Scenes From the City: A Knitting in the City Wintertime Surprise (6 page)

I did as he commanded, sitting
upright just
enough to tug off my shirt and unhook my bra. My jeans were another matter since Drew’s muscular thighs were framing mine. His pants were unbuttoned and unzipped when he seemed to notice my struggle. Again, he swatted my fingers away, his eyes intent on the hem of my jeans.

Swiftly, he pulled them from my hips and down my legs, taking my underwear at the same time. I held my hands out to him, wanting his weight, wanting him bare as quickly as possible, wanting skin on skin contact. But instead of returning to my arms, he slid slowly up my legs, trailing his fingers softly from my instep to the inside of my thighs, opening me, spreading me as he traveled up my body.

Then he paused. His eyes flickered to mine—quicksilver, savage, dark and half-lidded with wild need—then focused on my center. I felt his breath against me, and I shivered, my whole person taut with unbearable anticipation, fueled by months of sexy, dirty, unladylike fantasies.

He lowered his mouth to my apex, and I saw a flash of pink tongue just before Drew administered a slow, sensual lick to my favorite girl parts.

My head fell back, my back arched, and I moaned loud and proud. Curse words gathered in my brain like they were holding a convention, and I bit them back, instead opting to pant and sigh and grunt and groan nonsense.

I didn’t realize at first, but my fingers were twisted in his hair in a way that must’ve been painful. Drew didn’t complain. Instead he grabbed two handfuls of my ass and hips and pressed me more completely against his mouth and lips.

I was reminded of our first real kiss, the perfection of it, how it felt rehearsed, choreographed, like he’d thought about it beforehand, practiced. Because this was
cunnilingus extraordinairus
, i.e., perfection. This was a man savoring the taste of his mate. The slow, methodical caresses quickly drove me to that magic place where insanity and pain are the same as peace and pleasure.

The curse words erupted then, a steady scream of them—that’s right, I screamed—torn from me as I fell over the edge of madness and floated with the stars.

But I couldn’t stop cussing. I wanted to, but instead of saying, “That was fantastic and I love you and please take me now,” I said, “Holy fucking fuck.”

Drew chuckled against me then licked and nipped my inner thigh; his thumbs tickled my stomach just below my belly button with their delicate circles. I jerked and twisted, the sensations too acute; but he held me down, lifting to his knees and stalking up my body, kissing and biting my hip, my stomach, ribs, then the underside of my breast.

Meanwhile, I was laboring for breath and clumsily searching to make sure he’d removed his pants.

“Drew…” I gasped, “Your dick. My vagina. Now. Make that happen.”

He laughed outright then, his grinning face hovering over mine, his chest making a lovely rumbling sound in perfect tune and pitch with his voice.

“Your body haunts me.” He dipped his middle finger between my teeth; I sucked on it then bit him. “You are my-”

“Drew…” I gasped again louder, forcing him to remove his finger and interrupting him. “Please, less diction, more friction.”

He barked another laugh, his eyes merry, his smile enormous. But then he gasped as I tilted my hips to cradle his length. Drew sucked in a dangerous-sounding breath through his teeth when I rubbed against him, rocking my hips with purpose.

“Now, Drew. Now. I need you now.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he said in a low growl, then filled me with one thrust. Whether it was the desperation in my voice that made him indulge me or his own raging desire, I didn’t know.

I started to cuss again. I also clawed him and bit his neck and shoulder. My need felt violent, ferocious. My mind was already planning a second seduction, like I was preparing to negotiate another helping of dessert before I’d finished my first slice of pie.

Drew grabbed my hands, maybe to keep me from drawing blood, and held them above my head. He pinned me to the carpet and administered a punishing kiss. I still wanted to bite him, consume him, but he left me breathless and disoriented.

“I have loved you,” he said, hovering far above me, distancing himself, and added, “I love you.”

“Drew…” I tried to grab him, but he still held my hands hostage, his movements controlled and purposeful, steadily claiming. His gaze moved between mine, searching.

“I will love you.” His voice was soft, like he was trying to reach me, calm me.

I stopped struggling and allowed myself to look at him, really and truly look.

His gray eyes studied me with reverence and longing. His newly trimmed beard allowed me to see his full lips and the set of his jaw; both were earnest, verging on stern. He wanted something from me, something more—but not necessarily different—from our physical act.

I relaxed beneath him, sighed, even as he continued to move within me—languid, measured thrusts meant to hold us in place, because we weren’t in a race. There was no finish line, no end, no goal, no urgency. I needed him, and he was here. I was finally here. We were finally together.

I felt tears sting behind my eyes, and I didn’t try to blink them away.

“Drew,” I said, my voice watery. “I’ve missed you. I’ve missed you so much. I need you.”

His mouth hitched to the side, his gaze softening. “There you are, Sugar…” His voice held traces of satisfaction and relief, as though he were finally seeing me, as though I’d just arrived.

He kissed the side of my mouth and whispered, “I’ve missed you, too.”

“I love you,” I said though my chin wobbled, because I did love him. I understood what he meant when he’d said it earlier and why he’d said it three times.

He loved me, he was loving me now, and he would love me in the future.

I allowed myself to actually feel our joining, focus on it, on him. With every stroke I felt the anxiety and tension evaporate. I was present in the moment, still greedy for him, but finding peace and fulfillment in the knowledge that we now had nothing but time.

And time was
finally
on my side.

~END~

Author’s Note:
Book #5 in the Knitting in the City Series will be Fiona and Greg’s book and is entitled
Happily Ever Ninja
. It will take place as a contemporary to the rest of the series. These scenes, however, take place fourteen years before the series starts. Fiona is 32 in
Neanderthal Seeks Human
. She is 18 in these scenes.

***

“I don’t like
this. I feel like I’ve been lied to.” My mother said this loudly, glaring at the open door to the suite area. I was certain her voice carried down the hall. “I’ve never heard of
co-ed dorms
. It’s disgusting. They might as well just hand out condoms and host an orgy.”

I was silent, though I was tempted to point out that my university did hand out condoms during orientation. Really, the goal was to encourage her to leave as soon as possible. Therefore, any mention of condoms, regardless of how much passive-aggressive joy it might bring me, would be counterproductive.

“I see your face. Just you wait.” She glared, pointed her finger at me.

I lifted my eyebrows and shrugged. “What?”

“Just you wait until you have children, then you’ll understand. When you have your own children, you’ll be calling me up and apologizing for everything you’ve put me through.”

Turning back to the box of books I was unpacking, I muttered under my breath, “Yeah, that’s not likely.”

I heard footsteps approach and turned toward the open door just in time to see my father enter, throwing his thumb over his shoulder. “There sure are a lot of young men hanging around here. When I went to Cornell, boys weren’t allowed to just wander around in the women’s dorm. They weren’t allowed in at all.”

My father winked at me, obviously knowing this statement would drive my mother crazy. He lived for pushing her buttons. I gave him a pained smile.

“They’re not hanging around, George.” She leaned closer to him and loud-whispered, “They live here!”

“Live here? Huh…” His eyes widened with what I knew was mock surprise, then he added thoughtfully, “I need to go back to college.”

“George!” She smacked him on the shoulder, her forehead a maze of consternation wrinkles. “How can you joke about this? Fiona could be raped, murdered, or worse!”

I frowned at my mother, tempted to ask what she had in mind that was worse than rape or murder. She was a reactionary, always had been. She followed the mantra of react first, think later (if at all). I loved her, but she was exhausting.

“Okay.” I said loudly, “Time for you to leave. Let me walk you to the elevator.”

My mother huffed, and I could see the anxiety on her face. My heart softened a little—a very, very little—at her expression but then hardened when she said, “Fiona, you don’t know how much time you have left on this earth. What if the tumor comes back? What are you going to do? Hmm? You’ll be helpless, alone, with strangers. This is your last chance to come home with us. If you insist on staying here, we will follow through with our decision to cut you off. I mean it; you’ll have no support from us, and you’ll have no insurance.”

I held my tongue and glanced over her shoulder to my dad. He gave me the faintest of head shakes, his eyes narrowing just a smidge. Although he didn’t agree with my decision to go to college so far from home, he’d pulled me aside last week and assured me that he wouldn’t be removing me from his work insurance policy.

He’d even offered to provide financial assistance as well, but I turned him down. I didn’t want to cause any more drama in their relationship. My academic scholarship would cover the bulk of my expenses. Plus I had my sponsorship dollars from when I was still an athlete, the accounts just recently signed over to me on my eighteenth birthday.

Like my mother, my father was overprotective. Unlike my mother, his decisions were typically grounded in well-reasoned arguments, facts, and reality. But his overprotectiveness of me was largely due to guilt.

I’d observed that much of what parents do, their decisions and actions, is driven by guilt—either directly because of it or as a means to escape it.

My eyes returned to my mother, and I cleared my face of expression; “I know, mother. We’ve already discussed your feelings on the matter
,” she’d told me
how angry she was with me, every day since I told them of my decision to move seven states away from home, where no one knew me, and I could be just another college freshman. “I know how you feel. Now it’s time for you to go.”

“You’re breaking my heart!” My mother said dramatically.

I tried to keep my voice as gentle as possible as I ushered—i.e., pushed—them out of my room, out of the suite, down the hall, and to the elevator. “You’ll be fine. I’ll call you.”

“I won’t take your calls. I don’t want to hear from you if you won’t listen to reason.”

“Okay, I won’t call.”

“You’ll die here, Fiona. At a s
tate
school!” my mother sobbed. I tried not to roll my eyes.

I didn’t know which she felt was worse: the fact that my brain tumor might reoccur or that I was going to a state university (in Iowa) rather than to Vassar.

My dad pressed the button for the lobby and wrapped his arm around my mother’s shoulders, addressing me, “You should call; don’t listen to her. She’s just upset.”

“Don’t patronize me, George!” She snapped, pulling away from him.

The doors slid shut while they continued to argue, and I closed my eyes, my forehead hitting the hallway wall. I could hear their bickering for the first few seconds as the elevator descended.

And then I sighed.

And it felt like the first real breath I’d ever taken.

***

People completely fascinate
me.

Take my college roommate, Dara, and her boyfriend, Hivan. They had sex in our dorm room nonstop. It didn’t matter if I was asleep, and it didn’t matter if I was at my desk studying. Usually Dara was topless by the time they made it in the room. At first, Dara would be surprised by my presence and try to gently ask me to leave. Meanwhile, Hivan asked me if I’d like to join them.

I declined.

But it wasn’t the nonstop sex that fascinated me. In fact, as an eighteen year old who’d never been kissed or had a boyfriend, I was a little envious of the sex part.

They fascinated me because 1) they saw nothing odd or inappropriate about interrupting my sleep, studying, or privacy at all hours of the day or night and 2) Hivan cheated on Dara all the time.

By the third week their relationship followed a predictable cycle. For three days everything would be fine. On the fourth or fifth day, Dara would burst into the room crying and sobbing and screaming, throwing anything within reach. She’d tell me that she was through with Hivan because he’d cheated on her.

He would eventually show up at some point during the next two days. I would leave. They’d have sex. Then everything would be fine for the next few days, and the cycle would repeat.

Also fascinating, by the end of the first month, all pretext evaporated. They’d just plow into the room and go at it as soon as they’d breached the threshold regardless of whether I was present. Sometimes, if I was already asleep, I’d put on my headphones, blast music, and cover my face.

The part of me that had a voracious appetite for observing and studying people was enthralled by their theatrics. It almost seemed like Hivan created the drama and excitement because he sensed Dara thrived on it. I didn’t understand this, why someone would crave this kind of drama, and so I studied them.

Honestly,
the situation
didn’t bother me once I adjusted to it as my reality. In addition to my fascination, I figured it was all part of the genuine college experience. I supposed I was odd in this way. Situations that typically made other people uncomfortable or angry or offended were of intense interest to me.

I’d always been an observer of human nature, more content to sit back and watch than get involved, but I suspected my extremely sheltered and structured upbringing was the root cause. I never had many friends because I’d had very few opportunities to make friends. Social interaction, social order, social norms, and dynamics were a mystery to me.

I understood athletes. I understood drive and competition and ambition to succeed and have a singular purpose. But I didn’t understand this world of normal and varied interests because I’d never lived in it.

The other two girls in my suite were Beth, a perpetually anxious and serious-minded pre-med freshman, and Fern.

Fern was Beth’s opposite in every way.

Where Beth was reed thin and dressed conservatively, and Fern was voluptuous and dressed like a 1950’s pinup. Where Beth was studying all the time and waking up early to exercise, Fern hardly ever went to class and frequently staggered into the suite intoxicated at all hours of the day and night.

I think Beth and Fern got on each other’s nerves; Beth left by week six, opting to move into a single room elsewhere on campus as soon as it became available.

Fern told me in passing that she was only going to college because her parents insisted that she at least try it for one or two years. What she really wanted to do was become a Scientologist minister, and she didn’t need a college degree for that. As such, Fern decided to major in Latin. She thought this was hilarious.

Mostly, I kept to myself, watching, considering, unobtrusively attempting to solve the mysteries of those around me, what made people tick, and trying to soak up every day.

Being alone in a sea of strangers didn’t trouble me. I didn’t crave social interaction, but I truly enjoyed watching people. I was enormously grateful for the freedom of finally living away from home, for being around people who didn’t know me and therefore didn’t look at me like I was breakable or about to explode or didn’t understand that brain tumors aren’t contagious.

Here I was, just another college freshman, and all the nuttiness and theatrics and drama felt like a gift.

***

“What are you
doing?”

I blinked at the voice and found Fern staring down at me, her bright red-painted lips curved into a
immense
smile.

I shifted in my seat; my eyes flickered to the wall clock above my desk space. I was sitting in the general suite area, curled up on my desk chair while Hivan and Dara screamed at each other. If it hadn’t been January and the weather hadn’t been sub-zero, I would have walked to the library. My other option was the study rooms downstairs in the lobby of the dorm; however, on a day like this, those rooms were usually booked for hours.

“I’m studying.” I returned Fern’s smile.

She plopped herself down in Dara’s chair, her grin growing. “That sounds boring.”

I laughed lightly and slipped a piece of paper between the pages of my P-chem textbook to hold my place. I knew this wouldn’t be a short conversation. Over the past two weeks, Fern had been interrupting me more and more. We were often stuck together in the suite. I think the good weather kept her entertained and her options open such that she didn’t usually notice me, whereas the atrocious weather of mid-winter Iowa left her with few choices.

“What would you like to do?” I asked.

“Why are you so shy?” she volleyed without warning.

I flinched a little, confused by the question. “Am I shy?”

She nodded, her grin still in place. “Yes. You are shy. You speak to no one who doesn’t speak to you first. You never go out anywhere except the library and class and the gym. But you’re not a raging kill-joy psycho bitch like Beth was. You’re nice…just quiet and shy.”

“Well…” I considered her statement and realized she was right. “I guess I’m not great at initiating friendships.”

“Why is that?”

I stared at her for a beat, thought about why I was this way. Probably my upbringing…first because of gymnastics and the hopes for my Olympic future; later it was because of the cancer.

More likely my reticence was because I typically enjoyed watching people more than I enjoyed actually speaking to them.

I didn’t particularly want to share either of these theories with anyone. I liked my anonymity, and I liked being normal. I liked blending in.

I opened my mouth to respond with something generic, but Fern cut me off. “You are so lovely once you actually speak, not boring at all. You should be more outgoing. You are too wonderful to live so quietly. You need to get loud every once in a while.”

“Okay. I’ll try to do that,” I promised, making a mental note to dedicate time to observing how people
get loud
.

As though reading my mind, Fern grabbed my textbook and tossed it to the floor then reached for my hand, pulling me out of my chair.

“Excellent, let’s start right now. I’ll introduce you to everyone on the floor.”

“I…what?” My steps faltered a little as I glanced down at myself. I was in my ninja star pajama bottoms and an old green wool sweater. My feet were ensconced in chunky, hand-knit wool socks. I wore no makeup, and my short brown hair was a mess.