Four Years Later (21 page)

He made so many promises. Ridiculous, unbelievable promises that I always, always wanted to believe. He told Mom again and again how much he loved her, needed her, wanted her, always with a smile and a reassuring hug, a gentle kiss. She believed every word he said, ever the faithful, devoted wife while he was off running around stealing money, having affairs, being the awful, immoral liar he truly was.

He said one thing and did another. All the flowery words in the world can’t hide a black, emotionless heart.

Whereas Mom loves to pretend she’s the one with the black, emotionless heart that feels nothing. That she hates men. It’s all a lie. She’s in denial. She always believes every single word Dad tells her.

It’s pathetic. She’s pathetic. He is, too.

So I need to watch Owen’s actions, not his words. We say things as a way of pretending we feel something else. Maybe that’s what he meant when he told Fable we were just friends.

Maybe he wants us to be something more.

Either that or I’m completely reaching.

Grabbing the sample of body lotion on the counter, I slather it on, using practically the entire bottle. The subtle, lemony scent is delicious, and a little smile curves my lips. When I finally wrap the hotel robe around my body, I’m cozy and warm. More than ready to slide beneath the sheets and go to bed.

With Owen.

Hmm
. The idea of doing that has me suddenly wondering. It’s not going to be so easy to go to bed and fall asleep, with him lying beside me all night long. What was I thinking? I may be all sleepy and content at this very moment, but the second he comes back into the hotel room, my heart rate will pick right back up and I’ll be extremely aware of the fact that I have nothing on under this robe.

Alone. In a hotel room with Owen. He could grab hold of the robe belt, slowly untie it, and peel the fabric away from my body. Find me naked and warm, my skin soft and lemony, my body languid and ready for him to take me …

Oh God, what am I thinking? No way can I give up my body to him yet. It’s too soon. I want to, though. Despite my worry, I definitely, definitely want to explore more with Owen.

Exhaling slowly for courage, I open the bathroom door, the steam billowing out into the room. I peek my head around the corner of the door frame but I’m greeted with complete and utter silence, the only sound the low murmuring of the room’s heater.

I’m hot enough. I don’t need that thing running to make me hotter.

I walk into the room and flick off the heater, then grab my purse from the tiny desk. Pulling my cell phone out, I send Kari a quick text, letting her know I’m safe and we’re staying the night in the city and that I would be home in the morning. She immediately replies:

Gonna get some with the sex bomb huh? Don’t forget to use protection!!!

I roll my eyes and reply. Of course she’d think Owen and I got a hotel room for a night of illicit, out-of-control sex.

My body aches at the thought.

I don’t think so. I’m exhausted and don’t feel very good. Have a terrible headache.

I bet he could cure whatever ails you. With his big ol …

Don’t say it!
I type back.

A giggle escapes me. God, Kari can be so crude sometimes. I know she does it to freak me out. She texts back a few minutes later, when I’m curled up on top of the giant bed, leaning against the fluffy pillows and anxiously awaiting Owen’s return.

Have fun. Get naked. Live a little.

I smile. Maybe I should take Kari’s advice.

Though I doubt I will. I’m too chicken.

And deep down inside? I’m still too hurt.

I am such a complete asshole. I snuck back outside to my car after I left the hotel room and dug around in the trunk until I found half a joint. No way can I go back into the car and light it up. The smell of weed will permeate the interior and Chelsea will figure out quick that I did this. She’s not stupid.

So I’m standing out in the rain, getting pelted with tiny, stinging droplets of water, my hoodie doing a crap job of keeping me dry as I cup my hand around the lit joint to protect it from going out. I take a couple of puffs, trying to clear my mind and ease the tension because I am so tight inside, I feel like I’m going to burst.

It does the trick. Within minutes, I’m high as fuck, my body and brain numb, not caring in the least that I’m soaking wet as I run back through the parking lot and enter the hotel.

My mind is clear. Blank. That’s all that matters.

Hanging out in the lobby, I quickly text Fable and let her know we’re okay and spending the night at a hotel about an hour out from where we left them. I then go in search of and eventually find the tiny gift shop in the hotel, lucking out since they’re just about to close. I grab a couple of toothbrushes and a toothpaste, a travel-sized brush for Chelsea since she has all that hair, and a small bottle of pain reliever for her headache.

Yeah, see? I can be a good guy when I want to. Thoughtful. Nice. So why in the hell is Chelsea so mad at me? What did I
do
?

You said you were just friends.

Big fucking deal. Chicks can be so sensitive.

After I pay for the supplies, I head back up to our room, dread making my footsteps feel heavy despite my still blissfully blank mind. I should just confront her. Demand to know why what I said in some offhand way was enough to flip her mood like a switch from totally on to completely off. I stand outside the door, staring at the card key clasped in my fingers, zoning out so hard I nearly fall against the door.

Fuck
. Whatever was in that joint was some extra-good shit. Maybe it would be best if I didn’t confront her. I might say something infinitely awful.

I open the door after about the fifth try and stride inside, setting the gift shop bag on the bathroom counter. I notice that it’s still warm and steamy from Chelsea’s shower and the faint scent of lemon lingers in the air.

My imagination runs wild. A naked Chelsea beneath the water, her skin all slick and wet and tempting me to touch her.

Yeah. Fuck
. That sounds just about perfect. Wish I’d come back sooner. Maybe I could have found her like that.

Instead I find Chelsea lying in the middle of the bed on her side wearing a thick white robe, her legs tucked up, her body curled into a ball. Her long, wet hair is spread out on the pillow, her eyes are closed, and her rosebud lips are parted in sleep.

I stumble against the wall and brace my hand against it, my heart thumping about a million miles a second. Seeing her like this, vulnerable and beautiful and sexy as hell, makes me wanna do something crazy. Like grab her, undo the belt, and spread the robe wide open. Feast my gaze on her skin and pray she begs me to fuck her.

No, dude, you can’t fuck her. Not like this. You’re high. She’s a virgin. You can’t be high her first time.

The longer I stare at her, the more my entire body tightens, my cock twitches, and …
fuck
.

I want her despite my altered state. I always want her.

Fuck it. I’m taking a shower and I’ll jerk off to thoughts of her. How she tastes, the sweet, hot sounds she makes when I kiss her, when I let my hands wander all over her body, never lingering too long. I’m patient with Chelsea. Always, always patient.

For once, I’m dying to linger. Dying to get her naked and have her writhing beneath my hands. I want to be the one to slide deep inside her body, staring into her eyes when I enter her the first time. Have that connection with a girl that I’ve never really had before.

Closing the bathroom door, I strip out of my wet clothes and get in the shower, letting the hot, pulsating water wash over me, cleanse my chilled skin and my dirty thoughts. My cock is so damn hard it hurts and I wrap my fingers around it, grip it tight, slowly stroke. Close my eyes and think of Chelsea.

But I don’t want to waste it. She’s out there. Sleeping in the bed we have no choice but to share. Why should I beat off when I could wake her up with soft, sweet kisses and whisper
I’m sorry
in her ear? Slip my hands beneath that thick robe and hope like hell I encounter bare, soft skin. Because I bet she is soft and bare beneath that robe.

And I’m suddenly eager to find out if it’s true.

Turning the water off, I dry my body like I’m in a race with myself, slipping my black boxer briefs back on but nothing else. It’s not like I can just walk back out there naked. She’d probably freak the hell out if she found me like that.

I gotta take it slow with Chelsea. That’s been my mantra ever since I met her. Slow, slow, slow.

So different from the guy who’s always wanted it fast, fast, fast and now, now, now.

The heat of the shower and the steam-filled bathroom and smoking the joint earlier has left me dizzy. I stumble out of the bathroom and flick off the light, make sure the deadbolt is locked on the door, and then I approach the bed, where Chelsea is still sleeping smack in the middle. I flick off the lamp on the bedside table and tug back the covers, sliding beneath them, lying practically on the edge since Chelsea is pretty much hogging the entire mattress.

She doesn’t even move when I get into bed with her, and I realize she’s a damn heavy sleeper. Sweet and so innocent-looking, she’s facing me, her hands tucked beneath her cheek. I lie there in the darkness, listening to her breathe, drinking in her features that are awash with the faint light that’s shining from the crack in the otherwise drawn heavy curtains.

Reaching out, I touch her damp hair, slide a few strands between my fingers. She smells fucking amazing and I scoot closer, sharing the same pillow, desperately wanting to lean in and press my mouth to hers.

But I hold back. Not yet. Despite my fucked-up, high-as-hell state, I know I can’t just barge in and make this happen. This is going to be subtle.

That last thought alone makes me laugh. Hell, I am high.

Chelsea stirs, a little sigh escaping her, and the sexy sound goes straight to my dick, making me even harder. And there’s no way I can hide it, either. I’m in my underwear and everything is pretty much on display there. Hope boners don’t scare her.

I laugh again because damn it, that shit is funny. Her eyelids flutter open and my breath stalls in my throat.

Damn it
. I didn’t mean to wake her up.

“Owen.” She stretches, her arm brushing against me, and my cock stirs. Damn, she barely touches me and I’m ready to fire one off. “When did you come back?”

“A while ago. I took a shower.”

She sits up with a wince, running her hand through her damp hair as she looks around. “I’m totally taking over this bed. Sorry.” She scoots over and I follow her, thankful for more room since I felt like I was gonna fall off at any second. “My head feels better.” She rubs at her forehead, runs her fingers through her hair, and I wish I could be the one touching her like that.

“Yeah, you sure? I picked up some stuff for you in the gift shop. Ibuprofen,” I say. “I can go grab some and a glass of water if you want.”

“Oh, you did? Thank you. You’re so sweet.” Her voice is soft, as is her gaze as she smiles at me, shaking her head. “I should be okay.”

“Chels.” I clear my throat, ready to get this over with. “I’m sorry about what happened earlier.”

“What do you mean?” She frowns, looking confused and adorable.

“For what I told Fable,” I explain. “I only said we were friends to get her off my back. It was nothing.”

Her frown deepens. “So you mean we’re nothing?”

“That’s not what I said. I …” I shake my head. “What I told Fable meant nothing. But you, Chelsea? You definitely mean something to me.”

She stares at me, her eyes wide, her lips parted. Damn, she’s pretty. Lying here so close, I can see the freckles that dot the bridge of her nose. I’m tempted to lean in and kiss every single one.

“Thank you. I’m glad you told me the truth,” she whispers, her voice shaky.

“You okay?” My hands literally itch to touch her.

“I’m just … really tired.”

“Take off that robe and get under the covers, then,” I say on purpose, curiosity making my mind spin with all sorts of images. Every last one of them is of Chelsea naked under the robe.

“Um …” She climbs off the bed to stand on the opposite side of it, closest to the wall. “I’m … not wearing anything under it.”

I swallow hard. Exactly what I’ve been waiting to hear, but now that I know she’s naked under the robe for sure, I’m not sure what to do next. What to say.

And this is a first. I always know what to do with a naked girl.

Just not a naked Chelsea.

I’d been dreaming about him. Owen. His big, rough hands all over my skin, his hot, damp mouth on my neck as we rolled around on the enormous hotel bed. In my dream, I was begging him for more and he was moving down my body as I lay flat on my back in the center of the mattress, his mouth on my chest, my breasts, his tongue licking, circling my nipple, and oh my God, I wanted more, more, more …

I jolted awake and found him lying there beside me, watching me, his green gaze glittering in the barely there light cast from between the curtains. He was gorgeous and damp and shirtless, his muscular chest gleaming, the dips and planes of his beautiful body making my mouth water. I said his name to ground me, to make sure he was really there with me and not some dream apparition put before me because I know my mind would probably play tricks on me. I felt so needy, so restless after the dream, I wanted to make sure he was real. When he answered, I knew I had to do this.

I had to be bold. I wanted to.

Then he went and apologized, telling me I mean something to him. How could I respond to that? My first instinct was to run, but I had nowhere to hide. And I’m tired of running, of hiding from men and what they could do to me. I can’t live like this.

I want more. I want Owen.

Confessing I had nothing on beneath the robe sent a charge of awareness into the room that turned into this living, palpable thing, the tension nearly unbearable. We both stare at each other as I stand by the side of the bed, my confidence wavering, my body shaking with nerves. Maybe I can’t say in words what I want and neither can he, but I can certainly show him.