“You know . . . you’ve seen my room, and I don’t even know where you’re stayin’ while you’re here, or your number, or even somethin’ as inconsequential as your favorite color or favorite food,” I blurted out.
He appeared quietly amused by my unprompted outburst, taking the moment he should have answered to smile lazily up at me. I was right on the verge of retreating when he finally spoke: “I’m staying at The Caprock Inn at Cannon Air Force Base, my number is 415-220-5559, my favorite color right now is the exact blue-green shade of your eyes, and my favorite food . . .”—his lips twitched—“happens to have recently changed to oatmeal, butterscotch-chip cookies with dates instead of raisins.” That said, he laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back on my pillow. “What else you wanna know?”
I was pleased a literal pink and placated for the time being. “I guess that’ll do for now,” I mumbled. There were only about a million and one things. However, I could not say that without sounding like a stalker.
His amused eyes left my face to roam to my nightstand. He leaned forward, his face changing forms. “Is this your mother?” He indicated the single portrait keeping vigil over me as I slept. I nodded my head. “May I?”
I raised a shoulder, trying for nonchalance.
Carefully, he lifted the gilded frame, and after a few seconds of quiet study, his eyes found mine. “She was beautiful.”
My throat got that full feeling. I blinked back tears. Put a scattered hand up to my face. “Thanks.”
He studied me for a hot, heavy moment. “Come here,” he said in a low voice.
The weight of these simple words leadened my feet, and I hesitated before crossing the threshold to stand before him. He placed his hands on the tops of my arms, one on each side, sliding them down to encircle my wrists. An immediate trail of goose bumps followed his movements.
“Sit down.” His voice was huskier than it was a moment ago. And if it was possible, his eyes were even darker—shiny black orbs staring up at me as though mesmerized, like me.
I swallowed and obediently sank down, my knees folding beneath the pressure of his gaze. His body heat immediately penetrated my bare legs, stifling whatever slight chill was left. Stomach swimming with expectation, I stared straight ahead, feeling unspeakably vulnerable. He reached over and filled his hand with my hair, caressessing the strands between his fingers before brushing them aside to expose my neck, a newly recognized erogenous zone. He pressed his lips against the pulse of my throat as though reading the race of it.
“Mmmmm,” he breathed me in. “You smell like vanilla.”
My heart accelerated. “I-I do?”
A low chuckle from his throat. “Um-hmm,” he murmured in my ear, zinging pleasure straight down my spine. Despite my rapidly rising temperature, I shivered. “And sugar and spice and all things nice.” He nuzzled a sensitive spot behind my ear that I was entirely unaware of until that moment.
I breathed out, unconsciously tilting my head back to allow easier access to the teasing sensations invading my body via my neck. A small smile curved his lips as he cradled the back of my head, laying me down on the pillow. My eyes felt heavy lidded at once. He leaned over me, and I breathed in the heat coming off his skin, the musky scent as intoxicating to me as if Aphrodite herself mixed it up just to drive me crazy. It was like I was high on some kind of drug—the rapid-fire responses in my body were quite beyond my control. It was as alarming as it was arousing.
Pete watched me color and squirm beneath him, and I longed to feel his hard masculinity pressed into me again. I felt impatient with it. Once again, my body naturally began urging his down using little enticing movements I was barely aware of: arms reaching, hips arching, lips parting. Things I’d never done before I’d met him. Things that were old as time. As natural as breathing. It seemed inevitable as two magnets, the coming together of our bodies. I felt it at the center of my being. The certainty of it. The rightness.
He ran a long, teasing finger along the length of my leg, bringing back the pleasure-bumps. Dipping just under the hemline of my shorts, he paused to stare down on me. My breath caught, my stomach lurching in the most pleasing way possible, like that second’s pause at the top of a roller coaster before the drop. But there was no forthcoming drop—he just left me hanging.
I gave a little strangled throat noise and closed my eyes against him. Why’s he doing this to me? It was half-torture, half-teasing. I didn’t understand it. If you can believe it, I just now considered that he most likely had a girlfriend back home. In Elitesville.
Feelings of inadequacy clogged my throat. I huffed out some frustration and hurt and pushed my hands against the wall of his chest. (I would’ve paid a year’s wages at Norma’s to do the opposite.) Anyhow, this was neither the time nor the place—the cheerful voices of my brothers penetrated my flimsy walls.
His restraint was totally vexing. But it probably did me a favor in the long run, although I felt a letdown so deep, you’d need a coal miner to get it out of me. Pete heaved a sigh and sat up, hanging his head between his legs to stare down at my bland carpet. He raked both hands through his hair.
Aggravation? Anger?
I felt both. And feverish. And trembley. I was still sprawled across the calico quilt like a wanton woman, and couldn’t help but cringe at what Daddy would think if he saw us this way—on my bed, Pete’s hair disheveled, his breathing heavy, mine too shallow, my body too languid to move. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what we were . . . almost up to.
Pete turned around to penetrate me with a look that was borderline disgust. “You better go put those sweats on now.”
Stung, I got off the bed, awkwardly, making sure not to touch him. Then Frankenstein-lurched to my dresser to pull out a pair of sweatpants. Walk-of-shame, is how best to describe my trek across the hall to the bathroom. The reflection that greeted me was telling: two bright spots rouged my cheeks, my eyes were glassy, and my neck looked like a rash had recently sprouted. I hurriedly twisted my hair into a ponytail and threw on my sweats. When I yanked the door open, it was to find Pete filling the doorframe of my bedroom, hands hanging from the door jamb like he’d just performed a slam-dunk. He looked so tousled-sexy I almost bolted over to tackle him back onto my bed. Just managed to hold on to my dignity.
“Hey,” I muttered, focusing on a spot over his shoulder.
“Hey, yourself.”
I dared a peek at his face and found him smirking down at me. “Sorry about that,” he said as though he’d accidentally bumped into me in the hall.
I didn’t know how to respond. That’s okay seemed inappropriate and insincere. “I, uh . . . better get off to chores. I think it’s easy enough to find the way out.” I swished past him down the hall—Bang!—right out the door. “Boys!” I hollered, “Go time!” I began hoofing it when an arm snaked around my waist. I whirled around. “What? What is it, Pete? I have to go now!” I masked my hurt and confusion with a double dose of anger.
“I—” He paused to rub at his jaw. “I’m sorry.”
“So you’ve already said.” I turned to flee, but he nabbed my hand. Expecting more apologies or humorous flirting, I was unprepared for what I got.