He kisses me suddenly, his mouth devouring. His thrusts turn fast and desperate. He makes a sound deep in his chest, a purely masculine sound that could either be pain or pleasure.
Biting my lips, he fucks me until he breaks away with a garbled groan.
I sink to my knees on the flour dusted floor, wrap my hands around his engorged cock, and open my mouth over the crown.
He fists his hands into my hair and comes, staring down at me.
I have to close my eyes as I swallow so I can’t see the look in his.
The look that tells me the lie he asked me to tell is going to turn out to be anything but small and simple.
23
Jules
After that night, we’re inseparable.
He eats meals with me, wanders the town and marina with me, sleeps beside me in my small motel bed. At least I assume he sleeps. He must. Every time I wake, however, he’s already up, with coffee and pastries waiting.
I never hear him come and go. A part of me thinks he can turn to smoke and slink silently in and out of rooms through cracks in windowpanes or under doors, like Dracula.
Honestly, it wouldn’t surprise me.
Over dinner in the evenings, he asks me questions, dozens of them. They grow more and more personal each day. He asks me about Fin and Max. About my favorite movies and TV shows. About my favorite foods and books. He asks what I wanted to be when I was growing up, what I remember about my mother, what it was like being an only child.
If I’ve ever been in love.
I answer everything honestly. I ask no questions in return.
If he wonders why, he doesn’t mention it. Perhaps he knows it’s the only way I can protect myself. I’m afraid that the more I discover of that poet’s heart that beats beneath his powerful, dangerous exterior, the more unable I’ll be to walk away when it’s time.
He takes me dancing. He takes me to the movies. He rents a sailboat and captains it himself. We visit art galleries and museums, we listen to a jazz trio at a bar overlooking the ocean, we stuff ourselves on lobster and crab. We do all the silly tourist things any normal couple would do on vacation.
And, everywhere, we make love.
On a dock at night. On a merry-go-round in a park. In the motel jacuzzi. Down a dimly lit, secluded back hallway of a restaurant. In a high school auditorium we snuck into after dark.
It’s always frantic and almost always wordless. We’ll be walking hand in hand down the street or standing at a beachside railing watching the sea birds circle overhead, and suddenly we’ll look at each other and be overcome.
That’s the only way I can describe it: overcome. Overwhelmed by heat and hunger.
Overpowered by need.
When I wonder if this is how my mother felt when she met my father, I feel deeply afraid. And more certain that my moratorium on this affair is wise.
Not wise enough, though.
I didn’t know it then, but I’d already lost my heart.
The guy who approaches me is about thirty, well-built and nicely dressed, and smiling. He’s got a man bun and a tattoo of a katana on his forearm. He’s Caucasian, so getting a traditional Japanese cultural symbol inked onto a visible body part means he’s either a devout student of martial arts, or a douche.
“Hi,” he says, and takes the stool next to mine at the bar.
Killian’s in the restroom. Behind the bar, Harley looks at the new arrival with an expression like he’s just taken his life into his own hands by occupying Killian’s seat.
When Harley looks over at me, brows raised, I shrug. If this guy wants to get his face rearranged, so be it.
Harley pours Man Bun a shot of tequila and sets it in front of him.
Surprised, Man Bun says, “Oh. No thanks, bro. I’ll take a strawberry daiquiri.”
“Of course you will,” deadpans Harley. “Do you need a tampon for that mangina of yours, too?”
Man Bun is insulted, puffing up his chest. “Excuse me?”
Harley looks him up and down then snorts. “Oh, don’t get your panties in a bunch, sweetheart. You’ll be dead within five minutes. Enjoy yourself while you can. And try going out with some dignity.” He looks at Man Bun’s hair and grimaces. “You’ve embarrassed yourself enough.”
He walks off to serve another customer. Man Bun looks after him in astonishment, then at me.
I smile. “Colorful, isn’t he?”
Disgruntled, he says, “Uh, yeah. I guess you could call it that.”
I sip my wine and wait for him to introduce himself. When he does, I nearly spit the wine out of my mouth.
“I’m Tripp. With two Ps.”
I swallow with difficulty, then reclaim my smile from where it fell onto the floor in shock. “Hi, Tripp with two Ps. I’m Juliet.”
His brows shoot up. “Really? Juliet? Like from Shakespeare?”
Oh, the irony of having my name met with surprise by a guy named after what happens when you’re too clumsy to walk a straight line without stumbling.
“Yes, like from Shakespeare.”
“Huh.” He grins. “I guess you need a Romeo, then.”
Or a Taser.
I see Killian approaching from behind Tripp, his long legs eating up the distance between the men’s room and the bar with alarming speed, and think for a frantic moment that I should probably warn Tripp off before he gets hurt.
Until he leans closer to me and says, “I’m up for the job, if you’re looking.” He waggles his eyebrows up and down.
Your fate is sealed, Man Bun.
But Killian surprises me by maintaining his cool. He walks up beside me, kisses the top of my head, and turns to Man Bun with a friendly smile. “Hullo, mate. I see you’ve met my woman. Knockout, isn’t she?”
He looks Killian up and down, swallowing. A shade of color fades from his face. “Uh…”
“Nice ink,” says Killian, looking at Man Bun’s sword tattoo. “Shinogi-Zukuri was originally produced after the Heian period. I prefer Kissaki-Moroha-Zukuri myself. Unlike Shinogi-Zukuri, the blade is double-edged. I like to have both edges of my swords sharp. Much more cutting power that way.”
He grins at Man Bun’s deer-in-the-headlights look. “Are you into firearms, too, by any chance? I’d love to show you my collection.”
Grinning, Harley sets down a strawberry daiquiri in front of Man Bun. He drops a paper umbrella into it and dodders away, cackling.
Man Bun stands, grabs his daiquiri, and smiles stiffly at us. “Nice meeting you.”
Watching him run away, Killian chuckles. “I guess I’m paying for his drink.”
I say, “What’s it like, going through life the way you do?”
“Which way is that?”
“King of the jungle. Lord of the manor. Master of all you survey.”
Killian slides onto the stool Man Bun just deserted and smiles at me. “Gratifying. Convenient.” His smile falters. His voice drops. “Lonely.”
It kills me when he’s vulnerable. I glance down at my glass of wine.
Switching back to a normal tone, he says, “What’s it like being so attractive random strangers try to pick you up in bars?”
I snort, looking over at a trio of women sitting at a nearby table, gawking our way. “You should know, stud.”