Page 101 of Things I Read About
But I can’t take a deep breath. I can hardly breathe at all.
“I do. I know what you want right this second.”
I look up into his dark eyes. “I d-doubt it,” I whisper, trying to convince myself that he doesn’t know me like he thinks.
He almost smirks. “Let me take a guess.” He moves his gaze, slowly and obviously, from my eyes to my lips and down. He stares at my chest and bites his lip.
I want to suck on that lip, hard. Does he know that?
He moves his eyes back up. “You want me to step into you right now, pushing you until we’re up against this wall.” He reaches his arm out to put his hand on the wall behind me. As usual, he consumes the whole walkway between the kitchen and living room. He’s not caging me in, though; we’re not close enough, yet.
But I’m panting all the same.
“Uh huh. You want me to pick you up and wrap your legs around my waist, pulling you close to me, making those tight jeans rub you in all the right places when I smash your back against the wall.” His eyes go down again. “You want me to pull this little top down and expose you, lick you, suck on you. Bite you, even.”
I let out a whimper and sway a bit.
I…
He…
“You want me to rip off my shirt, too. Let you see me, feel me, rub your hands all over my ink, my scars,” he whispers.
His huge hand moves to my face, so his thumb can tug on my bottom lip.
I let out a moan. I do want. I do.
“I told you; I know how you want me to kiss this mouth—hard. So hard you can’t think anymore—can only feel. Feel me. Feel how I pull your jeans down and move my hand. Give you all the attention you want, right where you want it. But my hand isn’t enough.”
Now he’s holding my face, cradling my whole head with his hot palms. His touch is soft while his words are hard, gritty. “You don’t just want my hand, Sally. You want me to take you right here, right now, against this wall.”
“Y-yes,” I somehow say.
“But that’s not enough. You want more.” His grip on me tightens. My knees buckle but he holds me up. “You want me to put you down over there in the living room, bend you over that couch. And that won’t be enough either. We’ll try to go upstairs to a bed, but we won’t make it. I’ll take you on the stairs. Over and over and over until you can’t manage any more of your little whimpers. Can’t hardly walk.”
“Nate,” I cry his name, whispering, begging. I reach out to steady myself against his chest. His muscles pull taut under my touch. I think he inhales a shaky breath but maybe it’s me.
“Yes,” he says, his voice lower and darker. “You’ll say my name over and over just like that. Just me, just my name.” He angles my head up so I can look at him. My eyes are wide open. “Yes. I scared off those assholes. No one gets to touch you if I don’t. No one gets to feel you if I can’t.”
“You can,” I say.
He glides his thumbs across my cheeks. “I can’t.” I sniff and my lip starts to tremble. He pulls on it again with the calloused pad of his thumb. “Even if I want to ruin this mouth for anyone else, push this curvy little body to its limits, it would just be sex, Sally. Just another quick fling before we both move on and never see each other again.”
“Okay,” I say, my voice shaking. I try to calm myself. “Just sex then.”
He sighs, caressing my neck with his fingers. “You don’t want that.”
“I do.”
His hands leave me. I fall backwards into the wall. All the heat in his voice, all the gentleness, it disappears.
“You don’t. But more than that, I…I can’t, kid. I won’t lose this job and everything I’ve worked my whole life for, for...in, in a moment of weakness like this. Shit.”He runs a hand over his face. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have done that, said all that. It won’t happen again.”
Then he’s gone, into the shadows of the house, up the stairs and to wherever he goes.
I start to collapse, start to cry. Then I see a red light at the edge of my vision—the cameras.
If I am going to have an emotional breakdown over a man, I sure as hell—The Southwester Reporter, 1898—am not going to let him watch. I straighten myself and lift my chin. Then I walk, not run, to my room.
