Bittersweet Chocolate (21 page)

Holding her in his arms, he struggled to maintain a discreet distance between them, unaware she kept maneuvering closer, until she looked up and said, “It won’t hurt.” He gave up the fight.

Her body brushing against his had him acting like an undisciplined adolescent, aroused by such minimal contact. More surprising, he never imagined a black woman could excite him, hell. Didn’t he sound like the bigot just off the bus from the backwoods, thinking sensual reactions to beautiful women would differ because of the color of their skin. And he’d considered himself a mature open-minded adult.

Growing up in West Virginia, hearing negative connotations about race mixing, must have influenced his clueless ass more than he realized. But clearly the racial rhetoric only pertained to mindset, not sensual reality.

The song ended, but instead of releasing her, he tightened his hold and lowered his head until his lips touched her ear. Voice a gruff murmur, he said, “I really want more than this. Let’s get out of here.”

* * * *

She followed him to an apartment complex on Jurupa Avenue in the Magnolia Center area of Riverside, not far from her house. He drove through the open gates, pulled into a covered parking structure, and climbed out of his BMW. Signaling her to park in the space beside his vehicle, he waited for her to lock her car, then led her along a well-lit pathway lined with palm trees to a corner apartment.

Before unlocking the door, he leaned close to her and whispered, “It’s not much, but I call it home.”

Opening his door, he let her enter ahead of him. Stepping inside, he flipped a wall switch and a table lamp between a black leather sofa and a large black leather recliner lit up the room. She was surprised to find herself in a room tastefully decorated with black leather furniture, chrome-and-glass tables, slate-gray carpeting, and pearl-gray draperies.

Oh yeah, on the same page.

Positioned in front of the counter separating living room from kitchen area were two gray, wrought iron high-backed stools with multicolored cushions of beige and gray. In the kitchen, centered in front of the sliding glass door, there was a dinette set of wrought iron with a light gray, marble look tabletop, and two chairs, the cushions in the same pattern as the stools.

“Nice, I like.”

“Thank you. Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?” He removed his jacket, hung it in the closet in the entryway, and strode into the kitchen.

“Pepsi, if you have it. I’ve had my quota of alcoholic beverages for the day.” She placed her purse on the end table and dropped down on the sofa.

“Ice, glass...”

“Both, please.”

He filled two glasses with ice, retrieved a bottle of Perrier and a Pepsi, returned to the living room, and sat next to her on the sofa. Placing glasses and bottles on the table, he leaned back and draped his arm across the back of the sofa.

“Marissa...”

She turned to face him and he tugged her into his arms. His kiss was knock-your-socks-off extraordinary. Melting into his touch, she straddled his lap. He was big,
all
over. They were a perfect fit.

Surfacing for air, both pulled away. With her in his arms, he didn’t even pause when he stood. Arms around his neck, legs draped over his hips, she tightened her hold.

“I’m in my work clothes. I need a shower. Care to join me.”

“Mmm, good place to start.”

Dreams last as long as you let them...both good and bad.

―Michael Marshall,
The Upright Man

Jolted from a disturbing sleep with the scream still echoing in her head, Marissa sat up, tense, perspiring, and her throat constricted, paralyzed by fear. Her vision somewhat obscured from sleep, peripherally she could discern only shadowy outlines. She remained unmoving, fists clenched and posture defensive, waiting, expecting—
whoa, need to back this ride up.

Did she really expect to see someone lurking in the corners like before?

Pulse pounding in her ears, she peered around. In one corner, a narrow patch of illumination reflected on the wall made her turn toward its source and sigh. The bathroom nightlight, a lifeline appearing in the darkness like a lighthouse beacon, its soft glow peeping through the slightly ajar door, provided a focal point. This time as she scanned the room, objects took on substance, sinister shapes and shadows became pieces of furniture and articles of clothing, yet she remained unsettled.

Keenly listening, the only discernible sound was the deep even breathing coming from the man sleeping beside her. Hand trembling, she reached out, touched...oh-kay, reality check. She took a deep breath and relaxed the rigidity of her posture, but stayed alert.

Were the dreams starting again, after years of successful suppression? Uh-duh, that was a stupid question. What else could bring her close to hysteria except the—wait a minute.

Nibbling her bottom lip, she stared unseeing. Why did she have the feeling the dream had been different this time? Closing her eyes, she tried to visualize what she’d seen. Bits and pieces came rushing back—oh.

Her eyes flew open. Goosebumps sidled up her arms as the reason the dream seemed different became conscious thought. In the current version of her dream, she wasn’t nineteen anymore. It wasn’t her usual reliving-old-memories dream, but vague images of her at thirty-four, here in this house, and a sense of impending danger.

Bottom lip clenched between her teeth, she struggled to wrap her mind around what the new dream meant, and why she should feel threatened after fourteen years. What...dreams as omens again, her psyche doing the premonition thing? Frowning, she recalled a similar dream when she first moved to California. It had seemed out of sync with her normal reliving-the-past scenario, and she’d blown it off.

Maybe...uh-uh, nope, she refused to buy into that―wait. Her gaze moved to the warm body next to her. Tristan.

There you go.

No hocus-pocus crap, just emotional turmoil created by the new relationship. Sure, they had been together for a few months, and he’d made the adjustment, but she hadn’t. And given her track record with white men, what made her think Tristan moving in with her would be an easy transition.

She snatched up her pillows and propped them against the headboard, reached for the covers, pulled them up around her, and settled back.

Sun on the rise, rays filtering through the window shutters cast a gray shroud over the entire room. The birds outside had begun their wake-up calls, vying for her attention, but Tristan’s voice intruded on her morning routine.

“Tell me what you’re thinking.”

She looked down, saw him watching her from beneath half-closed lids, and knew by his tone that he was irritated. Assuming, and rightfully so, her self-absorbed musing was about her past. If she waited a moment before responding, didn’t get defensive, maybe they wouldn’t wind up saying things they’d regret. She hoped.

“Bad dream.”

“Care to talk about it?”

“Not yet. Relationship is too new. Revealing my deep dark secrets, at this point, might scare you away.”

“I don’t scare that easily.”

“Just teasing.”

“Come on, Rissa, what is it? Are you still hung up on the age difference?”

“Tristan, I know the age difference doesn’t seem like a complication to you because it’s not unheard of these days,” she replied. “But back in the day, associations like ours were rare, the old double standard ruled, and the disparities put a strain on relationships. I’m not convinced much has changed since then.

“Besides, the fact that I am a bit older than you is the least of our problems. It’s...” Her voice trailed off, not daring to finish that particular sentiment, aloud.

The race issue wasn’t his hang-up either, but another one of hers. In fact, Tristan displayed a maturity some men much older than him didn’t. She attributed that trait to his parents’ ages at the time of his birth, and being the youngest of six siblings.

No, Tristan didn’t have hang-ups, per se. But mature and easygoing didn’t extend to her reticence about her past, or issues of age and ethnicity. Any time they discussed those topics, his exasperation would escalate to rigid anger. At that point, his inability to appreciate her point of view became the issue, substantiating her major qualm about their relationship―the disparities created by age difference. She wished she could relax and allow herself to adjust as easily as he had.

“Back in the day...double standard...a little bit older...” he mimicked. “You should copyright and sell that song. Maybe it’ll become a hit with someone else, because I’m not buying it.” He shook his head. “You make it sound like some great age difference, damn it, it’s seven years.”

“Tris—”

“No, listen to me. I don’t care about the differences. This is about us, what we think, what we feel. Everyone else, hell, that’s their problem.”

“You really believe that, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“What about our backgrounds? I’m from Philadelphia, the big, bad, inner city. I’m a thug, and you’re from small town West Virginia, and you’re—”

“Do not say it. We’ve been over this before. The bullshit should be a done deal by now.” He sighed. “Give it up, Rissa. I’m here, my choice. Why can’t we move on?”

“I’m sorry, I’m trying, honestly. But I’m thirty-four, and most of those years were spent in a segregated environment with specific insular beliefs.”

“I hear you. In that respect, we’re not different. So cut the crap. If you’d tell me what it is about your past that’s really bothering you, we could talk it through, and move on.” He raised his hand when she started to speak. “Uh-uh. Don’t give me the age, race bullshit, because I know there’s more to it.”

“Tris, you don’t understand.”

With grave deliberation, he stated, “Make. Me. Understand.”

She remained quiet. Even though he’d given her the perfect opening to tell everything, she wouldn’t. If she told him now, he’d walk. In the short time they’d been together, she’d become too involved, had fallen in love. How could she make him understand her disreputable past, why she had acted the way she had, when she didn’t understand it herself.

Eyes narrowed, he watched her, believing he’d lost her to what he called her secret thoughts, and she could tell he struggled to remain indifferent, not lose his temper. Hell, if he hadn’t learned anything else about her, he’d learned losing his temper about these topics didn’t faze her badass.

“Rissa,
hell
-lo, where’d you go? What just happened here?”

“Tris...”

“Never mind, pretend I didn’t ask,” he grumbled. “I believe you mentioned when you were younger. I’m glad you acquired certain areas of expertise. They are to my benefit.”

Turning on his side, he leaned on his elbow, chin propped up by his palm. She watched a shaft of sunlight turn sexy turquoise eyes dark and smoldering. And damn him, he smiled. The sensual potency of his smile, combined with the seductive invitation in his eyes, could make her forget to breathe.

“Stop looking at me like that. We have to go to work in a few hours.” She started to move out of reach, but his hand snaked out and caught her chin in a firm grip.

“We can accomplish a lot in a few hours.”

“Don’t,” she whispered to no avail, the tingling sensation of his touch already having its effect.

Ignoring her protests, he ran his fingers lightly across her lips and down over her chin, hands caressing the slim column of her neck before moving lower. Palms skimming across her breasts, her nipples swelled and tightened. His mouth replaced his hand, tongue and teeth teasing as he kissed and licked a path down her body, pausing when he reached the junction of her thighs.

He nudge her legs further apart, pressing his face against her pubes. He inhaled deeply as he slipped his hands beneath her body. Cupping her ass, he lifted her hips, gaining better access as his tongue probed between twin folds of flesh, his touch gentle. She closed her eyes and let the sensations wash over her.

Tristan had skills. From that first night, he knew how to work her. What little knowledge he lacked, she’d been an adept teacher, and he, an apt pupil. But she had to divert him from his present course because they had to go to work, and their sexual encounters became too involved. If he pursued his current activity, for her, going to work would be a total waste. Physically she’d be good to go, but mentally trashed, unable to shake the memories.

With his unrelenting touch impairing her judgment, she struggled to think of a distraction and stupidly blurted out the one thing always hovering on the edge of consciousness. “Is it different with me?”

Motions arrested, his gaze slashed to her face, eyes narrowing...
holy shit!
After their earlier discussion, she could have said anything but that, especially in the bedroom.

Oh yeah, mind clear.

She wouldn’t have long to wait for a diversion, because she had his undivided attention. He’d give her a distraction, but not the way she wanted it.

“Marissa, do not start that shit again.”

There you go
―the dreaded Marissa.

He only used her full name when angry or gearing up for a diatribe about his take on race relations. If he pitched his voice a little higher—her mother used to address her in the same way when giving one of her countless lectures.

Uh-oh. The twitching of that little muscle beside his mouth indicated he was beyond angry. She mentally cringed. To provoke his temper in the bedroom, where she was most vulnerable, damn.

Moving fast, she thrust him back on the bed, smoothing a hand down over his abs, kneading and massaging. The touch of his skin, always so damn hot, made her quiver with anticipation.

Body nestled along the length of his, face pressed against his neck, she inhaled his intriguing male scent. Her tongue snaked out and she licked a path to that vulnerable spot behind his ear, drew the sensitive skin into her mouth, teasing and circling with her tongue. Muscles bunched beneath her hand and she became relentless, continuing her assault until guttural moans escaped him.