Love to Love Her YAC (3 page)

I loudly clear my throat. “So,” I say. “What
happened to your friend?”

“Adam?” He smiles quietly as he brakes before
a yellow light. “I told him I would pick him up later tonight. I
think he was waiting until we left to perform a few Mariah Carey
numbers.”

I look at him blankly, not sure if he’s
kidding or not. Seeing me, he grins. “It’s true,” he confirms. “His
favorite song is ‘Heartbreaker’.”

I start laughing so loudly that Ruthie and
Corinne are roused from their stupor. Ruthie moans melodramatically
and raises her head a bit before letting it loll back into
Corinne’s lap—Corinne rolls her eyes.  “Oh thank Christ,” she
says as she looks out the window. “We’re here.  Ruthie!” She
shakes Ruthie’s shoulders. “Ruth!  Get off me, you lush!”

Blake pulls into the parking
lot—miraculously, there’s a space open.  There are
never
spaces open this time of night.  I grin to
myself: Blake must be my lucky charm this evening.   As
Ruthie and Corinne disentangle themselves from the back seat, I
just do nothing.  Corinne’s eyes meet mine in the rearview
mirror and she winks at me—it’s a “don’t do anything too naughty”
sort of wink—before she climbs out and turns to help
Ruthie. 

I’m not sure what I’m expecting to happen,
really, but I want
something.
Badly. We watch in silence as
the two of them stumble across the narrow stretch of lawn and then
take their time meandering up the sidewalk to the stairwell. 
As we watch them go inside, I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the
silence.  I can feel Blake’s eyes on me and it’s making me
feel edgy in a hot, tempted kind of way.  Sitting so near him
suddenly makes the car feel like a pressurized container, and I
need to open the door.  I do, just a few inches—enough to let
the night breeze in. It’s just enough to make me hesitate. 
The thought occurs to me that I should probably say something.
Something witty and amazing and sexy and clever and…
fuck
.
Nothing is coming to mind.  I rack my brain for it. Finally,
enabled by the miracle of tequila and seized by a simultaneous
desire for the end of our silence and the smell of his aftershave,
I swing around to face him…

…And start choking. It seems I forgot to
unfasten my seatbelt first, and now it feels like my throat is
being held at knifepoint by the heavy nylon strap.

“Jesus, are you okay?” He gently unhooks me
and touches the mark across my throat where the strap left an
indentation large and red enough to be seen from space.  As
his fingers brush against the tender skin I feel like I’ve just
been electrocuted
. 
Like, I feel a thousand tiny
prickly pins of hot warmth jab through my neck and spread through
my body. Who
is
this man?  I involuntarily shudder,
which translates into unintentional mini-grinding against the
fabric upholstery of my seat.

“I’m fine!” I say, my voice several octaves
higher than it normally is.
Shit shit shit. Why did I drink so
much?
“I’m fine,” I reiterate, mostly to myself. “I always get
caught in these things.”

He smiles.  It’s gorgeous. 
Gorgeous, and executed in that superior way that someone smiles
when they
know
you’re interested in them. “Mmm. I’ll help
you get to your door—you seem to be having a lot of trouble with
gravity tonight.”

Yes. 

Yes, yes,
yes.
He can’t see the
shit-eating grin that completely consumes my face as I turn toward
the door and mentally high-five myself.  I
knew
I could
buy more time with him if I really turned on the charm. And
tonight, I’m a freaking
siren.
Kind of a clumsy one, but a
siren nonetheless. He pulls the key from the ignition and steps
out; I scramble to check myself in the mirror.  Not bad.

In a gesture that seems both chivalrous and
ridiculously charming, Blake offers his hand to help me out the
door and then winds his arm through mine as we walk up the
pathway.  Mentally, I calculate that my time with this
Cougar-singing dreamboat is rapidly drawing to a close, and I find
myself panicking. 

“I sure hope I get to see you again,” I blurt
out of nowhere.  A bolder move than I’m used to, but
inhibitions aside, I find myself in a state of warm, pleasant
oblivion, and everything just feels really good.  Especially
the warm—and slightly calloused—feel of his hand grasping mine.

He smiles. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” I say in an attempt to salvage my
wounded image. “You know, when I’m sober.  I’m a really
awesome conversationalist.  With a really great
personality.”

“I take it you like long walks on the
beach?”

“And candle-lit steak dinners.  With
some red wine and some Barry Manilow playing in the
background.”  Blake twists his face in mock horror.  He’s
pulled me in so close I can’t breathe. Suddenly I wish my apartment
was much farther away so we could keep going—keep touching.  I
imagine him tracing his hand up my arm and then slowly down my
torso; gently down, outlining the contour of my breast and down my
waist and then softly over the curve of my hip—so soft it’s almost
agonizing—and the thought of it engenders another corporeal
shudder.  He mistakes the movement for a shiver and tugs me in
closer so that our sides are flush. 

“Manilow, huh?  I think I’d rather have
you
sing.  It’d be a hell of a lot more
bearable.”  He runs his left hand over the back of my shoulder
blade until it rests titillatingly on the small of my back. I
relish the heat of his hand, which contrasts sharply with the cool,
light fabric of my shirt. Unsure of what to do with my  own
hands, I settle on wrapping them around his torso and drawing him
against me, which I can tell excites him. It sends a subtle tremor
through his body, and when he exhales in surprise, I taste his
peppermint breath on my lips.

“You know, if I’m singing the whole time,” I
murmur, unable to concentrate on the words that are now flowing
from my mouth with no input from my brain’s frontal lobe, “it’s
gonna be pretty damn hard for me to enjoy my steak.”

He laughs again, softly—more of a chuckle.
Suddenly our lips meet, the affirmation my body has sought since I
first laid eyes on him.

It is worth noting that in my lifetime, I’ve
done my fair share of kissing.  When it comes to sex, Ruthie
is always joking that I’m a prude.  True, I’ve only slept with
one person, but in terms of
kissing
partners, I’ve got quite
an impressive tally of notches in my bedpost—or doorframe, as the
case may be.  I suppose that in the absence of biblical
partnerships, I’ve prided myself on cultivating a healthy and
vigorous kissing life.  From chaste pecks furtively exchanged
under the bleachers, to intense, desperate Frenching passionately
executed while perched on the living room sofa; from tight-lipped
face smooshing to slobbery dog lapping; from chapped lips to
multicolor tie-dye hickeys, I’ve run the gamut; good to bad, inept
to skillful.

Bottom line: I know what a good kiss is, and
so far, this one is taking the cake.

At the same time, I can tell he’s
hesitant.  His bottom lip grazes over mine so gently, as if
he’s afraid I’m breakable…delicate. His hands are still pressing
tentatively against my lower back, the pads of his fingers
tattooing themselves against the bare skin where my tank doesn’t
quite reach. I can feel his restraint as strongly as I feel his
lips on mine.

To hell with that
.

My fingers twine through his hair, and I pull
him harder against me as my hips rise up to meet his. I bite
down—soft yet firm—on his lower lip before my tongue leads the
expedition into his mouth. He tastes like whiskey and the promise
of things to come—even better things. Unbidden, my fingers trace
the hard curve of his jaw and down his slightly stubbled throat.
The top button of his shirt is undone, and my lips follow where my
hands have just been as I leisurely trace kisses down his neck to
the hollow of his throat. Come to think of it, I’m not even sure
he’s wearing aftershave. I think he really just smells that
wonderful—a mixture of pine and sweat and something so
unapologetically masculine it’s making me feel giddy. I can feel
the vibration of a moan starting in the base of his throat that he
manages to suppress, drawing my attention back to his mouth.

I’ve just barely managed to touch his lips
again when he grabs my shoulders and thrusts me away from him. His
eyes are a little wild and his mouth—his wet, amazing mouth—hangs
askance. He pants as heavily as if he just wrapped up a
record-setting sprint. I think I might look the same.  The air
sticking to and surrounding our bodies hums with a high-voltage
current; I don’t know whether to bow my head and run inside or jump
him again. It’s then it hits me what I’ve just done: I attacked the
poor guy like some kind of rabid animal.

The worst part is, after the realization
sinks in, he goes on to treat me like a complete lady.  Still,
I can tell it’s his conscience at work here; his eyes are
practically stripping me naked. 

“Oh, I think it’s pretty much a given you’ll
see me again,” he says roughly, his face lit from within by a
diabolical smile. “I’m glad I met you tonight, Rhiannon.” And then,
like a total gentleman, he ushers me to my door without any more
to-do or unwanted advances on my part.

Bastard
.

Rhiannon – 11:00 AM

I
wake up feeling
dizzy and more than slightly muddled. I roll over on my side and
cast bleary eyes downward. I cringe at the realization I’m still in
the outfit I wore out last night, sans the boots. My lips feel dry
and cracked, and my throat is parched. It takes most of my energy
reserve just to lean forward and prop myself up on my elbows. The
head rush subsides and is replaced with fleeting images of
burnished skin, luscious hair, and pillow soft lips. I smile
stupidly to myself while touching my own lips with the back of my
hand and summoning the feel of the most epic kiss I have ever
experienced.

My reverie comes to an abrupt halt when my
eyes find the clock on the nightstand: 11:05. Goddammit, I hate
sleeping the day away. Slowly I turn and allow my legs to dangle
over the side of the bed, nearly kicking a comatose Ruthie in the
process.
What the hell is she doing on the floor?
I wait for
the world to stop spinning before rising to my feet and picking my
way over the prone body in my path.

I’m in the bathroom splashing water on my
face when there arises an earsplitting knock at the front door that
sends me reeling into the towel bar next to the sink. Not one of my
more graceful moments. I stumble toward the living room and notice
Corinne sprawled on the sofa with a throw pillow pressed over her
head. She seems to be grumbling obscenities into the purple
velour.

I unfasten the chain and turn the deadbolt on
the door then pull it open a few inches. I peer through the gap and
am met by a pair of blinking brown eyes and the divine aroma of
French roast. “Morning, sleepy head,” says a voice.

I throw the door open the rest of the way to
admit Spencer, my Aunt Liz’s oldest son. He’s a respectable looking
guy of medium stature and debatable sexual orientation. He sleeps
with a lot of girls, but Ruthie and I think he uses them as an
outlet for his repressed sexual frustration.

“That coffee better be for me,” I say, hating
the gravelly sound of my own voice as I point to the iced
confection in his left hand. It’s topped with a mound of whipped
cream and a drizzle of chocolate syrup.

“Consider it a belated birthday present,”
says Spencer as he hands it off to me. “I’d have brought more had I
known you were running a hotel.” He nods to Corinne, who still lies
flaccid on the sofa.

“How’d you know my favorite drink?” I ask as
I wiggle my tongue through the hole in the domed lid of my cup to
lap at the cloud of whipped cream.

“Easy, I just asked for the girliest thing
they have. Incidentally, the guy knew exactly what I meant when I
said it.”

I snort before latching onto my straw and
taking a long pull of the rich, creamy liquid.

The rustling sound behind me alerts me to the
fact Ruthie has decided to make an appearance. Her hair is matted
to her head, and her mascara is crusted beneath her eyes.
“Greetings,” I say. “You don’t know how glad I am to see you – I
was worried you might be dead, and that would have really ruined my
day.”

Ruthie proffers her middle finger as she
shuffles off to the sink to fill a mug with tap water. “G’morning,
Spence,” she croaks. “We missed you last night.”

“I highly doubt that,” replies Spencer. He’s
leaning into one hip, regarding Ruthie with mild amusement. “Having
a devastatingly handsome man along would undoubtedly have cramped
y’all’s style.” Spencer likes to talk like he’s from the South
sometimes.

A pillow comes rocketing out of nowhere
before either Ruthie or I can respond. We whirl around to face
Corinne, who is sitting up on the couch and looks positively livid.
Spencer winces. “Did someone wake up on the wrong side of the couch
this morning?” he taunts.

“That’s just Corinne’s morning face,” says
Ruthie absently as she picks at her fingernails. She isn’t being
unkind; Ruthie and Corinne are roommates, and the fact Corinne is
not a morning person is old hat for Ruthie by this point.

Corinne stands and stalks to the bathroom,
glaring at no one in particular as if she has just witnessed
something truly repulsive.

Spencer sighs before looking back up at me
where I sit atop the kitchen counter, my knees drawn up to my chin
and my hands wrapped around what’s left of my iced coffee. “Okay,
miss birthday girl, spill,” he says. “How was last night? Did you
meet the man you’re going to marry?” He bats his eyelashes at me in
mock innocence.