
grinned up at her lover. He paused, leaning against the wall to kiss her. She
loved that he kissed her like he was afraid she could disappear.

When they reached his childhood
bedroom, Ryder suddenly turned shy. He carried her quickly over to the bed, as
if a speedy transition would prevent her from seeing the posters on his wall.
The figures on his desks. There were some beloved 90s pop-rock bands
ornamenting his room, and just about everything was a deep, forest-green color.
Apparently, he’d always been hardcore.

“God,” Ryder said, climbing onto
the bed with her. Chloe felt dizzy, suddenly intoxicated by his heat and
proximity. “You know, you’re the first girl I’ve ever got up here.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

Thankfully, instead of
responding, he lunged toward her and kissed her. She giggled again, thrilled at
how different his urgent kiss was from Freddy’s. That fucking creep.

Their movements became tender.
His fingers moved toward her bra’s clasp, but they were slow. Nearly
worshipful. When she felt that her back was exposed to the free air, Chloe
shimmied out of the cups, affording Ryder a full look at her chest. He marveled
at her form again, before the animal gaze entered his eyes. He sank into her
chest and immediately began to suck on one of her nipples, as he cupped and
squeezed the soft flesh surrounding.

“Yes,” Chloe murmured, shoving
his shaggy head further into her chest. His mouth pressed and pressed. She
could feel his teeth. Without quite thinking about it, her hips had begun to
buck below her, attempting to escape the denim skirt. Ryder didn’t skip a beat,
and wedged one hand firmly between her legs. When the tip of his index finger
landed on the crest of her clit, she nearly came.

“Not yet,” Ryder grinned,
pressing harder. His finger entered her, then began pressing up, locating some
hidden and new source of pleasure. Chloe thrust against his hand. She could
feel how damp the space between her thighs had grown. Every cell ached from
wanting him, as close as possible.

When the fingers became too much
to bear, Ryder moved to flip Chloe over, slapping her lightly on the pale skin of
her ass. But she wanted something different this time.

“Do you have a condom?”

“Yeah, sure. But...are you
sure?” His eyes betrayed him; they became lusty and alive at the prospect of
entering her most sacred of spaces. Chloe nodded. Yes, she wanted this. It felt
like she’d wanted it forever.

They took off their remaining
clothes. He dragged her skirt to the ground, then her panties. She watched him
unbuckle his jeans, then ease the denim over his engorged cock, which seemed
even thicker than she remembered. She took him in her hand, and Ryder’s base
shook.

“Oh my God,” he gasped, into her
hair. She pressed her other hand against his flexing chest. Slowly, but—she
hoped—confidently, Chloe eased his manhood towards her open thighs.

The pain surprised her. It was
that of a new stretch, or a Charlie horse. Even though they’d soaked before, as
soon as Ryder moved inside of her, she felt a strain. But slowly, her body
shifted to accommodate his size. He pressed into her tentatively, though she
could sense in his taut muscles just how badly he wanted to fuck her. Then,
Chloe looked into her lover’s bright eyes. She forced herself to stay in that
hidden, small place with him, where they didn’t need to apologize or explain or
even say the words. She simply knew they were true.

He clutched at the back of her
neck and said them anyway. “I love you, Chloe Christiansen.”

She drew her thighs up to
surround his ribcage, wanting to feel as much of him as possible. He panted
above her, and off her nod, began to rock back and forth. She thought she could
sense what would feel good later, once they had more practice. For now, she was
content to settle for the love, the closeness, the warm touch.

After a few moments, his face
screwed up. Chloe dug her nails into his biceps. Ryder’s eyes rolled back into
his head. She felt a warm, not-unpleasant seeping in their private unity, and
then—a great relief. When he began to pull away, she found that she wanted him
to stay inside her. Hovering. Being, as one.