24
1039 Words
“Yes, really. Did you know you look like an angel when you’re asleep?”
Heat creeps into my cheeks. I wander over to the sofa and sit down, smoothing my hand over the spot on the middle cushion where James held me in his lap. “I don’t believe anyone has made that observation before, no.”
“Well, you do. A pornographic angel, if there is such a thing. I was worried I’d have to seek medical attention today because my d**k stayed hard the entire night.”
I whisper, “I noticed that.”
After a beat, he whispers gruffly back, “You’re so f*****g beautiful. Your skin makes me want to cry.”
I grin, blushing furiously. “I know that’s a line from a song, Romeo.”
“Damn. You caught me. My script writers are on break. Bonus points for effort, though?”
“You don’t sound the least bit sorry, so no bonus points.”
“Hmm. What if I told you I’m hard right now just from hearing your voice?”
“Less romantic, but more realistic. I’ll give you one point.”
His voice turns teasing. “Oh, it’s romance you want, is it? And here I thought you were only after me for my body.”
“Your incredible body, yes, I’m sorry to say that’s all I’m interested in. By the way, I wanted to ask you about something.”
“What?”
“That tattoo on your shoulder. It was too dark last night for me to read it. What does it say?”
His hesitation is a sudden crackle of tension over the line. “Duris dura fraguntur.”
It’s Latin, I know that much. I also know by the change in his voice that I’ve stepped into dangerous territory, but I can’t help but step farther. My curiosity is too strong. “What does it mean?”
He answers in a low voice. “Hard things are broken by hard things.”
I think of the simple italic text tattooed onto the rounded muscle of his shoulder. Beneath it were two mysterious rows of short black lines, like a bar code.
An eerie uneasiness creeps over me, as if someone has stepped over my grave.
“Oh.”
We sit in awkward silence, until he says, “I noticed you don’t have any tattoos.”
It’s as elegant a segue as possible, considering the circumstances, so I go with it. “I’m not a big fan of needles.”
His voice warms. “That’s right. You said you’re not into pain.”
“Of any kind. I’m a big baby when it comes to physical pain. A hangnail can send me into a crying fit.”
“So can an orgasm.”
I know he’s only teasing because his tone is strokingly soft, but still I’m embarrassed. My ears start to burn.
He guesses why I’m silent. “Don’t be embarrassed. I hope to make you cry as often as possible from now until September.”
Picturing myself weeping every time he touches me makes me nervous. Dropping my head into my hand, I groan. “I have a bad feeling I’m going to need a lot of tissues.”
He chuckles. “We’ll go to one of those big box stores, get stocked up.”
“Judging by how wound up you get me, we’ll have to stock up on smelling salts, too. I’m liable to collapse into a heap every time I see you.”
“Do you think they carry defibrillators? Because I’ll probably need one of those at some point. Sooner rather than later, considering what it did to my heart when I watched you come.” His voice goes rough. “I can’t wait to put my mouth on you again. I had dreams about how sweet you taste. When I woke up, my d**k was throbbing.”
His voice is so hot, I start to sweat. He’s not the only one who might need a defibrillator.
I say faintly, “Things are starting to throb over here, too.”
He makes that growling wolf noise that I find so weirdly thrilling. “Is your p***y getting wet, Olivia?”
He loves that word: p***y. I admit, it’s never been a favorite of mine, but coming from his mouth, the way he says it with so much masculine need, it has recently gained in stature.
“Yes. When can I see you? I’d like to reciprocate for that incredible o****m you gave me last night.”
His sharp intake of breath tells me the need in my voice affects him the same way the need in his voice affects me.
“I have to go to Germany for a few days, but I’ll be back on Friday. Dinner?”
“Definitely.” I’m proud of myself for not asking what’s in Germany, because this whole not-getting-personal thing was my idea, after all.
“Good. I’ll pick you up at five.”
“Seems a little early for dinner.”
“There’s somewhere I want to take you first.”
“Ooh, a mystery. I like it.”
“And Olivia?”
“Yes?”
“Wear a dress.”
He hangs up, leaving me with shaky hands, a pulse going gangbusters, and my imagination running wild with every possible scenario of why he’d want me to wear a dress.
Another flash of inspiration has me sprinting back to the library and the yellow pad of lined legal paper.
I don’t get up from the desk again until it’s dark.
11
I
spend the next three days in a state of suspended animation, cocooned in the apartment, writing in a blind, compulsive frenzy and ignoring the outside world. I’m consumed by the story and have a hard time tearing myself away from the page even to eat or sleep.
It’s like I’m obsessed by the characters. Or, more accurately, that I’ve become them. I see what they see. I feel what they feel. When they’re sad or happy or confused, I am, too. They’ve arrived in my brain so dimensional and complete, it’s as if I’ve known them my entire life.
- Writer
