The Other Man (22 page)

He set the flowers I was clutching on a table, pulled me into his chest, his arms like steel around me, offering hard comfort.
 
For a moment, I felt like everything was going to be okay.
 
He lulled me into thinking that, his lips tender at my temple.
 

And still comforting me, still giving me false hope with his strong body, he murmured, “I have to leave.
 
Not for a little while, but for a very long time.
 
We have only minutes left together.”
 

“How long is a very long time?” I murmured into his chest.
 

“I wish I knew.”
 

“I don’t suppose you’re going to explain that scene back there with your sister to me.”
 

“I wish I could.
 
If I had a choice, if it were up to me, I wouldn’t be leaving, I promise you that.”
 

For what it was worth, I believed him.
 

CHAPTER
 

TWENTY-TWO

And then he was gone, and I had no idea if I’d ever see him again.
 

The first day after he left time passed like it was rolling through tar.
 

The second day was worse.
 

The third the same.
 

There was no word.
 
Not a note.
 
Not a phone call.
 
Nothing.
 

He was gone, had been gone for days, then weeks, but he’d left his mark in every single inch he’d occupied.
 

But even with that mark of his ever present, the man himself—gone.
 

I longed.
 
For his touch.
 
For just the sight of him.
 
For the sound of his voice.
 

It was such a strange thing, longing.
 
It felt so
necessary
.
 
Like the very urge created the problem.
 
Because somehow it felt so right.
 

All because you needed a thing you didn’t have.
 

Such a vicious cycle, longing.
 

And then, all because of him there was my reawakened sex drive.
 

It was the sweetest agony.
 

I found myself suddenly
fixated
on sex.
 
So aware of my own body that I couldn’t concentrate on much else.
   

I was showing more skin, enjoying the attention.
 
I worked hard to keep my figure, and I was proud to show it off and add thinking constantly about sex to that equation—I was like walking man catnip.
 

During that three-week stretch, I kid you not, I even had a bank teller hit on me mid-transaction.
 

It was out of hand.
 

And while I was obsessed with sex, I was not remotely interested in having it with anyone but the one man I couldn’t have.
 
Because he was gone.
 

It’s the funniest thing, how the woman who couldn’t be less interested in dating gets asked out the most.
 
I was suddenly that woman.
 
I swear, I couldn’t beat them off with a stick if I tried.
 

I said no, categorically.
 

But every night I went home and masturbated repeatedly, nothing I’d ever done before, because something about getting myself off all alone had always felt singularly unsatisfying.

And it still did.
 

I did it anyway.
 
Over and over.
 
Because I suddenly had a hard time going to sleep without it.
     

I got myself off, fantasizing about a rough voice in my ear and a big, scarred body on top of me, and would eventually fall into a fitful sleep.
 

I tossed and turned every night, and then I woke up every morning with my covers on the floor, and my fingers on my clit.
 

Nearly three weeks to the day he’d left, he showed up again, right at my bedtime.
 

I knew it was him when the doorbell rang at such an odd hour.
 
I’d just been performing my nightly try to sleep method, naked in my own bed, vibrator in hand.
 

I wondered briefly if I should answer the door like that.
 

No, I decided, shoving my toy under a pillow and throwing on a thin silk robe.
 

I checked the peephole, undid the chain, but only opened the door a tiny crack.
 

I met his wintry eyes and felt a jolt of something powerful move through me.
 

He looked fatigued.
 
Just dead tired.
 
Had he been going through the same thing I had?
 
Did he miss me?
 

“I shouldn’t even be here,” he began, sounding like he didn’t
want
to be.
 

I stiffened, my stomach turning over in dread.
 
What the hell did that mean?
 
Was he just here to break things off more officially?
 
Was this even the type of thing that needed an official breaking off?
 

My voice was hard when I shot back with, “So why are you?”

He took a deep breath, then another.
 
He was trying to communicate something to me with his eyes, but he was just
too damn good
at hiding everything there.
 

His eyes would never be the window to his soul.
 
It was hidden somewhere else.
 

I wanted to strip him down, climb on top of him, and study every inch of him with squinted eyes and thorough fingers until I found it.

But I knew where it wasn’t.
 
His eyes were too everlasting frozen
to death
to house his true self.
   

I tried to read them anyway, tried to decipher that broken gaze of his.
 
It was nearly useless, but only nearly.
 
I didn’t know what
exactly
they were trying to tell me, but I swore I caught a glimpse of something approaching contrition.

“I can’t stay away.”
 
It was a tortured utterance.

It was everything I craved to hear in that exact moment.
 
Because if I’d known where to find him, there’s no way I could have stayed away.
 

Just like that, I was his for the taking.
   

I barely got the door open before he had me across the entryway, pinning me to the wall.
   

I trembled under the touch of his big, rough hands.
 
No soft touches for me.
 
I was beyond them.
 
I only wanted what Heath wanted to give me, which was a thing that could never in any way be mistaken for soft.
 

He didn’t kiss me at first, just took me in his big hands, running them over me like he was committing every curve to memory.
 

He pushed my robe off my shoulders, unwrapping me like a present, making a noise low in his throat when he found me completely bare underneath.
 

“It’s like you knew I was coming,” he groaned out hoarsely.
 

I squirmed under his scrutiny, wanting to touch him, wanting to touch myself, anything for relief.
 
But I held back.
 
I wanted too badly to see what he would do.
 

“Were you waiting for me, honey?” he asked softly, dropping down to his knees.

He shoved his beautiful face between my thighs, tongue stabbing at me without further ado.
 

“Were you?” he breathed into my sex.
 

I gasped out a yes.
 
Then his name.
 
I put my hands slowly, gingerly into his hair, never forgetting for a second, even in my near hysterical wanting of him, how hard it was for him to be touched.
 

He threw one of my legs over his shoulder and set to work on me, fingers delving inside, tongue exploring slowly, thoroughly, laving at my sex, inch by inch, scraping his tongue against me, fold by fold.
 

I loved it, but I needed more almost instantly.
 
I wanted to come with his cock inside of me, not his fingers.
 

“Heath,” I pleaded, wanting him to stop,
needing
to come with
him
inside of me, but I quickly lost the train of thought.
 
He had me finishing before I saw it coming.

He nuzzled into me, fingers still inside of me as I trembled out my release.
 

“Heath,” I said again.
 

“What do you need?” he asked, then proceeded to lave my clit generously with his tongue.
 

When I found my voice again, I rasped out, “I need your cock.
 
Please.”
 
I was panting as I begged.
 
“Please.
 
Please.
 
Please.”
 

He moaned and surged to his feet.
 
He got his dick out of his pants like he’d been trained to do it, like those military guys you see in movies, dismantling guns, every small motion keyed to the utmost efficiency.
 

He pushed into me bare.
 
Even in my lust haze, I caught that right away.
 

“I’m not on the pill,” I gasped.
 

He knew that, dammit, and I couldn’t stand the thought of him pulling out long enough to wrap up.
 

“I know,” he groaned out, already moving inside of me, rutting mindlessly like he just didn’t care.
 
“God, Lourdes.
 
I missed you.”
 

That, and the big erection banging me against the wall had me distracted enough to almost let it go.
 
Almost.
   

Insanity.
 

I pushed against his scarred shoulders in a last ditch effort, and that got his attention, as I knew it would.
 

“What . . . ?” he asked, hips still surging at me, the part of him that just couldn’t stop was not stopping for even a second.
 

“Don’t you have any condoms?”
 

His face screwed up in what could only be called agony.
 
“Fuck me, I don’t.
 
I’m not even supposed to be here.”
 

I wanted to cry.
 
And he kept moving all the while.
 

“I’ll pull out, okay?” he rasped into my ear, still rocking into me.
 

I did some very bad math in my head, expedient math that’s sole purpose was to get us both off in a hurry.
 

Pure idiocy.
 

Believe me, I know.
 

“We should be fine,” I gasped.
 
“I don’t think it’s the right time of month, so we should be fine.”
 
As if I said ‘
we should be fine’
enough we would be?

And the rational me knew damn well that I had never been regular enough to rely on math like that.
 

Rational me was gone while hedonist me was getting her world rocked.
 

Pure idiocy.
 
I know, I know.
 

“Thank God,” he growled, ramming into me faster, harder.
 
“Fucking miracle, that.”
 

I really thought the timing worked in our favor.
 
I really, really did but that being said, when I’d told him that, I’d still been thinking he’d pull out.
 
Just to be safe, that extra bit of insurance that was by no means a guarantee, but still better than
not
pulling out.
   

I came first.
 
Of course I did.
 
He’d pound me all night before he let himself go before me.
 

He gripped both of my wrists and started kissing me on the mouth like he wanted to eat me alive as he let himself go.
 

He was buried to the fucking hilt when his cock started jerking out its release inside of me.
 

Even with my brain still lust fuzzy from orgasm, I felt jolted back to alertness when I realized what was happening inside of me.
 

“Pull out,” I moaned into his mouth.
 

He started to, genuinely gave it a try, I thought, but about halfway out, he shoved back in deep and held himself there, rooting inside of me.
 

Like he just couldn’t help himself.
 

This was one of many, many reasons why the pull out method was a terrible form of birth control.
 
Oh yeah, that, and the fact that it really didn’t work, just felt a lot more safe than him shooting his whole load inside of me, as opposed to say, smaller amounts of pre-cum.
 

“Heath,” I tried to make my tone plaintive, but it came out breathy and pleading.
 
Even I couldn’t tell if I sounded more like I wanted him to pull out or stay inside.
 

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he muttered, but he still didn’t pull out, instead jolting inside of me.
 

And, God, I was just as bad, still clenching around him, milking out every drop, not putting my foot down, not making him stop.
 

And then he said a thing that thrilled and terrified me, and I couldn’t have said which reaction was stronger.
 

“Do you want to have any more kids, or are you done for good?”
 

I’d never (not for one
second
) ever even considered this.
 
My boys were grown.
 
That was it.
 
I probably could have more.
 
I was in perfect health.
 
I’d just never thought of it.