Hard Time (Hard as Nails #1) (15 page)

To gain control, only to lose it once more.

Chapter Eighteen

Street

I’m not finished. Not even close. The total loss of control she subjected me to had been mind blowing, but I want even more. Back at the restaurant, I’d told her I was going to make all of her dreams and fantasies come true tonight, but I’d had something else in mind.

I’d thought I’d known what she wanted; not to fuck, but to make love. That had been a rather alarming miscalculation, a sort of wish fulfillment where I didn’t get my wish.

Because
I
was the one who wanted to make love, and I can’t be sure she won’t object to that.

I pull myself away from her body and brace my arms on either side of her head. My eyes have adjusted to the light, but I’m unable to get a clear enough picture of her beneath me, so I reach to the right and click on the remaining unbroken lamp.

Her eyes wince shut, fighting against the sudden light, but when she opens her eyes again, I’m taken more aback than perhaps I’ve ever been. I’ve seen those eyes a thousand times, but somehow they always read like a new story.

Before, her eyes spoke to her innocence and incorruptibility. They’re still brushed with strokes of innocence, with dark green circles around black pupils. But there’s something deeper beneath the green forest, something that builds excitement from within me as my elbows threaten to surrender to the weight of my body.

Even when I’m above her, and I’ve found myself back in control, she somehow still has me locked up in a prison only she can conjure.

“I’m falling in love with you, Katie,” I whisper, almost as if I didn’t mean to say those words out loud. I
did
mean to say them, though. I just can’t believe I actually did. Those words have been elusive to me my entire life.

Her eyes are as wide as saucers as she stares at me. I want to prod her to say something, but I don’t. Finally, she speaks.

“Do you really mean that? Because you were in prison. Not a lot of women there. Maybe you’re just—”

I cup her face with both my palms so she can’t look away from me. “I take it back. I’m not falling in love with you. I love you, Katie.”

She blinks rapidly. Her hands caress my sides, but it’s not her touch that’s making me quiver; it’s the thought that she might not feel the same.

“Do you really mean that?”

I smile. “I mean it,” I say, my voice strong and firm.

She swallows with difficulty and forces a strained smile. My eyes pass over her entire face, trying to get a good read on her, but I’m left drawing blanks.

“This is hard for me,” she says as her fingers continue their dance along the bare skin of my sides. “It’s not easy for me to be vulnerable or whatever.”

“Try being locked up,” I joke. “But it’s okay. I wasn’t expecting you to say it back.” Hoping, but not expecting.

I roll off her. She shifts to face me and plants a hand against my chest, where my heart threatens to beat right out of my damn ribs

Her tongue runs a lap around her parched lips before she says, “I don’t love you.”

The words lash at me as painful as a whip, and I tense and suck in a breath.

But then she cups the back of my neck, and her eyes follow the movement of her thumb as she traces the scar beneath my right ear. She’s never asked me about it, but she does the oddest thing. She pulls herself up and gently kisses the scar. Over and over again. Then she softly says, “I don’t love you yet, Street, but I’m getting there.”

Relief sweeps through me. I pull back because I need to see her face. “You’re falling in love with me?”

“I am. I just don’t know what to do about it.” She lowers herself down again, her hair framing her beautiful face and decorating the snow white sheets. She runs short circles around my chest with her bare fingers.

“Can I give you a suggestion for now?”

“Sure,” she says.

I slide one palm under her head, cradling her in place beneath me. “First, say it again,” I command.

She understands exactly what I’m asking for. “I’m falling in love with you.” Almost as precious as her words is the smile she gives me. It reflects what she’s feeling, telling me she’s scared but fighting to be brave.

“Princess?”

“Yes?”

“Tonight, I’m going to make both our dreams come true.”

She brushes a light hand against my cheek. “Haven’t we already been down this road?”

“We fucked. Now, I want to make love.”

Chapter Nineteen

Katie

A little over two weeks after our dreamy night at the hotel, I find myself again lying in Street’s arms. This time, we’re on his couch while some dumb horror flick plays on the television. Neither of us pays much attention to the screaming girl being chased through a midnight forest by some crazed man with a chainsaw.

I’m too caught up in the way he makes me feel, his eyes looking lovingly upon me as I’m pulled tightly against his body. I never could have imagined we’d find such intimacy with all our clothes on, but somehow we have.

Somehow this works. Somehow this fits. I can’t begin to understand the specifics of it, but I’m content with not knowing. I’m content with just living in the moment, no longer worrying that Street is going to get tired of me and leave.

His fingers comb through my hair in slow strokes as my face is angled against his clothed chest. I can hear his every breath as his chest rises and falls. I can hear his heartbeat, pounding away faster and louder than the girl in peril on the television.

That night in the hotel began with me dominating him, then he took control and dominated me. It was the perfect combination of two equal people vying for control. After we fucked, we made love, and it was the perfect antidote to bring us down from one high and catapult us into another, more blissful high.

He took his time with me, especially once he got his face between my thighs. He ate me out like I was more delicious than the fancy hotel chocolates, devouring every square inch of my body until I was crying and begging him to take me. Then he filled me completely, rocking into me with slow, careful thrusts. Second by excruciating second, he showered me with pleasure, and when I came, I could have sworn I saw all the stars in the galaxy, but in reality it was just him, hovering above me with his lips quivering as if he had never experienced something quite like it.

I felt the same, and held on to him as long as I could. It was a moment that I didn’t want to end, but of course it had to.

We had reality to return to. Jobs. School. My little girl.

We have our four hours a day in the bookstore, and then the hours I can find to be with him in his apartment. It isn’t nearly long enough. Yet Street is becoming entrenched deeper into my reality with every day that passed.

Being with him just feels natural. Feels right.

Like the way he kisses me.

I lean up to him and catch his attention in an instant. I don’t need to ask him to do anything, he somehow just knows what to do. He leans down and plants a quick kiss on my lips, leaving me reeling with a wide smile. When he pulls away, he’s wearing the same exact smile as me, one that’s crafted with serenity and peace, with mystery and wonder, the same kind of smile a teenager carries upon her face after her first kiss.

Except this isn’t our first kiss. It’s not our hundredth. It’s closer to our thousandth, and I still cherish each and every one. He presses his lips against mine again, this time taking his time, his tongue dancing with mine. I’ve become addicted to the taste of his kisses, the same way I used to be addicted to the fantasies I had of him.

There’s only one thing that comes close to putting a shadow on what we’ve been building. It’s why I change the subject when he shows any interest in meeting Riley. He’s a good man, despite his history, and the next logical step is for him to meet her. At the same time, I have to do everything in my power to protect my daughter. I need to be sure of everything before I even contemplate the very idea.

And while I’m sure Street loves me and enjoys being with me, I’m not sure how he’ll feel about a baby. One that isn’t his, that is. And I
am
sure how Dee will feel about him meeting her.

Dee says she’s worried, and I tell her she shouldn’t be. I keep reassuring her that I know what I’m doing, but I’m not completely sure I do. Dee doesn’t either. That much is certain by the way she takes her time with me, where each question is carefully crafted with thoughtful words and short pauses, almost as if she’s trying not to piss me off.

The truth is I’m no longer falling for Street. I’m am fully in love with him. But that’s the last thing I want to tell Dee. Instead, I tell her this is just a fun little thing to do on the side. She assumes I come all the way over here to just have sex with him. We have a lot of sex. At least once each time I’m over here, which is about once every other night. We’ve even had sex at work several times, in the same back room where George interviewed us.

Let’s just say Street isn’t only good in bed. He’s amazing with me pinned against a wall or bent over a desk, too. Hell, he’s the best I’ve ever had and ever will have, no matter where we are or what the position is.

But we do more than have sex. We cuddle. We talk, and I really mean talk. We talk about everything from the weather to books.

Yes, books.

It wasn’t bullshit when Street came in asking for a poetry book. He not only reads poetry, he reads almost everything, something he says he picked up in prison.

He’s read several poems, including
Clown in the Moon
, to me aloud. Every time, I’m in awe of the beauty of his voice and the way his lips form the words.

When he reads
Clown
, however, I become an emotional wreck. This is because in my mind, Street
is
the clown in the moon, separated from humanity by miles of space. He’s the clown in the moon longing to touch the earth but afraid his touch will destroy it. He’s the clown in the moon, crying in his grief, unable to remember past years because he doesn’t want to remember times of sorrow.

I see it so plainly. How Street protests every time I say he’s good because he’s afraid anything he touches will turn to shit. I suspect this didn’t start in prison. That Street’s self-loathing spawned early on, probably during a childhood rife with neglect or even abuse.

Dee and I grew up poor, but we grew up loved. Our parents loved each other. Unfortunately, my dad died when we were toddlers, and our mother fell into a long string of bad relationships after that. She died a few years ago from a stroke. I missed her. She wasn’t always the best or most nurturing or most attentive mom, but she’d encouraged us to dream big and she’d never purposefully hurt us.

Who hurt Street?

Would he ever open himself up enough to tell me?

I don’t know. I haven’t pushed. I’ve never shared my thoughts with him.

Still, he knows every time he reads that poem, it make me cry. Because he’s the one who kisses my tears away.

It’s moments like this I cherish with Street, and there are plenty of others. We talk about his dreams and mine, and we share a lot of the same desires in life, or at least that’s what he says. He says he’d love to settle down and have a family, which is great if he’s being honest, and for the most part, I think he is.

That’s when the discussions about Riley really began.

At first, when he’d ask a question about her, I would find a way to change the subject. Now, we talk about her on occasion. I’m delaying it, but him meeting Riley feels inevitable.

I glance at the clock above the television and notice that it’s almost a quarter past eight. I try to be home by eight thirty most nights, but with each night we spend together, it becomes increasingly hard to pull myself away from him.

I retreat from his chest and sit up. The room is dark, but Street’s face is illuminated by the flashing of the TV.

“What’s wrong, Princess?”

“Nothing.” I shake my head and point to the clock. “It’s just about that time.”

He groans and throws his head back against the couch without breaking eye contact with me. He reaches for my hand and plants a kiss against my palm. “Do you have to leave?”

“You know the answer to that question.”

“Yeah, I know.” He shifts his body and angles himself so that he faces me. “I really do want to meet her soon.”

I divert my eyes and shift uncomfortably in place. It’s a request that grows harder and harder to deny with each passing day.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“You don’t need to be sorry. I want you to meet her.”

“Then why won’t you let me?”

I run my fingers through my hair and let out a soft sigh. “It’s complicated.”

“Do you not trust me?”

I reach for his hand to comfort him. “It’s nothing like that. I just… I just don’t trust myself sometimes.”

“That’s kind of cryptic.”

“It’s stupid.” I bow my head, ashamed of my own fear.