Untangling The Stars (14 page)

Andie lifted her hand in a wave and mouthed a goodbye at Cody, who was already running back across the empty courtyard. She turned to Guy and bumped against his side so he’d put his arm around her again. He did.

“Not too bad, huh?” Andie searched Guy’s face for any hidden signs, but the shadows and sunglasses made it hard to see much more than his lips, which seemed to be sculpted out of wax. There was that grimace again.

He stared after Cody’s disappearing form in the darkness. “Not yet.”

CHAPTER NINE

Neither of them said much as they made their way down the short walkway that led back to Andie’s building, which was just a quick few blocks off campus. They strolled together on the uneven sidewalk, with Guy’s arm around her waist and occasionally steering them around uneven cracks even the pavement or the random hydrant. It was as if they’d taken this path a thousand times before.

At the door to her building, Guy paused and looked down at Andie. His face was passive, not expectant. Something hung unsaid in the air between them.
Do I ask him in? Should I?
He gave a small shrug as if to break the silence.

“I’m sorry about that back there. Honestly, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to complete strangers recognizing me.”

“You were just fine. It’s not exactly commonplace to hear someone shout your name out in the dark and coming running at you either.”

“When will I see you again?”

“Now. Right now. Upstairs. I mean, do you want to come up?” Apparently, she’d decided to ask him up, but holy cow, she hadn’t been too smooth about it. There were so many fragmented pauses in that invitation it sounded like she was speaking in Morse code.

Guy’s left eyebrow popped up over the rim of opaque glasses. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”
I am? I am.

Andie let them in the oak doorway, which was heavier than she remembered. Funny how nerves could make your body numb. Guy was helpful, levering an arm high over her head to help push the door open. She could feel her face turning from pink, to magenta, to fuchsia, and, eventually, to fire-engine red. It was a good thing she was leading them both. This was not the way a mature, empowered, sexually confident woman invited a man into her apartment. Her cheeks were so hot she might have been wearing the sun atop her neck. She kept her head down and practically dragged Guy by the hand behind her up the four flights of stairs to her apartment door.
Slow your pace, girl. You’re an accomplished thirty-two-year-old woman bringing a guy home, not in junior high, sneaking Billy Blackwell in through the backdoor. You are a
doctor
, for crying out loud.

Even still, her keys scratched the lock a few more times than she was comfortable with before the lock finally twisted home. When the door swung open, Andie sighed half out of relief, half out of excitement. She dropped her bag on the hardwood floor of the small entryway and tossed her keys in the bowl on the countertop before she clicked on the low overhead light. It shone like a low-lit beacon over Guy’s head. Not to be cheesy or anything, but that forty-watt bulb set the hair atop Guy’s head aglow, like a damned halo.
Now that’s a twist.

And not a twist she cared to share. She’d keep that bit of girlish stupidity to herself.

Guy stood there, motionless, studying her as she pulled off her shoes. He seemed to be waiting on her, ever the gentleman, to decide their next move.
You invited him in, Foxglove. The ball is in your court.
She met his eyes as he pulled off his sunglasses and put them in his jacket pocket. She was silly to have thought she could ever become immune to the beauty that was Guy Wilder. Her first assessment—that he was attractive in an unconventional way—had been woefully shortsighted. He wasn’t good looking, with his disheveled cocoa hair and dangerously sharp angles. He wasn’t even handsome, with an island of honey inside blue eyes so bright and mirroring that they could almost pass for one of those desktop screensavers of some bit of white sand island in a sea of sparkling blue. Nope, she couldn’t think of a single word that could do justice to the lean tower of rippled muscle bathed in leather and dusted in the scent of rose petals and milk that was standing, eyes on her, in front of the closed door of her apartment. Suddenly they were alone. Again.

Urgent and impulsive, a thirst rose in Andie’s throat. She didn’t have time for thoughts, or deliberations, or any other sort of
should I
’s or whatnot. Andie had kissed handfuls—maybe dozens—of men in her life, but never had she
kissed
a man. It was the italics that made the difference.

Andie took the first step forward and kept moving. When she reached Guy, she took both sides of his leather collar inside her fists, and pulled him to her. He came easily and she pressed her lips against him and
kissed
him.

He let her lead, and she let go of his collar and flung her arms around his neck, pulling them both into a consuming kiss. It was just before midnight after a long day, she was barefoot, and she was clinging to the neck of a man over a foot taller than her in the tiny entryway of her apartment, surrounded by a clutter of discarded shoes.

And it was freaking amazing.

Guy managed to shuffle out of his jacket without disrupting the kiss. Andie heard it drop to the floor. His hands swept from her shoulders down her back and stopped at the small of her waist. He lifted her from the ground. She responded, swinging her legs up and around and locking them in place behind his back. With one palm flat against the bottom of each of her thighs, he carried her easily—like she fit naturally in the L-shaped bend of his arms. She kept kissing him and he moved forward with her held securely. Andie didn’t know if he had his eyes open to see where he was going, and she didn’t care.
Walk us into a wall for all I care, just don’t stop kissing me
. Eventually she felt the pointed edge of a kitchen countertop poke against her rear and he slid her onto the granite. Her shoulder blades bumped the cabinets.

He pulled his lips away from hers, letting the kiss trail off in a series of smaller kisses on the edge of her mouth, her chin, her jaw. Mouth still open, he tipped his forehead against hers, hiding his face behind a curtain of hair.

“It’s late.” His voice cracked under the strain of his need, but anxiety crept back into the set of his jaw. “I should go.”

Andie tried to see through the locks of fallen hair and decode the man underneath. He was a tricky one, this enigma wrapped in a riddle. If she knew what was best for her, she’d let him go. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew this could never work—this romance between a regular girl and a man from the headlines. Those relationships never worked, in or out of the movies. It was hot and heavy and then
boom
, someone’s arguing pre-nup semantics in annulment court while the rest of the world reads along. Andie thought about all of those gloomy—and very probable—scenarios and made her decision.

“Stay.”

Guy didn’t move, but he did look up at her. She looked back at him, unyielding and unashamed. She knew what asking him to stay meant, and she
wanted
him to stay.
Please stay.

He didn’t respond, but used his arms to scoop her back up off the counter and into his arms.

“Left. End of the hallway,” she muttered the words into his lips before they closed on hers.

With his eyes closed (she peeked this time), he followed her directions, pausing twice and each time using the toe of one foot to shove the shoe off the other. When they reached her bedroom, Guy stopped when his knees hit the edge of the bed. With Andie still in his arms, he crawled onto the mattress, holding her in a cradle of knees and elbows as he brought them both to the center of the bed. There, he sat back on the balls of his feet, bringing Andie upright against him. He let her drop to her behind on the soft mattress, her ankles still locked behind his back. His palms rested atop her thighs, and he looked down at her.

Andie’s heart felt like it might beat out from her chest. Carefully—deliberately—she grabbed the hem of her sweater and pulled it up and over her head, exposing the flesh of her upper body. She wriggled her ponytail free from the fabric and tossed her top to the floor.
I’m glad I wore a nice bra
. She hadn’t worn the wine-colored silk and lace bra for any planned reason, but she was glad it had been the set she’d grabbed in her sleep-deprived state that morning. Normally her lingerie choices depended solely on two factors: function and comfort.

It was so dark in the bedroom that Andie couldn’t see the expression on Guy’s face. The tiny bit of light from the street lamps outside made his eyes shine like cat’s eyes in the blackness. He’d worn nothing but a plain white cotton t-shirt under the leather jacket. With one hand kept on her leg, he used the other to pull the shirt by its collar behind his neck up and over his head. Men made that look so damn easy.

She had guessed at what kind of sculpted glory was waiting underneath Guy’s clothing, and now—even etched in shadow—she could see every ripple and fold of pecs and abs that shaped his body like assembled bits and pieces of perfection. Thanks to his show,
My
Bleeding Heart,
Andie had seen Guy’s naked torso a time or two, though she’d assumed half of that definition was exaggerated Photoshop magic that made already-perfect men into godlike creatures. But Guy’s shirtless status had uncovered the details of muscles she didn’t even know men could have. Her hands seemed to have a mind of their own as her fingers reached up and slid across the toned flesh of Guy’s chest and stomach. He was pale in the moonlight, chiseled, gleaming—the living statue of a man warm and beating, and leaning over her. Her fingers slid to the button of his jeans, pulled against them like a woman begging to worship before the feet of her porcelain idol.

His hand was warm under hers as he undid the clasp of his pants and slid the zipper down, tooth by tooth. Andie lay back against the headboard pillows and watched intently as Guy expertly maneuvered his long limbs through each of his pant legs. With his body in a plank position and his jeans bunched around his ankles, he used to his feet to free his legs. The dark, silky material between his legs was cool against the thin fabric of Andie’s jeans. He held her, his big hands encircling the small of her waist. It crossed her mind that never once did Guy take control of the moment, but was always giving her first mover’s advantage, like he was symbolically passing the torch to her control. Every move, every choice to continue moving forward, was for her to decide. He was hers for the taking.

And she took.

***

Her former fantasy of making love to Guy had nothing on the actual experience itself. Nor did their previous intimacies prepare her for this. Andie hated to underestimate people, but Guy’s lovemaking had been so beyond her expectations of what lovemaking was—much less what it
could
be. It was a rolling, entangled adventure unlike any Andie had experienced before. Every inch of her body was involved in the experience—every inch of skin touched and tickled, every muscle taut and reacting to Guy’s endless symphony of kisses and caresses. He was sensuous and attentive, an indulgent lover in every way.

When it was over, they lay together, Guy the big spoon to her little spoon, on the disheveled heap of pillows and blankets of Andie’s bed. A thin sheet covered them up to the waist. The exposed skin of their upper bodies shimmered like morning dew under a thin layer of sweat. The analogy was spot on—the sky outside was already lightening with the threat of dawn.

“That was amazing,” Andie said into the skin of Guy’s forearm where it draped across her shoulders.
Understatement.

“You were amazing.”

He seemed to do that a lot—echo her rather than add to the conversation. She wasn’t sure why. She shifted around until she lay flat on her back again, watching the fan whirl lazily on the ceiling overhead. Guy adjusted, too, one arm under the bend of her neck, the other dropping lower to lay under the swell of her breasts. One of his feet slid down between her knees and rested on the bed somewhere past her feet. She blinked back sleep. If there was a perfect way to end a night, it was like this: exhausted, fulfilled, and with Guy twisted around her. She didn’t want to waste a single moment of it actually sleeping.

“I’m serious.”

“Good. So am I.”

She wanted to ask something, but couldn’t push the words out. She wanted to ask the stupid thing that women naked in bed and still recovering from a feast of flesh were want to say—“what’s next?” Andie remembered reading somewhere that women’s bodies released a chemical after sex that made them…needy. The clinger hormone. She definitely did not want to come across clingy.
Is it uncool of me to be even thinking about it? I should just enjoy this for what it is and not worry about what comes next. Relish the moment, carpe diem.
Her inner monologue was very Carrie Bradshaw from
Sex in the City
, but what would Samantha say?