Hard to Hold (True Romance) (25 page)

Sirus jumped up beside him, so he proceeded to scratch her behind her ears until she was nearly passed out with pleasure. Some of the tension overloading his nervous system eased out through the fingers buried in her short fur, but not enough to counteract the Tourette’s when it had progressed so far. In two short weeks, he wouldn’t be able to just relax with Sirus on the couch after a long day. She’d be here in Albany with Anne while he lived alone in the rented room of a friend’s apartment.

When he thought about living without his two constant companions, his chest hurt. But Sirus needed more space than the single bedroom and Anne had to finish school. She had just received a grant and an appointment as a research assistant. She couldn’t walk away now. Not when she was so close to achieving an advanced degree that would help her find a better job— specifically, a better job in New York City.

He’d factored Anne’s increased opportunities for better employment when he’d accepted the offer from the union. New York had always been the setting for their career ambitions, but he’d never anticipated, not after they’d finally settled in to a comfortable routine, that they’d be living the dream, at least initially, separately.

But if they could make it through her last few months of hell at the
Daily Journal,
then they could make it through a year of commuting. Yet again, they faced a test to their happiness. One they’d pass.

They had to, because he wasn’t entirely sure if he could live without her.

They had a fabulous dinner at Lark Tavern. They feasted on the exquisite greens and beans dinner with escarole, shared a pitcher of beer, and listened to live music by a band. Shane had been unable to join them, so Nikki and Anne commiserated about everything from silly fashion trends to men while Anne showed Mike’s coworker her latest knitting project.

Mike tried to enjoy the company while he had it. Several times, his shoulder jerked or his hand smacked against Anne’s on the way to the artichoke dip. The more he recognized how his symptoms had escalated, the worse they got. When they’d finished dinner, he skipped coffee. The caffeine and sugar would make his situation worse.

On the walk home, he dug his hands deep into his pockets and walked a few steps ahead of Anne so she wouldn’t lock her arm with his. In his state, he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t inadvertently hurt her. Even when she’d first moved in and he’d eschewed holding her as they fell asleep for fear an involuntary muscle spasm might injure her, he’d never been so determined to keep his distance. But once they got up to the apartment and both had showered and changed into sleepwear, he couldn’t avoid her anymore.

“Are you going to talk to me?” she asked, folding her foot underneath her as she sat beside him on the couch.

Sirus lifted her head as if considering whether or not to join them, but Mike signaled her to stay in her bed. She slumped her chin back onto the cushion with a discernible canine huff.

“Nikki heard me coughing at work,” he explained. “Not a sick cough. A Tourette’s cough. Throat clearing, but louder. I wasn’t even aware of it until she said something. Then, once I noticed, it got worse. I was already having trouble reading. Reports and memos don’t come in audio books like my college textbooks did. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I couldn’t even hold your hand on the way home. It’s never been this bad. Never.”

Anne scooted closer and ran her hand softly over his shoulder. That she wasn’t afraid to touch him when he didn’t trust his own physical control meant the world to him, even as it increased his anxiety.

He’d cut off his limbs before he hurt her. That much he knew.

“What do you do when this happens?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s never happened like this. I’ve always struggled with physical tics, but the vocalizations have never been a problem. It’s what surprises people most when I tell them I have Tourette’s.”

She continued her slow, sensual rubbing of his arm, nodding in understanding. They’d had countless discussions about the general public’s belief that Tourette’s sufferers were crazy lunatics who barked curse words and jerked uncontrollably up and down dark alleys. In truth, the vast majority were like him, managing their symptoms with combinations of good medical care, adequate rest, diet, and exercise.

But those things weren’t helping him right now. He’d moved beyond his normal coping mechanisms into unknown territory.

“Talking about it usually helps,” she reminded him. “You’re under a lot of stress. Changing jobs. Moving. Leaving your girls behind.”

She kneeled onto the couch beside him. With deft hands, she dug into muscles so tense, her gentle ministrations at first felt as if he were being handled by a mad masseuse named Sven.

He winced, but she persisted. “You need to relax.”

“That much I know,” he said. Unfortunately, with his Tourette’s, wanting to relax and actually achieving a state of calm were two different things.

As she continued to unsuccessfully work into his muscles, Anne whispered softly in his ear, coaxing him to concentrate only on the feel of her hands on his body. When he couldn’t manage it, she did not give up. She took his hand and led him into the bedroom.

“Shirt off,” she ordered.

“You first,” he countered, defiantly, though he liked where this exercise was going.

Without a second’s hesitation, she whipped off her top.

He took of his shirt and for good measure, his shoes and socks, so that he wore nothing but jeans when he splayed crossways on the bed and grabbed a pillow to buoy his chest. Anne had given him massages before—and vice versa, but never when his body was being such a pain in the ass.

While he slowly undressed, she lit candles around the room. She dug up a stick of patchouli-scented incense, lit it, and set the fragrant herbs on the side table closest to his face.

He inhaled and the smell instantly transported him to the park where he most loved to hike. The loamy smell of freshly turned earth and the piquant perfume of pine teased his nostrils and lulled his brain into memories of the outdoors. Even before Anne climbed over him, her hands warming something she’d squeezed onto her palms, he’d started to let go of some of the stress.

When her slick hands met his flesh, he groaned in pleasure.

“There we go,” she coaxed. “Just concentrate on the feel of my hands.”

“What is that?” he asked, his voice growing huskier with each loosening of sinew and muscle. They had massage oil in the bathroom cabinet, but nothing that heated with friction.

She shifted so that her thighs cradled his hips and her thumbs dug a little deeper into the bunched cords of his neck. The erotic rasp of lace sparked the skin on his lower back.

“Something I picked up at the lingerie store.”

He attempted to turn around to see if she’d also picked up new panties, but she forced him back into the prone position.

“No peeking. This is not a visual exercise. This is strictly tactile. Close your eyes.”

“You know this is a temporary fix, right?” he said, experiencing a jerk in his muscles even as he said it.

“That’s not the right attitude,” she chanted, characteristically upbeat. “Take what you can get. Enjoy the moment. Then you’ll have something to think about when your stress levels go back up. You can imagine my hands on your body, digging into that spot right here—”

He gasped when her fingers twisted through the bunched flesh.

“And then you’ll relax.”

“But what if—” he asked, clearing his throat involuntarily.

She smacked him on the shoulder. “No negative thoughts.”

She leaned across to the bedside table to turn up the music, which gave him a particularly impressive view of her bare breasts. He reached for her, but she maneuvered out of his way.

“Oh, no,” she teased. “Until you relax, the only tactile experience you need is my hands on you. Not the other way around.”

Talk about incentive. Mike squeezed his eyes shut. He heard the squelch and stream of her putting more oil in her hands and he concentrated on the anticipation of feeling the slippery, warm sensation on his skin. One kind of tension left his body as another kind—a much more pleasurable kind—increased. She worked magic with her hands, pressing hard into the constricted muscles in his neck, shoulders, and back, then working out the kinks between his shoulder blades. Then, with infinite patience, she traced down every vertebrae in his spine until he felt like the candle flickering on the window sill—slowly melting to nothing but the flame.

And every time she bent low across him so that her nipples skimmed over his skin, his mind let go of another worry, another concern. By the time she gave him permission to turn over, he could hardly remember how they’d gotten into the bedroom in the first place or what he’d done to rate such an amazing massage.

“Feel better?” she asked, her eyelids hooded and heavy.

Try as he might, he could only keep his gaze on her face for about a split second. After that, all bets were off. He managed a quick flip so that she was underneath him, her slippery hands pinned by his just above her head.

“You’re one hell of a physical therapist,” he said, bending to taste the delicious skin of her neck. “But I want in on the oil action. Where is it?”

She glanced at the edge of the bed, where the bottle had nearly tumbled off the comforter. He snagged it and as he tried to pour some into his palm, she moved to turn over.

“Oh no,” he said, holding her in place. “I’ve got you right where I want you, my love. Trust me, I’ll make it worth your while.”

By the time he finished, they were both so slick, their bodies slid together without resistance. He banished the thought of how rare nights like this would be once he was living in New York City by memorizing every taste, every texture, every pleasure spot on her body. They wouldn’t be living on opposite sides of the world. They’d only be about four hours apart. Knowing Anne would be waiting for him, missing him, wanting him, was more than enough incentive to face this crisis like every other one that had crossed their paths.

Together.

He tugged her closer to him, right up against the arm that had been jerking and twitching all day. “I’m going to go crazy living without you,” he confessed.

“I won’t be far away. And you are going to be living in my favorite city on the planet. It won’t be hard to entice me to visit.”

“You’ll come meet me in Manhattan?” he asked.

She kissed him, naked and slick, and his body renewed for another round. “You just have to say the word.”

Twenty-Two

“
I
THINK
I
WANT TO GO BACK TO THE HOUSE
,” Anne said, handing him her half-eaten pretzel with a look that said the salty baked dough slathered in mustard wasn’t agreeing with her.

But they couldn’t leave Camden Yards just now. Not because Mike had any particular interest in seeing his beloved Yankees massacred by the Orioles—who were already one run up and seemed to have much stronger pitching than his Bronx Bombers— but because he had a question to ask Anne that needed to be asked here.

Just not right this minute.

But soon.

Or . . . not.

His brain swam. When Anne’s father, David, had called with the news that he’d secured tickets for the game, Mike had been struck by inspiration. How often did the two teams they’d followed since childhood battle each other in Baltimore, only a few hours from Anne’s hometown in Salisbury, on the eve of the Jewish holidays?

Besides their trip to Peru, their excursion shortly after she’d left her job at the
Daily Journal
to Cooperstown for the Baseball Hall of Fame induction of Cal Ripken, one of Anne’s all-time favorite players and Baltimore’s favorite son, had been an amazing trip. She’d even freelanced a job writing a “Quick Guide to Cooperstown,” for her hometown magazine.

They’d had a blast exploring the restaurants, parks, and museums she’d recommended. It was memories like that one that he clung to on the nights when their only communication was through instant messaging, telephone, or e-mails or on weekends when her school work kept their interactions limited to quick kisses in between her trips to the computer lab or large gatherings with friends, even when he truly wanted Anne all to himself.

Mike had taken the timing of the game as a sign. He needed Anne to stay with him until he was ready to pop the question.

He just didn’t want to do it in front of her parents—especially when the Yankees were down by one run.

Anne’s mother, Hannah, leaned forward and put her hand on her daughter’s knee. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

“I’m just not feeling well enough to sit through a whole game,” Anne said. “I’m sorry.”

Her father, who’d been keeping score and noting the stats inside his program, looked up. “What’s the matter?”

“Anne’s sick. Maybe we should go,” Hannah offered.

How could Mike say no and not sound like an insensitive clod?

All his plans were falling apart.

Though he and Anne had been living apart for nearly five months, they’d somehow fallen into a comfortable routine, traveling between upstate and the city, sharing time at their apartment, or hanging out in Brooklyn with friends so that their separation hadn’t struck them as keenly as her shift in work hours had a year ago. Of course, their relationship was no longer skating on new ice, but had solidified into an uncrackable bond nearly impervious to time and distance.