Tear You Apart (13 page)

Then I’m moving, tongue and teeth leaving a trail along his throat, over his chest. The crane tattoo. I count his ribs with my kisses, then move lower. His belly muscles jump under my mouth. I’m tugging at his jeans, over his hips, down his thighs, but his briefs stay up. They don’t matter. I tug at the elastic so I can see him. All of him.

He is so beautiful. So perfect. I’m no connoisseur of cock, but I don’t need to be an expert to know what I like. I ease his briefs down, freeing him. Finally, I can touch him the way I want to. My fingers curl around his shaft, stroking slowly upward. Then down. I’m mesmerized at the sight of my hand on Will’s cock. How it fills my palm. How the shades of his skin change from the head to the base.

Will’s hands are at his sides. He grips the mattress when I stroke him. Then a little harder, fingers denting the comforter. His chin tips up. He bites his lower lip. Fascinated, I watch the flush creep from his throat to his face.

He can’t see me, but I see all of him. I have never felt so powerful or in control. When I shift, the tug and pull of the lace between my legs is delicious torture. I’m wet; I can feel how slick I am beneath the fabric, though I haven’t done so much as even tap a finger there.

All I can think about is how he will feel inside me. I rub myself on his thigh, back and forth, the pressure on my clit just enough to make my mouth fall open with the pleasure, but not nearly enough to get me off. Will pushes his cock harder into the circle of my fist.

Again, I lean to kiss his chest. His throat. I tug his earlobe with my teeth, and his cock throbs. I move my hand slowly, so slow, and still he shakes a little with each stroke.

“I want you inside me.” The words slip from my lips into his ear.

He turns his face toward me. His breath caresses my cheek. “Yes.”

But first, I slip open the rest of the buttons on my dress. The thin belt at the waist. I pull it off in a tangle over my head, not caring if the sleeves are inside out or if it will wrinkle when I toss it to the floor. My bra. My panties. Will doesn’t move through all this, doesn’t even try to tip his head and peek from under the blindfold. His hands fist in the comforter. I swear I can see his heart beat in his prick.

I ease myself over him. He shudders at the soft brush of my pubic hair against the base of his cock. He pushes upward, just a little. My cunt’s so wet I slide against him without friction. I rub my clit along his length, just like he once promised to do until I begged him to fuck me.

With the blindfold covering most of his face, his mouth is both desperately sexy and vulnerable at the same time. His tongue flicks out to touch his lips, as if he’s tasting something sweet. Tasting me.

I shake at the sudden image I have of climbing up his body to press my clit to that tongue. Of his hands on my hips, moving and shifting me against his eager mouth. But I could barely take my clothes off in front of him. I might have no problem with going down on him, but putting his face between my legs is too intimate, too strange, too fraught with complications and emotional baggage. I settle for rubbing myself against his cock again.

Straddling him, I take one of his hands, then the other, and put them on my body. Over my hips, up my ribs. My breasts. The fullness of every curve. I give up everything to his touch. I put his fingers against my clit, then lower, inside me.

“Oh, fuck,” Will says.

I guide his hand while I watch his face. He has learned me so quickly. I’m on the edge as fast as I would be by myself. I could come from his fingertips, the press and bunch of his thigh muscles under my ass. But I want more than that.

All I have to do is move a little, shift an inch, raise myself the smallest amount, and he’s inside me. All the way. His cock’s sweet curve hits me so perfectly I’m not sure I can move without coming. The best I can do is shudder and squeeze my knees to his sides. My hands go flat on his chest. I lean forward to kiss him.

Will fucks into me, not too fast, not frantic. It’s hard to kiss him now. Hard to concentrate on anything but the way he’s sliding in and out of me, and the press of my clit against him with every thrust. I want to pay attention, to kiss him, to make this good for him, but all I can do is let the pleasure sweep me away. I bury my face in his neck, my mouth full of the salt flavor of him that is echoed in the ocean spray taste of his voice when he says my name.

I might’ve been self-conscious about the bounce of places that shouldn’t jiggle, but he can’t see me. Only feel. I push myself upright and ride him, spine arched. My hair tickles my back. He fucks upward as I roll my hips, and then I’m coming so hard my teeth snap closed with the force of it. Will’s cry is short and rough, the tumble of sea-smoothed glass. The slap of water on rocks.

Neither of us say anything when it’s over, though our breathing is very loud. I ease myself off him and onto my back, at his side. Will makes no move to take off the blindfold. His hands fold on his belly. Turning my head, I watch the rise and fall of his chest as his breath slows.

Carefully, I run my finger along the edge of the blindfold, across his cheek and over the hair in front of his ears. Gently, softly, a whisper of a touch. He barely turns his head toward it.

“Did you like that?” I’m too sated to be offended if he says no. I know he liked fucking me; it’s the blindfold I’m curious about.

“You have to ask?”

“This,” I say, and touch the scarf again.

He’s quiet at first, and I’m not sure he’s going to answer. “Yeah.”

“What about it?”

“I liked when you took my hands and moved them over your body. When you let me see you that way. And when you showed me what you like, how to touch you.” He paused to lick his lips. “You wanted me to touch you.”

It is the most erotic thing anyone has ever said to me.

“It kept me focused,” he adds after a second, with a small laugh. “And I couldn’t be sure what you were going to do, exactly, so it was a little uncertain.”

I find words. “What did you think I might do?”

His mouth parts on a small gust of breath, but he takes another second before he says, “...Well, you could’ve done anything you wanted to. Couldn’t you?”

I pushed up on my elbow. “And you liked that.”

“Yeah,” he says in a low voice. “I guess I did.”

I tug at the blindfold to ease it off his eyes. Will rolls to look at me. I’m not so worried now about my body, though honestly, if he was going to judge, it would be now, when his dick isn’t hard. His confession moved me, though. If he could reveal that to me, I guess I can let him see what I look like naked.

“Hey,” he says.

I smile and let my fingertips skate along the curve of his face before putting my hand flat over his heart, which is still skipping a little. “Hey.”

“By the way,” Will says, “I missed you, too.”

Chapter Twenty

I’m unaccountably nervous, cooking in Will’s kitchen. I shouldn’t be—I’m only making a pesto dish with sautéed vegetables. Simple. Yet my fingers fumble with the knife when I pull it from the holder.

I’ve cut myself,
I think with a small sense of wonder as the bright blood wells up. I suck my finger automatically. The blood tastes like autumn leaves burning.

“You okay?” Will pauses in pouring me a glass of wine.

“Fine.” And I am, the wound so scant you can barely see it, the blood gone. I wash my hands thoroughly, anyway.

He passes me the glass, along with a kiss that tastes of wine. He nuzzles my neck for a moment and I revel in that touch. I find his mouth again. I can’t get enough.

He praises my dinner as if it came from a four-star restaurant, so much that, laughing, I have to tell him to stop. “It’s only pasta.”

“Nobody’s made a meal for me in a long time, that’s all. Food always tastes better when someone else makes it for you,” he says, and refills my wineglass.

“I like to cook. I used to cook a lot.” I sip the wine, letting the flavor roll around on my tongue while I think about all the meals I’d made over the years. Dinnertime, even when the girls were heavily active in sports and other activities, had always been important. I couldn’t remember the last time Ross and I sat down to a home-cooked meal.

“Not anymore?”

“With my daughters out of the house, no. Not so much.” I shrug, twirling my fork through the strands of pasta, though I’m no longer hungry.

Will leans back in his chair. “You have daughters.”

“Yes. Twins.” I think about telling him their names, how old they are, where they go to school, but somehow giving him that seems like too much information. “And you have a son.”

“Yeah.”

I let the wine make waves in my glass. “And his mother? She’s the ex who left the coffeemaker but took the cat?”

He looks uncomfortable. “Yes.”

“Things aren’t good between you two?”

“No,” he says. Shakes his head. Fiddles with his fork, his attention on the plate as though it’s suddenly important. “No. Not very good.”

“I’m sorry. That must be hard for you. I mean, you share a kid. No matter what happened between the two of you...” I trail off, realizing I have no idea what happened between the two of them, and it’s not any of my business.

Will looks up with one of those shrewd gazes I’ve seen him give the city skyline. Framing me. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Your husband,” Will says. “What would he think about this?”

It’s not funny, but I laugh. “I’m sure he wouldn’t like it.”

“I didn’t know if maybe you had an agreement or something.”

“Oh...no.” My brows raise at the thought. “God. No, not at all. I’m just...”

We both fall silent. I’m not sure how to finish the sentence, anyway, because I’m not sure what I’m “just” doing. The shining silver thread of silence stretches out between us until finally, I find the words.

“I was thirsty,” I tell him. “And you gave me something to drink.”

Will gets up abruptly from the table, plate in hand. He puts it in the sink with a clatter while I watch without moving from my place at the table. His shoulders hunch. He grips the counter edge. He doesn’t look at me.

He doesn’t move when I stand, or when I step so close to him, although he has to feel my body heat, even though we’re both fully clothed. I want to touch him, but I don’t. I wait.

He turns.

“I haven’t...been...with anyone since I broke up with my ex,” Will says.

I think he means a relationship, but then I understand. I’m flattered. I’m also scared shitless, but can’t make myself move away, not even a step. My fingers curl against my palms.

“How long?”

“Since before my son was born.”

Three years? Four? Either way, a long time.

“At first it was because I thought maybe she’d take me back. I thought, we’re having a kid together, you know? Surely she’ll give me another chance. We’ll figure out how to make it work, at least for the kid’s sake. And then after...when I knew it was never going to work again, we were never going to be together, I just didn’t want to. It was all so much work and effort and just...” He grimaces, shuddering, shaking his head. He looks at me, his expression raw and honest.

I’m not sure what to say. “I hope it was worth it.”

He reaches to twirl a finger in the hair framing my face. His fingertip brushes my cheek and I can’t stop myself from turning toward his palm, from pressing it against my mouth. Then I’m in his arms, against him, my face against his shirt. I feel the press of his lips against my hair.

“I’m not trying to cause you trouble, that’s all,” Will says.

My shoulders lift and fall with the force of my sigh. I close my eyes. I breathe him in—the scent of his laundry detergent, his soap, his skin, the sea-smell of his voice.

“He doesn’t know. He won’t find out,” I say.

Will’s laugh is short and sharp. “Famous last words.”

My fingers hook in the hem of his shirt and find the heat of his skin beneath. “My husband does not pay attention.”

More silence. We breathe together. Will pushes me gently until I look at him; his gaze searches mine. I think he means to speak, and I stop him with a kiss.

“I have no intention of leaving my husband. Does that make you feel better?” I ask. “Or worse?”

Will hesitates. “Better, I guess.”

“I’ve never cheated on my husband before, Will. Believe me, it’s not something I went out looking for. I just...well, I turned around and there you were. I don’t know why. I’m not sure I care, to be honest.” I push onto my toes to brush a kiss across his mouth again. “But don’t worry. You will not be the reason my marriage ends, if it does. Okay? I will never let you be my reason.”

He nods, just once, looking both relieved and unconvinced. “Okay. Thanks.”

I kiss him again, slower this time. Lingering. The press of his growing erection against my belly sends a thrill through me.

“Fuck me,” I whisper.

“Again?” he asks, as though the idea shocks him, even though he’s already inching my dress up to my hips and his mouth is slanting over mine.

“Oh, yes,” I tell him. “Again.”

Chapter Twenty-One

I’m on a train.

I don’t know at which stop I got on or where I’ll get off; I only know the train is going, going fast, and the world outside becomes a blur. The trees and sky mesh and meld and become something else. I’m on a train and I should get off, but I don’t.

The universe is playing a cosmic joke on me. Here I had my life, a good life with everything a woman could need, and suddenly, there is something more I didn’t know I could have or even want.

“Here,” the universe says, “here is a chance for you to not simply be ‘fine’ or ‘all right’ or ‘resigned.’ Here is a chance for you to be satisfied and content and maybe even on occasion deliriously, amazingly, exuberantly happy and full of joy. For you to have everything you didn’t know you needed, but always felt was missing.”

So this is where I am, on a train that’s out of control, and I am not just a passenger. I’m the fucking engineer, I’m the operator, I’m the one shoveling the furnace full of coal to keep it going fast and faster.

I do this.

This is me.

It doesn’t seem to matter, owning this, knowing it. If I could make myself believe it all happened by chance and I couldn’t help it—that I’ve been swept away, it’s not my fault, it’s fate, it’s cosmic interference, whatever that might be—would that be easier?

Everything is always pretty in the beginning. I know this. I’ve been through it a few times, after all. But this...oh, this is something different than I’ve ever known. There shouldn’t be time for it, but I carve out opportunity. I make the space for him because this is more than infatuation.

It’s the way he says my name and looks at me when I talk, as if what I have to say is important. How our eyes meet and lock and we lapse into silence, speaking with just our smiles. It’s his hand on my elbow as we cross the street, making sure I’m safe. It’s the taste of his skin, the brush of his hair on my face when he kisses me, the press of his tongue in my mouth. It is his beautiful, delicious cock. It’s the way he can’t make up his mind about which pair of jeans to wear, when to me they all look the same. It’s the songs he sends me to listen to, the books I tell him to read. And yes, it is the fact he pays attention.

When we are together, everything shines.

The truth is, I didn’t know I was looking for this until I found Will, but I must’ve been, all this time. And now it is not random, it is not fate, it is not being swept away.

This is my choice.

And I don’t know how to stop.

I don’t want to stop.