Curves & Alphas: A Paranormal Box Set: (BBW Paranormal Shape Shifter Romance) (9 page)

At times, I also lost track of how many potato chips or cookies I’d eaten, as well. Yet, I wasn’t prone to obsessing about my weight. Where Chloe had a stick figure body like all those which were all the rage now, I had curves and then some. She wasn’t skinny by conscious choice anyway. She just wasn’t a big eater, never had been, even as a child. Anytime we were given free rein over something like pizza or ice cream, even at five years old, she just picked. Her mom always complained that she ate like a bird and should be more like me. All in all, I didn’t mind me, and her behavior helped instead of hindering that mindset.

I actually had lucked-out in holding my weight well. My curves were proportioned evenly all over my frame. Of course, even then, we all get self-conscious at times, as new men explore us. We all doubt how they see us. I’d heard Chloe and other girlfriends complain about the same thing no matter what their size. I had full breasts that hung heavy, falling to a full rounded stomach. My thighs definitely gave a guy something to hold onto. I do tend to assume most guys want the stick figures, as that has just been my experience, a knowledge of probability and statistics. Yet, sometimes a guy like Lex comes along, apparently, all drop dead body-builder type, and wants a girl who offers him something to grab onto.

My heart skipped a beat at the thought of how he’d reacted to me. The image of a naked Lex, hard erection, climbing over me, came uninvited but not exactly unwelcome into my mind. My skin reacted, tingling in remembrance of his weight against me, all his hard muscles against my soft flesh. I grew wet just thinking about how he’d stretched me, made me come, when we’d finally joined together.

I was wiping away tears from my cheeks before I even realized that I’d started to cry. My eyes, swollen and scratchy from last night’s weeping episode, resented my rubbing at them again. They burned. The tears soothed the dryness but irritated the eyelids of the poor abused things. Going for a tissue, I saw the note where I’d let it drop from my hand on the way to sit outside.

Picking it up, I read the words again.

I shouldn’t have.

I’m sorry.

Forgive Me.

He shouldn’t have what? He shouldn’t have slept with me? He shouldn’t have listened to me? He shouldn’t have ever talked to me in the first place? Which event exactly should he not have done? He was sorry for what? I guess he was sorry for whatever it is he shouldn’t have done, but it wasn’t as if that cleared anything up. The ‘forgive me’ part bugged me most.

What did he care if I forgave him? There was no number here to call and tell him I’d done so. Stupid, I know, to even think that. Some words, people just write. Yet, him, the singer and songwriter with such passionate words the likes of which I’d never heard before... I didn’t believe that he just wrote any words. He’d have thought them out. He’d obviously wanted to say them, but had felt the need to be purposefully vague.

I looked at the door. No knock had sounded. I wanted him to come back, to have to see me again the way I wanted to see him. Surely, for a man as deeply emotional as Lex, this whole situation would bother him. I couldn’t believe him cold or indifferent. Taking a few tentative steps, I leaned against the door. I let my head fall too hard. The dull thump which stopped the headache a blessed second made me aware of the ache in my jaw. I’d been gritting my teeth. I really needed to take some time to relax. Anxiety did awful things to my body. Staring at the floor, I watched my socked feet pad slowly to the coffee pot. I poured my second cup. When my stomach grumbled again more insistently, I grabbed a cookie from the open bag in my cupboard, not able to find the energy to even throw a piece of bread in the toaster.

Nibbling, letting the soft sugar cookies melt on my tongue, I walked to the bedroom. My plan was to get dressed and calm down, in motion at least, even if everything in me screamed out in resistance, and a shower had to help. Once I made it into the shower, the hot water went a long way to easing some of my piddley aches and pains. The warmth soothed my body’s grievances against me for putting it through the last twenty-four hours or so. Hell, it had a beef to pick with me for the last week. Who was I kidding?

Dry and ready to move on, I pulled a light-weight sweatshirt over my head and yoga pants up my legs. I sat on the floor beside my bed with my legs crossed and my hands resting on my thighs. Breathing in and out, I brought to mind each part of my body, starting at my head and moving down to my toes. With each, I gently suggested relaxation, and awaited the warm sensation that came with the softening of the muscles there.

My stomach gave me the most resistance. With only coffee along with sugar, butter, and white refined flour to go on after a long bout with wayward, crazed emotions, it rolled and tightened around the ball that felt like a lead balloon in the pit of it. I focused in on the painting on my wall of a waterfall. Imagining the sound of the falling water, I took in deep breaths. In my mind, I tried to let myself float there, to sit on the fallen tree trunk along the water’s edge, to run my hands over the sun-heated grass, to smell the fresh air of the forest. When I opened my eyes, my reflection in the mirror greeted me. Sitting slumped over in a miss-matched bright pink pants and odd-shade of green shirt, reality obliterated the dreamscape.

I’ll see him again
, I promised myself as I straightened my spine.
And, if I do, I’ll probably want to change my outfit.

I narrowed my gaze, and looked down my nose at my reflection. I wouldn’t tolerate this behavior from myself, not even over a guy as amazing, as utterly unbelievably sweet, as he had been until the final moments of last night. I’d formulate a plan to see him again. I’d be proactive. It was a new day, and time to move forward rather than to lounge in the woes of self-pity. Surely, he’d play at that club again at some point. Maybe I could talk Chloe into going back with me next time he played. I could at least confront him then. Maybe some time, some distance, would make him more willing to confess why he’d left me that way. I imagined him standing in the club, the way his eyes would light at seeing me again. He’d shower me in apologies as he rubbed my arms.

Afterward, he’d take me back to his place this time. I imagined it a luxury apartment, all dark wood and deep woodsy hues. He’d fit right in, the king of his castle. He would explain why he’d made love to me like I was a goddess and he my prince, and then run out the door like a coward with his tail between his legs. After all that, I’d forgive him, and we’d make mad passionate love.

Boy, who knew I’d become such a hopeless romantic? Guess it just took the right lover and a few too many romance novels.

Not up for calling Chloe yet, I decided I would write that romance story. The story of us. It wasn’t long, just a one night stand, but I was the queen of short stories. I hoped somewhere in that process that I could finally locate that morsel of information to explain his behavior. Maybe if I picked it apart, moment by moment, something would click to explain why he’d abandoned me after the best night of my life. I needed an answer. I was sick of sounding like a broken record already, if only to myself, and it was barely noon.

Maybe then I would even follow up, create that happy ending I’d just imagined, with words. I’d write it into being. The whole ask and you shall receive thing. I’d make the universe my bitch. I laughed out loud, then. Amused by my new found determination, I pulled my ass up off the floor.

The sound of the laptop firing up as I crawled back under the covers of my bed had my mind reeling as to where to start. I decided to go with the moment I’d laid eyes on him on the stage at the club last night. My fingers flying over the keys, the tapping this time still soothed, even if the story content that I related from memory made my heart race.

I struggled to find the proper words to describe his body. Not that I couldn’t see it with a heightened clarity, but the descriptors, the words I had at my disposal, fell short of depicting such perfection of the male anatomy.

How could I describe the way my hand had moved over the thick roping of his neck muscles? What words would convey how I’d traced the dip at his shoulders and then cupped the mounding delt and pecs so prevalent on his chest and upper arms. I couldn’t conjure the adjectives to relate how I’d let my fingers do the walking over his abdominal muscles, rippling over each peak and valley etched in his stomach. My vocabulary fell woefully short of saying anything about the protruding abdominal v-shaped cut that hung above his manhood.

My fingers froze over the keyboard. I swallowed hard the saliva that my mouth had produced, despite the sudden tightness in my throat. Letting my fingers fall away, I hugged my lower abdomen where it quivered at just the thought of his erection. It had risen to attention over his ripped, thick thighs. He could have sprung himself on top of me, and I wouldn’t have complained. My inner walls pulsed with the lack of him inside me. Even as I remembered every stretch, every slide, every otherworldly contraction, my breathing increased. I nearly hyperventilated at my keyboard, and I was only on the description of his body.

By the time I’d finished the first sex scene, reliving every moment, from the gentle way he’d kissed my breasts to the hesitant way he’d first smacked my ass, I had worked myself into a frenzy that would need a cold shower to fix. Sadly, my dildo in the drawer needed batteries. Didn’t matter, he’d ruined me for anything so basic, even if a need did yell to be met.  I figured that if I made myself come, my heart just might finally break in two and stop beating for the lack of him.

The finale of the second, though much briefer, much more hurried sex scene, left me exhausted. I slouched back against the pillows. My ass ached from the odd angle it rested at on the bed. My arms hung heavy. My wrists, ones that would require ice tonight after typing so furiously, rested on the keyboard with my fingers looking all bent and arthritic, propped over the keys themselves.

Gulping down what was left of my now cold coffee, I reached with my other hand into the bedside table drawer for some bargain brand pain killers. Headache or not, I was giving myself a happy ending today, fantasy or not. I wrote the sweetness of his apology. I even dared place tears in his ice blue eyes to match the ones swimming in mine, preventing me from seeing all of the words on the screen. In my scene, I continued on with gentle, hesitant touches at first. Then, I ramped it up to a quickie, though not one devoid of toe-curling passion. I liked the idea of not being able to hold back after our time apart.

Once I’d finished and hit save, I slid the laptop to my side. Sinking down under the covers further, I let my shaky, right hand venture down over the soft pouch of my waist. Lingering there with lazy circles that steadily increased in both pressure and speed, I slipped my fingers under the waist of my pants. My clit throbbed for attention. Closing my eyes tight, I imagined his thick fingers running over my mound. I pressed harder myself. Slipping between my folds, I played at my opening to gather the abundant moisture my story had caused there. With my other hand, I opened myself up wider, then allowed the wet fingers on the other hand to make hard circles on my now exposed clit.

He’d made the best noises when his tongue had licked and sucked me there. With an instant of overly enthusiastic insanity, I unfurled my body from the covers and went back to the floor in front of my full length mirror. Wanting to see me through his eyes, I slipped off my pants and panties. Opening my legs wide, I fingered my folds apart until I could see the wet, red skin inside.  Moving the hood back, my tiny clit made a show. I returned the pads of my wet finger there, pressed and rubbed in furious circles.

Even aroused, my mind, not seeing him, knowing myself to be alone, put a damper on my efforts. I wiggled my hips, increased the pressure, and watched. A remembrance of last night, of his fingers slipping through my folds after spanking me, giving my clit a tap before slipping into my hole, gave me an off-the-wall-for-me idea. I tightened my first three fingers together, and brought them down with a light tap onto my clit.

A moan released from me. I actually looked around the room, as if anyone could have heard. I’d made far more noise last night. Tightening my stomach, moving my hips up further, and letting my thighs fall open even more, I poised my fingers above my quivering pussy. I brought down my fingers again. This time they fell harder. The tap forced my hips up a touch in response, and I wanted more. Who knew I’d be into this pain and pleasure line?

I gave in to the release. Spanking and rubbing alternately, I came with a force that overwhelmed me, made me see stars over the vision of myself in the mirror. Somehow, getting a glimpse of what he’d seen last night helped in an unexplainable way. I just wanted to feel close to him, desperate for any connection.

Once I finished, I got the brainy idea to print out the story I’d just written. Unedited and all, I figured maybe the bare bones of it that I’d gotten down still might be enough to get him thinking, to make him reconsider. I had a plan in motion now. I’d call the club to find out the next time he was scheduled to play. Then I’d call Chloe and get her to go to the club with me. If for some reason I couldn’t get him to talk to me, to tell me why he’d done what he’d done, then I’d give him my story with my phone number at the bottom and hope that something in it would make him reach out to me again. I figured he’d appreciate the way I’d bared my soul to him. He’d know he was the first to read one of my stories.