The World: According to Graham (16 page)

The night air brings me a certain level of clarity. It helps me see my relationship for what it is. This has to stop. Right now it feels as if an extension of the torturous past four months, instead of a fresh start as I was hoping for. The cleansing of the wine glass was supposed to represent a new beginning, but today it has felt like going twelve rounds with a professional boxer.

The conversations that we had today needed to be had. After a lot of reflection, I come to the conclusion that I may not have handled everything correctly during the last twenty-four hours, but we’re at a better place for it, even though the evening didn’t end as I had hoped.

Tomorrow is a new day. We will begin focusing on the future instead of being trapped in the past.

As if the universe agrees that this is a good plan, a tan squirrel scurries across a tree branch overhead. The rustling sound draws my attention, and I look in his direction. The moon which had been hidden by thick clouds, slips away, finally able to illuminate the tree as if it’s filling in for the sun. The squirrel pauses long enough to nibble on something grasped between his tiny paws. He doesn’t disturb George, and I just watch him with interest. He scampers into a tangled mass of leaves, twigs and other nature treasures. He drops the bit of food into a nest and then looks back at me before he runs off.

Okay, that’s the second sign I’ve been shown today. I get it universe. I’m doing the right thing. I smile and toast the squirrel’s good parenting skills before I stand up, walking a very lethargic George back to The Cougar. Tomorrow is a new day. I just hope that I haven’t fucked things up too badly.

My eyes open, feeling as if I swam in chlorinated water without goggles. Sunlight is filtering through the brown-stained faux-wooden blinds in the tiny bedroom in the tin can. My quilt that Caroline’s sister made is pulled to my chin, but that’s where any resemblance of home ends. The bird calling to its mate outside of the thin walls instead of car horns blaring reminds me I’m not in my bedroom in my townhome. It’s not four o’clock in the morning, and I don’t have to get dressed so I can work out with Malik. I have no job that is expecting me. In fact, no one in my old life knows where I am. I’m not sure that I know where I am. What I do know is that I’m alone in a bed in the middle of nowhere with a man who says that he wants to take care of me yet won’t take care of my most basic need.

I turn towards the built-in nightstand and see a plethora of different types of crackers next to a lone bottle of water and the latest issue of
People
magazine. Odd. I’ve never read a copy before. Leaning up on my elbow, I grab the saltines and prop my head on my pillow while I begin the precarious task of not getting sick. Looking back at the nightstand, I have to smile. There are one, two, three, oh my goodness. There are seven different types of crackers. He might be a moody asshole, but that’s kind of sweet. I smile and lie back on the pillow, concentrating on keeping the contents of my stomach in check.

When I’m feeling better, and only then, do I allow myself to think about last night. I’m mortified. At the time it seemed like a good idea to relieve the ache that I’d had all day, longing for Graham. After I was finished, it occurred to me that he most likely heard what I was doing. Even though I tried to be quiet, I don’t believe that I was. There’s a part of me that says
fuck him. He should be taking care of me.
The other part is mortally embarrassed.

Ugh.

I decide to rip off the Band-Aid and hold my head up high. I have nothing to be ashamed of. I’m an adult. I have needs that have to be met.
Why didn’t I put a pillow over my face?

Here I go . . .

Climbing out of the bed, I take a deep breath, reassuring myself that I can face him. I mean, masturbation is natural right. Nothing to be ashamed of.

I pause on the doorknob. Facing him shouldn’t be so difficult, but my rapidly pounding heart begs to differ.

Here I go . . . again . . .

I grip the doorknob and turn it with force. One of my cardinal rules is
fake it until you make it.
My shoulders are back. My chin is high. I’ve got swagger.

The door flies open and . . .

The room is empty except for George who is resting by the door, but all he bothers to do is cut his eyes in my direction.

Where I presume that Graham slept last night has been turned back into a dining table. The door to the studio is open, but he’s not inside. It’s not his job to tell me where he’s going. I’m not his mother, his wife, or really even his girlfriend. Nevertheless, I scan the counter for a note, but it’s empty. I check the table next. Nothing. The place isn’t that big. No note.

However, it seems like a common courtesy would be to leave a note. Right?

Opening the door to the camper, I check for the truck. It’s still here. That means that he couldn’t have gone far.

I busy myself in the kitchen. Not that I’m some sort of amazing chef, and I hate to cook, but right now it’s a mental distraction. The fresh vegetables that I requested make for a very tasty omelet. I decide to fix two. I’m not sure what Graham likes in his so I just duplicate mine.

When his is ready, I place it in the small microwave and carry my plate to the table. Just as I’m pouring a glass of orange juice, the door opens and Graham fills the entryway, casting a shadow on the tan linoleum floor.

My face flushes seven shades of red at the thought of last night, and I busy myself by putting my full attention into using the side of the fork to break off a bite of egg.

“Good morning,” he says, as if nothing happened.

He’s in grey running shorts, a black long-sleeved workout shirt that defines his chest perfectly and a headband to keep his wavy hair out of his eyes while he’s running. A thin sheen of sweat makes his face glisten. Dear God, I could seriously get used to this vision every morning.

He walks over and plants a sweaty kiss on my forehead, and I finally find the courage to look up from my plate instead of continuing to stalk him through cut eyes. The kiss was unexpected and quite nice.

I take his cue and pretend also that he didn’t hear me masturbating through the paper-thin divider. “Morning. I made you an omelet. It’s in the microwave.” I could just die.

“Who knew you could cook?” He teases—or maybe not—as he grabs his plate and a fork to join me at the table. “How are you feeling?”

“Good. The seven different choices of crackers helped.” I don’t miss the proud smile that plays across his full lips. How funny. He’s trying and wants me to acknowledge it.

He cuts a bite and shoves it in his mouth. “Damn, this is good, baby.”

“I never said that I couldn’t cook.” I sigh. “I just despise doing it. I had a nanny for a short time that would give Caroline and me cooking lessons. We still make her sugar cookie recipe every Christmas Eve.” I actually taste my omelet for the first time and it does exceed expectations.

“How’d you sleep?” He swallows another huge bite and an odd expression misshapes his face.

Instantly, I begin to wonder what he’s fishing for. Is this a way to discuss what he most likely heard last night? Is he wanting me to ask why he didn’t sleep with me? Or is this simply a question like ‘was the mattress soft enough?’ I decide to ignore the strange look and go with the flippant answer of “fine.”

His eyes drop to his omelet as silence descends over The Cougar, ending our morning conversation. It’s so awkward. My stomach is in knots. As much as I pretend that I’m faking it until I’m making it, I’m still slightly mortified that he caught me in the act. My cheeks are burning with heat. When I finally have the courage to peek up at him through my lashes, he’s staring at me, with a little smirk.

I finish about a quarter of my breakfast before my stomach informs me that it’s time to quit eating. I stand up and walk to the garbage can, disposing of the rest of my omelet.

It’s not a matter of if I’m going to be sick, it’s how nonchalant can I be about it. I’m going for Agreeable Rachael, not Sick Rachael. These nerves mixed with hormones are killing me. I step into the bathroom and shut the door behind me, making sure that the lock is engaged. The last thing that I want at the moment is Graham’s pity. I’m the one who got us into this situation by not mentioning that I was off the pill the last time we made love. Fucked? I deserve this nausea and this awkwardness between us. Honestly, I don’t deserve to have him. This is my penance for my one very foolish mistake—but a mistake that we’re both insanely excited about. Each contraction of my stomach muscles reminds me that I did this to myself and to him. That he would be on tour dealing with his thousands of problems in person instead of receiving them on his phone.

After I’m finished, I clean myself up and brush my teeth. It always surprises me how much better I feel after I’ve gotten sick. It’s like a restart button for my body.

I open the door and walk out to discover that Mr. Grumpy has returned. “What were you doing in there?” he demands.

“Geez, Graham.” I tease. “Can’t a girl get some privacy?”

I walk over to the sink and turn on the water, preparing to do the dishes. Before I can register what’s happening, he has me scooped in his arms and is carrying me to the bedroom. Tenderly, he places me on top of the quilt. “You were sick. Lie here. I’ll do the dishes.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” I reply as I sit up, reminding myself that I’m Agreeable Rachael. “I mean, I’m not going to turn down the help in the kitchen, but I’m not bedridden. I honestly feel fine.”

With his arms crossed over his chest, his legs spread and a defiant look on his face, he’s hot. Brooding Graham could be an Armani model.
Especially if the glasses make an appearance again.
I lick my lips, hoping that he will take the hint. I have needs. Right now they’re pressing needs that haven’t been addressed by dry humping a leg or a vibrator.

“Don’t look at me like that, Rachael,” he warns, cocking his eyebrow.

“How am I looking at you, Graham?” I scoot further down on the comforter while his sweater stays in place, exposing more of my thigh.

The word “rejection” flashes like a neon sign inside my brain. Before he leaves to join his tour, I want him to make love to me, but I don’t know if I can stand another rebuff.

He turns his head away and looks at some spot on the wall that must be pretty damn interesting. Maybe it’s just my hope that believes he’s struggling with ignoring my subtle advance. The bulge in his shorts says that he’s affected by me. But that really doesn’t mean anything, as I learned yesterday. He had a fantastically hard erection in his kitchen, and he still told me no.
Why can’t he get over whatever issue he’s having and make me come?
Is that too much to ask? He’s a male, for goodness sake. In my experience, men don’t turn down an invitation.

“Like you want me to do kinky shit to your body,” he replies in a raspy voice, still avoiding eye contact.

If I’m reading him correctly, I don’t think that he can deny me again. Deciding to be bold and praying that I’m correct, I slip my hand in my panties. “We could begin with kinky shit.”

He still doesn’t look at me, but he adjusts his eyes from the wall to what must be a particularly interesting spot above my head. “I’m using every bit of willpower that I have, Rachael.” His Adam’s apple bobs up and down before he adds, “Please don’t do this. I fucking ache to be inside of you.” He uncrosses his arms and rakes his hand through his hair causing the damp tendrils to fall haphazardly around his face, his headband long forgotten. After a pause, he sits down on the edge of the bed, and finally his blue eyes find my green. I guess he’s being careful to avoid locating my hand. “We’ve got to learn to communicate with words instead of sex. Yesterday we made progress.”

My index finger begins to toy with my slit. I’m so wet and ready for him. My desperation must make me bold, because I reply, “Would that great communication yesterday be when I was forced to use my vibrator?”

“Jesus Christ, Rachael,” he says through a tense jaw. “Were you intentionally trying to kill me?”

When his eyes finally travel down my body, I spread my legs and slip my panties to the left, showing him my wet, swollen vagina. My finger slips inside the folds as I play with myself. “Communication is not necessarily verbal. I’m showing you how you make me feel.” I swipe my finger through my wetness and hold it out for him to see. “This is how much I need you. Don’t deny us how we communicate best.”

He pulls his shirt over his head, depositing it on the ground. I watch in sweet anticipation as he pulls off his workout shorts and underwear. Naked Graham. My favorite. I reach out and grab his burning hot, throbbing cock as I position myself in front of it.

There are no words. Graham’s face twists as if he’s in pain as he slides into me. The fullness is almost orgasmic. I clench around his hardness as if I’m trying to entrap him. He doesn’t move, and I revel in the feeling of him inside of me.

I wrap my legs around his waist and begin to twirl my hips on his cock. His forehead wrinkles deepen and his eyes squeeze shut. He’s behaving as if it’s some form of torture to make me come.

“Fuck me, Graham,” I plead. “Give me what we need.” I stress the word
we
because this is something that will make both of us feel euphoric.

“What you need is to be spanked. You know that we aren’t ready for this, yet you spread your legs and finger yourself to drive me crazy. Do you like seeing me this conflicted?” he asks, without meeting my eyes and the trench between his eyes deepens.

I ignore everything after the word “spanked” because yes. That’s what I need. I loved it the last time he spanked and then fucked me. “Spank me,” I moan as I continue to move on his still erection.

His face morphs from one of anger to resolution. His forehead relaxes, but his eyes remain tight and jaw set. He looks more as if he’s doing a chore than making love to me. I don’t care. An orgasm from him is what I need.

He unwraps my legs and pulls out, leaving me feeling bereft. There’s no way he can reject me again. He was already fucking me. What would be the point of leaving us both frustrated? But before I can protest, he has me positioned on all fours. This time when he enters me, he begins to move back and forth in a pounding motion.