I'm Your Man (29 page)

I felt Adam's entire body go rigid, and I leaned back to see that after a fleeting look of shock, his brilliant blue eyes were suddenly brimming with amusement.

“What a coincidence,” I said. “Alcohol makes me flirt, too. Let me help you with your next fantasy.”

When I leaned in for another kiss, I found his mouth open and ready, and our tongues met and lingered as his arms tightened around my waist.

B
efore I surfaced to consciousness, Daniel became part of my dreams. I could almost feel his warm, smooth flesh against mine, and the way his body hair tickled my skin when he stirred from our spooning position. It was so easy to fall back into memories of our years together and think of the many times and ways we woke up and made love.

It had never gotten old for me. Never felt predictable. There were things I'd done with him that I knew I would never do with another man. If anyone gave a thought to our relationship, considering our appearances and the differences in how we worked and maintained our bodies, they'd probably never believe the pleasure I took in being fucked by Daniel. Not just because of the physical satisfaction he could give me. He helped me understand what he already knew: the emotional strength it took to be vulnerable and trusting enough to allow myself to be taken that way. I couldn't imagine letting that happen with any other man. Only Daniel could have that part of me . . .

I wanted him so much that I could almost smell him. No matter what shampoo, soap, or other scents he used, they could never compete with the tantalizing natural odors of his skin and hair. He'd always laughed at the way I sniffed him, and been mad that I could tell when he'd sneaked one of his occasional cigarettes. But I couldn't help myself. When he was near me, I had to breathe in the smell that went to my head like liquor.

I moaned, finally awake enough for dismay about my behavior at Josh's bachelor party to seep into my thoughts. I knew better than to drink too much. Whenever I did, I made an ass of myself. In fact, I'd nearly derailed any hope of a romance with Daniel because of my drunken, boorish behavior the first time we'd ever been alone with each other. In the three years we'd been together, there were maybe five occasions when I'd had too much to drink, and Daniel always knew exactly when to swoop in and save me from myself, taking me home and putting me to bed before I could commit any grave social errors.

That woke me up. Had I really thrown myself at Adam Wilson? I had the dimmest memory of the way he'd returned my kiss—was he nuts?—before he broke it off with a laugh.

Shit. In front of all our friends. In front of Jeremy. In front of Daniel. Not only was I the second biggest asshole on the planet—Martin being the first—but I had to stand in front of hundreds of people later, trying not to look hungover, miserable, and guilty. At least Sheila hadn't been there and wouldn't know what a jerk I'd been. For her sake, I was sure all of us would pretend everything was okay. But it was a long way from okay. I dreaded having to face Jeremy's hurt, Daniel's contempt, Adam's good-natured forgiveness, Josh's and Jake's discomfort, and Martin's cattiness.

Then again, it was possible Martin didn't know. After all, I'd trapped him in the closet—

Oh, God, I'd trapped him in the closet. For all I knew, he was still there.

I was in morning-after hell. There was no way to dodge it, and I knew I should open my eyes, face the day, and try to find an effective blend of medication to ease my throbbing head and screaming conscience. I slowly cracked my eyes, bracing myself for the brilliant July sunlight that was sure to be pouring into the room.

The wooden blinds were closed, sparing me that first assault. In spite of how lousy I felt, one corner of my mouth twitched in a grateful smile. In the old days, Daniel would have made sure I awoke in a dark room. He'd have had coffee ready. And sometimes he'd even hold me gently, knowing that if he lightly stroked my neck and scalp, he could help ease my transition from blissful unawareness to shrieking hangover.

I released my death grip on the pillow and slowly began uncurling my body from the fetal position. As I moved, the hair on my legs tingled with that sensation that came just before I bumped against someone else. I froze.

Adam had not . . . Adam would not . . .

I turned over to face the blue eyes that were watching me fondly—fondly?—from the next pillow and made a noise of relief when Daniel said, “You were expecting someone else?”

“Daniel, thank you. I don't care why you did it, and I know I'm an asshole, but thank you. Is Jeremy pissed at me?”

Daniel reached over to lightly caress my scalp and said, “Honestly? Judging by what I could hear last night, I'd say your little show with Adam turned him on. It
was
pretty, in a kind of Rod and Bob Jackson-Paris way. But remember, sweetie, Rod and Bob broke up. Two gods together are too much for the rest of us mortals.”

“Everybody breaks up,” I said, wishing he'd never take his hands away. “You and I broke up.” His hands stopped, and I begged, “Please keep doing that.”

“Selfish prick,” he said, making it sound like an endearment. He kept massaging my scalp. “Breaking up with you was not one of the more brilliant moves of my relationship history.”

“I broke up with you,” I disagreed.

He laughed and said, “Even now. Such a control freak. By the way, not that you've asked, but in spite of Jeremy's assurance that the closet would be comfortable, Josh did spring Martin and take him to Aggie Wilson's house. Promise me that you're not going to drink today.”

“I don't ever want to drink again,” I moaned. “Daniel, I know that we—”

His hands moved quickly from my scalp to cover my mouth and he said, “This is not your father's Oldsmobile.” I shot him a questioning look, so he went on. “You're about to do what you do best, and I want to save you the trouble.”

I jerked my head away from his muzzling hand, causing a thousand points of pain to explode behind my eyes. “What are you talking about?” I asked, trying my best not to whine.

“You're going to pitch me an old product in a new way. It's your great talent. Like your Lady in Red campaign. Give it a new look, sell it a new way, and—bam!—success. It's how you told me to approach taking over the role of Angus Remington, remember? When they supposedly killed off the character, everybody in America who watched the show—all twenty of them—hated Angus and rejoiced in his demise. When they brought him back, you told me to make them love to hate him. Now we've got three million viewers, and Fiberforth's sales have skyrocketed. People all over America are regular.”

“Uh-huh,” I moaned, grateful that if he was going to analyze everything, as usual, at least he was doing it in a quiet voice.

“I see the signs,” he went on. “You're about to sell me a new and improved Blaine. You don't have to. I was fine with the original.”

“I was afraid I bored you.”

“
Bored
me?” I flinched, and he dropped his voice. “Volatile, stubborn, possessive . . .”

“I'm hungover,” I reminded him with a whimper.

“All qualities that go along with being exciting, strong, and passionate. Trust me, Blaine. From the bedroom to the boardroom, your imaginative tendencies are anything but boring.”

I closed my eyes, smiled, and said, “Tell me more. You know how thick I can be.”

His free hand traveled down my body under the sheet as he said, “Yet another of your attributes.” He felt my immediate reaction to his touch and warned, “We've got a wedding to get ready for.”

“Cock tease.”

Apparently, explosive make-up sex was the cure for the common hangover, because by the time we shared a shower, I felt almost human again. While Daniel began his painstaking grooming ritual, I toweled off, watching him in the mirror.

“Reassure me about what just happened. That it wasn't only a matter of opportunity.”

Daniel turned around and opened his arms to me. I inhaled deep breaths of him, and he said, “I love you. We'll have plenty of time to talk about all this later. For now, just believe that I want us to be together. I've missed you so much.”

“Me, too. I love you. I feel like it's
my
wedding day,” I said, relief sweeping through me that my stupid behavior of the night before hadn't destroyed a possible reconciliation.

As we silently held each other, I realized how much I'd missed this. Daniel and I could connect in a way that made everything else seem trivial. He had a talent for making me feel like wherever I found myself, as long as I was with him, I was exactly where I was supposed to be. Central Park, the office, either of our apartments, a bar, a museum, a restaurant, the woods at Happy Hollow, even Eau Claire . . . I could remember a thousand places, but they were just the background for him, for
us.
I had missed us.

Maybe a great relationship wasn't about the big moments: the battles, reconciliations, events, sacrifices, celebrations, breathtaking sex. It was in the fragments of time when I caught his scent, felt his smooth skin beneath my chin, or when our fingers melted into each other's muscles. It was how the sound of his laugh, the flash of humor in his eyes, or the way he'd turn his head away for a few seconds when something touched him, resonated inside me, as if we'd merged into one person.

Sometimes when he worked in his garden, I'd hear him unconsciously humming, and I'd wonder,
What put that song in his head?
Then I would realize that the lyrics contained a phrase I'd used in conversation hours before, almost as if he'd continued a dialogue with me in his mind.

I remembered a day that I'd played hooky from Breslin Evans not long after Daniel and I became a couple. I'd had one of those frustrating mornings when it seemed like nothing I did pleased anyone, and I'd fabricated an afternoon appointment away from the office just so I could get out of there. I'd gone to an exhibit—in fact, it had been a retrospective of the work of Lowell Davenport, Gavin's old boss—and consoled myself with the promise that one day, my name would be as well known in the advertising world as his.

I was leaving the gallery when I spotted Daniel across the street. He didn't see me, and I followed him for several blocks, my stealth providing a guilty pleasure. He stopped in Washington Square Park, and I sneaked up behind him, intending to surprise him. When I was a couple of feet away, he whipped around so quickly that I stepped back.

“Did you think I wouldn't feel you?” he asked.

It was the first time I'd ever lost my inhibition about showing him affection in public, surrendering myself to a prolonged embrace just like the one we were sharing now. I loved him so much it left me dazed.

After a while, he moved away, turned back to the mirror, and brought me back to reality when he said, “Is make-up sex better than it used to be? Or have you learned a few new things?”

I met his eyes in the mirror, swallowed, and said, “Do you want details?”

“Nope. Did you play safe?”

“Of course. You?” I asked.

“I didn't play.” He shook his head when he saw the guilt on my face and said, “Come here.” I walked to him, and he put his arms around me again. I rested my forehead against his bare shoulder. “You don't need to give me explanations, okay? If I were you, I'd have done the same thing. I just knew from experience that it wouldn't be what I wanted. More like a temporary fix, since what I really wanted was you. Us.”

“Yes,” I said.

He pulled back so he could see my face and said, “I owe you an apology, Blaine. I let things get totally out of hand that night when we fought. I felt ambushed and misunderstood, and I wanted to punish you.”

“I wish I could take back some of the things I said.”

“I wish I could, too. You and I always trusted each other. I expected you to trust me, even though I didn't tell you everything I should have.”

“You mean about Blythe and the town house?”

“Right. I didn't want to live in the same place as Martin, and I knew you didn't. What I should have told you was that I'd been looking for another place. One that we could buy together. That didn't have any history. Or Martin. You were already mad at me because of the stuff with Sheila. I wanted to move in with you, and part of me hoped that if I made a big gesture, presenting a new place as a done deal, you'd stop being mad at me. That was wrong.”

I grimaced and said, “Daniel, why didn't you tell me that night? As soon as I started in on you about the town house?”

“I was mad. Then we started fighting about other things. It was obvious we had more problems than I'd realized. We still have a lot—”

He broke off when we heard our bedroom door open and Adam's voice saying, “Guys?”

“We're getting ready,” I called. I tucked my towel around my waist, then kissed Daniel like we had all the time in the world.

“Daniel, I brought your tux and your luggage up here,” Adam said, keeping his voice loud so we'd know he was approaching the bathroom door. We didn't break our embrace, and Adam grinned when he saw us. “You're going to make Sheila a very happy bride. Or am I getting ahead of myself?”

“Everything's going to be fine,” Daniel assured him.

Adam's eyes raked my body, and he said, “I love the smell of testosterone in the morning.” His gaze rested on my stomach, then he frowned and lifted his T-shirt. “Whose abs are better, mine or Blaine's?”

“Blaine's,” Daniel said.

“Liar,” Adam and I said simultaneously, and he grinned at me and dropped his T-shirt.

It always amused me when Adam's competitive streak manifested itself. Since he seemed to be in a good mood, I felt bold enough to say, “About last night.”

“Not a problem,” Adam said. “You're a great kisser.”

“He is,” Daniel agreed, laughing at the way Adam's words made me wince. “Stop worrying about it.”