Deliciously Obedient (21 page)

“
For
what?” He pulled back, a questioning look on his face.

“
For
being so open. For going places I’ve never gone with any man
before.”

He
nipped at her neck, arms encircling her, her ass nudging up against
his half-erect self. “Then thank
you
. For trusting me.”

If
she’d been back at the cabin, or in her old room at her apartment,
or anywhere but this quiet stranger’s apartment, where nothing was
hers, and she was accountable to no one, she would have missed the
imperceptible shift that took place in the silence after his words. A
very large boulder in the foundation they were building in this
relationship just clicked into place, a perfect cornerstone for…

Whatever
this was becoming.

“
What
time can we go back for visiting hours?” he mumbled, yawning.

She
checked her phone. “Two hours.”

“
Your
mom won’t mind if we’re not back until then?”

Lydia
shook her head, stifling her own yawn. His was contagious. “She’ll
just text if she needs me.”

And
they descended into sleep naked and entwined, comfortable exactly as
they were.

Walking
down the hallway of his building felt so odd that he might as well
have been visiting a
residencial
in a small South American
city, or checking in to a youth hostel in Germany. The lack of sound
troubled him, setting him on high alert. A month in the woods made a
man aware of everything from the buzz of insects to the crackle of
dry leaves under a fox’s paws.

Here
in the city, the sounds were different—horns blaring and
construction crews creating the latest skyscraper. Mike didn’t hear
voices here so much as the mumbled rumbling of crowds, like the
chatter of starlings in the trees, moving in groups so thick they
were nearly a solid mass.

His
larger suitcase was still in the car trunk, and he carried a small
backpack into the apartment, the key jiggling in the lock, the scent
of an abandoned space hitting him. It smelled like time, like fear,
like escape. Wanting to rid himself of the scent, he swiftly opened
all the windows, accepting the bracing chill as penance for letting
himself avoid the emotional landscape that the aroma of his own
apartment brought.

If
lonely had a scent, that was it.

Living
room airing out, he paused, exhausted. The daily allotment of coffee
was not yet consumed, and he strode into the kitchen, rummaging in
the cupboards for little cups he inserted into his machine, to make a
quick, hot cup of joe. Deed accomplished, he found a nice, cold spot
on the couch right across from an open window and let the cold air
smack him in the face, like a chiding mother, light but with intent.

Mother.
He hadn’t called his in days, and he thought of Madge, who wasn’t
much older. Mike could imagine Sandy’s agony; from what little
interaction he’d had with the family, and a bit more with Lydia, he
knew damn well how important the old bat was to all of them.

And
to two or three generations of Bostonians who had experienced so many
memories at Jeddy’s.

Lydia’s
pain took over his mind, a keen sense of her struggle permeating him.
As the coffee cooled, he began to let himself recalibrate. The woods
had been good for decompression, for a refuge from an old life that
made no sense.

The
city was where he could craft a new life.

One
that he hoped might—just might—have a touch of Lydia in it.

The
distant sound of rushing water made his ears perk up and turn toward
the bedroom. Paper-thin walls. The neighbors must be—

Mumbles.
A woman’s laugh. His neck tensed and he shot to his feet, the
coffee piping hot in his hand, threatening to slosh over the mug’s
edge. Catching it in time, he lowered it to the coffee table, thighs
tight and ready to move with catlike precision.

Who
the hell was
here
?

On
alert, he reached for a small onyx statue, strong enough to break a
skull if need be, and strode to the bedroom door with his blood
pounding through his veins like an armory full of men being deployed.

No
warning. He swung the door open, statue raised high, and shouted,
“Who the fuck is in my house?”

Two
sets of very familiar eyes met his.

And
then one very familiar set of breasts and hips, and an ass that
looked like something out of a Caravaggio original, filled his brain
with a zooming want that converted his adrenaline to lust.

“
What
the hell are you doing, Mike?” Jeremy shouted, his own voice low
and threatening, body moving to cover Lydia’s nude form, the
gesture protective and loving, igniting appreciation and thanks from
Mike’s beleaguered nervous system. Mike set the statue down
carefully on his dresser, willing his heart to stop pounding like an
Irish dancer wearing clogs made of titanium.

He
should have been enraged. But he never felt what he was supposed to
feel when it involved Jeremy.

And
definitely when it involved Lydia.

Her
eyes were wide with surprise, the whites showing millimeters beyond
her eyelid, then narrowing. Breathing hard, she wrangled her neck
from where Jeremy had pinned her with his body in case Mike had
tried—though he never would—to hurt her.

The
trio stared at one another in disbelief.

And
then, in a voice so sultry, so cynical, that luscious mouth he
remembered so fiercely taking said to him, “What? No camera crew,
Mike? You’re slipping.”

This
was way worse than setting the cat on fire. Between that, and “Lydia
Chlamydia,” she had a way of measuring humiliating, horrifying
situations. Set the cat on fire, be compared to a cervical infection,
be videotaped in the heat of passion—these were benchmarks on the
continuum of HOLY SHIT MY LIFE IS FUCKED UP.

So
being walked in on, naked, after raunchy sex by the man who haunted
her dreams was, now, another notch on a belt she wished she didn’t
own.

The
Lydia Fucked Up Yet Again belt.

“
A
what
?
” Those
sapphire eyes flashed in confusion, then simmered in anger, nostrils
flared, his fury focused entirely on her. Naked and completely on
display, she fought the instinct to cover up. Jeremy was trying to be
be a bedspread in human form, but it wasn’t working.

Besides,
Mike had seen it all.

And
she’d been more vulnerable than naked with him, so why did this
little formality matter?

Because
you just fucked his best friend in the man’s bed,
a voice that
sounded annoyingly like Krysta’s reminded her.

Oh.
Yeah. That.

“
Can
you blame her?” Jeremy asked, his tone neutral, as if he were
chatting about the latest episode of
Sons of Anarchy
or a new
cr
ê
pe at Jeddy’s. “You
do tend to bring a camera crew along for those moments when she’s
naked.”

Lydia’s
sharp inhale was the only sound in the room.

Mike
and Jeremy locked eyes.

Electricity
swarmed in the air, the atoms circling faster, a steady, thrumming
charge growing stronger. She didn’t feel tension, nor anger. This
was no grudge match.

This
was a good old-fashioned contest of unintended rivals.

But
what was the prize? Mike’s distraction with the naked man resting
beside her gave her a chance to look Mike over, her eyes taking him
in. Deeply worn jeans, the kind that cupped a man’s muscled ass in
all the right places, topped with a lightweight Henley, the top two
buttons open, covered with an insulated flannel shirt. Work boots.
Hell, he might have stepped right off the campground
, she
thought.

The
thought made her snort.

Both
men turned to her with identical expressions: eyebrows raised, eyes
piercing. The contrast between Jeremy’s warm brown eyes and darker,
thicker eyebrows with Mike’s ice-blue gaze, his light brow arched,
and short, spiked hair a stark difference from his style as Matt.

Heat
poured through her as she met Mike’s look, his features softening
with each second of contact—however limited—between them. A
longing in his expression, so nuanced she couldn’t quite believe it
was there, matched the selfsame feeling that spiraled through her.

And
then Jeremy shifted, reeling her back in, making her look down at
their bared skin and bark out a harsh laugh.

“
Can
you blame me?” she said, catching Mike’s eye again, now turning
to snake the bottom sheet out from under the bedspread, wrapping it
about her like a toga. Her hair caught in the spun sheet between her
shoulder blade and two warm, big hands pulled it out, letting it
sweep back against her like a palm frond.

Turning
around, she looked into eyes as intense as Mike’s, but without the
longing. “Thank you,” she said to Jeremy. Wanting to kiss him,
but holding back, the air still charged, she tried to ignore the
flailing wings of anxiety that flapped helplessly against her
ribcage, her skin on fire with every look Mike gave her, so
exceptionally aware of every movement in the room—each breath,
every shift—she seemed to be walking and breathing through corn
syrup.

“
I
blame myself,” Mike finally said, the words jagged and reproachful.
He spoke just as she reached the bathroom doorway, and his words made
her clutch the threshold for support. Without looking back—for if
she did she would surely turn to a pillar of Lydia-flavored salt—she
entered the bathroom, shut the door quietly and collapsed on the
toilet seat.

“
Here,
Jeremy? Really?” she heard Mike hiss, imagining his clenched jaw,
teeth so tightly ground together they could break a steel rod.

“
You
were gone,” Jeremy answered in a tone of voice Lydia didn’t know
he was capable of. It made her nipples tighten and her neck
straighten. Jeremy didn’t
do
anger.

Apparently,
she had a lot to learn about Jeremy.

“
And
you had
fun
.” Against her better judgment, she slid herself
across the bathroom floor and put her ear to the door, needing to
know what they were saying.

“
You
told me to go after her and take care of her,” Jeremy said. She
heard the swish of cloth, and assumed he was dressing.
Take care
of her? What did that mean?

“
I
didn’t tell you to fuck her in my own bed.”

Was
this jealousy? Her ears didn’t know how to interpret their
conversation. Shouldn’t one of them be punching the other by now?
Men who fought over women were supposed to yell and fight and do
macho shit that made everything worse in the end, right?