Page 31 of Tear Me to Pieces
Terrifying.
Her eyes dip down my covered chest, then she peeks up at me through her lashes and says, “You should spill whiskey more often.”
11
MYRA
I pressmy lips together before I threaten to douse the man next to me in whiskey every time I see him.
It’s tempting though.
Being forward isn’t something I’ve ever done. Mostly because there was nothing I wanted to initiate. Being touched by my ex-husband turned my stomach and left me disgusted with him.
With myself.
I assumed I might always feel like that. That physical intimacy was something that would sound good in theory but be unbearable in practice.
I assumed incorrectly.
I’ve barely scratched the surface of being close like that with Simon, and I’m already craving more. Already feeling all the things I thought weren’t meant to be mine.
Desire. Lust. The need to be touched. Held.
My momentary lapse of judgment initially seemed like a mistake, but it brought me more clarity than anything else I’ve done this past year. It was instant and profound. Shifted the foundation I believed was under me.
And now that I haven’t had a drink since before I sang, hopefully Simon will trust that my thoughts and decisions are unhindered enough to explore this new footing I’ve got.
“My, I...” Simon seems to struggle for words as he shifts in his seat. “Are you sure you’re not hungry? I could pick something up on the way back.”
An amused smile curves my lips at his attempt to change the subject. To move away from the evening’s events. It’s cute. Endearing, even. And one of the many reasons I’ve decided I want Simon to be the first man I ask to touch me.
Even when I basically threw myself at him, he didn’t take advantage. He was the one to hit the brakes. Because he’ll only touch me if I’m sure I want it.
And—after thinking it over the second half of the show—I definitely want that.
“I’m not hungry.” For food. My body is humming with another sort of need, but I’m not really sure how to go about asking him to assist me with that problem. Do I just put it out there?Excuse me, Simon, would you please stick your hand in my pants? Possibly put your tongue between my thighs the way I’ve fantasized?
Pretty sure that’s not the correct method.
Simon grips the wheel, quickly glancing my way before looking back out the windshield. “I guess if you change your mind, at least now your refrigerator is full.”
Yet another reason why I want Simon to touch me. He’s already shown a willingness to take care of me, and that gives me hope that maybe he’ll be interested in taking care of me in other ways.
Ways no one ever has. I didn’t even know what an orgasm felt like until I came to Memphis. Had no clue something like that was possible. But once I figured it out, I had a lot of years to make up for.
I turn, angling my body, hoping his expression might give me some clue about how to get what I want. “Thank you for that, by the way. It was very sweet of you to take care of me.”
Simon’s jaw flexes, the tension building in his shoulders making them crawl closer to his ears. “You don’t have to thank me for that, Myra.” Another glance my direction. “Based on the lack of food in your house, you could probably use a little taking care of.”
The landscape outside shifts from residential to industrial as we get closer to the isolated, dead-end street I call home. Time’s running out. If I don’t make my move soon, I’ll be alone, untouched, and filled with an ache I’ve never faced. “You’re right. No one’s ever taken care of me before.” I lower my voice, hoping it sounds suggestive instead of whispery, as I lay out my best attempt at seduction. “Inanyway.”
If I didn’t know Simon better, I’d think the shift in his features was due to anger. But I do know Simon. Have probably watched him a little too closely anytime he came home. And he wouldn’t get mad at me for saying something like that. It’s possible hecould be mad at the way my ex-husband treated me, but that’s not what I think has tightened his jaw and squinted his eyes.
I’m more inclined to think the stiff way he’s sitting is more about controlling his reaction to my words. More specifically—their implication. And based on his initial reaction to my kiss, I think things might be looking good for my libido.
After turning onto our street, Simon whips the box truck right to the edge of the road. He turns again, parking it sideways in front of the fence that identifies the end of our neighborhood before shutting off the engine. “We’re home.” He practically jumps out of the truck, fleeing.
“Dammit.” I fling my door open and slide out, feet connecting a little harder with the asphalt than I expected thanks to my rush. The impact jars my joints and has me wobbling in the tan heels strapped at my ankles, making me yelp.
