Chasing Peace Page 9

  “It’s not like I’m a puppy who needs to be loved or a damsel in search of a knight in shining armor.” I roll away and this time he lets me go. “Want something to drink?” My eyes well up as I get to my feet. I can’t tell you what Boston might have seen in me, but his description is exactly how I’ve felt since Emma died, maybe even before then.

  “I’m fine Sterling.”

  I fill a glass at the kitchen sink but only sip at the water, struggling to swallow past the lump in my throat. He doesn’t push me, instead waiting for me to come back.

  When I finally have my composure, I sit down at the opposite end of the futon.

  “Put your feet up here. I’ll rub them.” I lift first one foot and then the other, suspicious that he might want to continue our conversation. “I bet your feet get tired standing behind the bar all night.”

  I stroke the back of my hand and apply a little pressure while asking, “Don’t your hands get tired too?” A sharp crack adds an exclamation point to my question.

  “Nah. Pushing keys is easy work,” he says, ignoring the sound of my wrist.

  My fuzzy socks with red and white stripes like Raggedy Ann’s stockings rest in his lap. Starting with one foot, he slides his thumbs up the bottom from heel to toes, pressing just hard enough.

  “Mmm.” I moan. “You’re right. My feet do get tired.”

  Relaxing into the pillow behind me, I luxuriate in the sensations. His strong hands ooze across and around my feet, stroking and soothing.

  “I still wonder what she wanted tonight.” I can’t believe I said it. I didn’t want to talk about my mother any longer.

  “Sometimes it helps to put yourself in her shoes, to consider what she might be thinking. Either that or you can ask her about it.”

  “Mmmm.” I’m not sure if that’s in response to the his suggestion or the foot massage, but I’d lost all concentration the moment Boston’s hands moved from my feet to my ankles and calves. They skim up my calves under the loose legs on my pants, their warmth making me shiver. His palms come back to cup my ankles stroking upward, over and over. His fingers tickle across my skin, palms creating friction. He stops at my knees.

  “Mmmm.” My head drops back onto the pillow behind me. I am melting and rigid at the same time, soft clay in his hands moving as he shapes me, an urgency for more pushing back, not quite a compulsion, but getting close. I’m spinning out of control at the slightest touch and I don’t want to fight it.

  Boston moves up my body, his hands grazing my thighs, and then framing my hips, outside my pants now. “You’re not falling asleep on me are you?”

  My eyelids flicker open, if only to prove I’m present in this moment and then I’m lost in his gaze. My eyes give him access to all that lies beneath. He can see my secrets, not the details, but the haunting insecurity, nagging uncertainty, and obsessive doubt.

  I know who I am and I have no idea how to change. I tried becoming someone else and failed miserably. Boston doesn’t turn away. Instead he smiles, his chin near my navel, elbows on either side of my hips, chest wedged between my thighs, so close, but not quite touching. There is clarity in his smile, confidence and calm.

  “You’re sure now?” He’s waiting for me.

  “Yes. I’m sure.” I give myself permission to enjoy him, to enjoy this moment. My hands hover over his shoulders, wanting to pull him up toward me, but waiting, interested in his current position even more.

  Boston’s fingers clench into the soft curves at my hips as his head drops to me, breathing through my pants. His breath is cool at first as it flicks at me through the moist fabric dividing us and then steamy as he plasters his mouth against me, hot air scalding nerve endings raw with need.

  “My pants, they’re ...” I struggle against him.

  “Relax Sterling. We have plenty of time.” Boston is calm as he nudges me, his nose sinking into the one fold accessible through my pants, his lips going lower. His hands circle my hips, grasping my ass and snugging me closer, his lips nipping and demanding in spite of the fabric barrier.

  I don’t want to move him and instead try to move my pants, my hands at my hips, pushing down. Boston’s head pops up. He grins with a sparkle in his eye, but instead of returning to his task, his eyes bore into mine, drilling into me. He watches me, trying to understand me as his tongue traces a thin line across the now bare skin of my lower belly. I shiver under his gaze as his tongue etches a trail from just above the curls peeking over the fabric where my pants now rest, to my belly button where he stops for a quick dip.

  He continues on as I slide my pants lower, but he never goes back. My yoga pants and panties are trapped at my thighs, Boston’s body and my splayed legs preventing further movement. It doesn’t matter. I’m distracted again. He has pushed my shirt up in advance of his tongue with hands wrapped around my ribs, thumbs now teasing the underside of my breasts.

  Abandoning my pants, I grab at my tee, sweeping it over my head. Boston’s tongue blazes a wavering path between my breasts, his head tipping right and then left to brush his cheeks against first one breast and then the other. The evening growth along his jaw is scratchy and thrilling.

  His tongue slides to my collarbone, dipping into the hollow where my neck meets my body. It skates sideways to pay homage to the other side before skimming upward once again. Boston zigzags up my throat and over my chin where he pauses, our eyes snagging, his forehead now resting against mine.

  There’s danger here, but I’m no longer guarded. I’m certain now. I want to see inside of him the way he sees inside me. I curl my fingers around his neck, pulling his mouth to mine and our lips sip, tasting experimentally. He tastes earthy and sweet. So that’s how I taste. I pull back, surprised by the novelty, although I should have realized. Boston rears up, giving me space, letting me decide. I move toward him and he helps, pulling me close and lifting me. I am no longer lying back. We are both on our knees, meeting on level ground. He has one palm flat on my back, fingers spread, pressing me tight to his chest. His other hand strokes against my cheek; his fingers curl into my hair. His mouth is hot on mine, lips slanting, tongue teasing before delving in. I answer with a fervor I’d never felt before.

  My palms move from behind his neck, my fingers clumsy as I work at the buttons on his shirt. Finally free I tug it down, pulling his hands away as I peel the shirt from his arms and lean in. The heat of his chest burns into my breasts, scorching my erect nipples.

  I want to feel every inch of him, my fingers teasing the rippling muscles across his back before coming around to explore the ridges across his front. I marvel as his muscles jump and tense beneath my exploring fingers. Boston’s hands are at my breast catching a nipple between his forefinger and thumb. His palms press into my flesh, pulling and squeezing to the tip where he rolls and pinches my nipple. He wrenches his mouth from mine, his head dropping to my other breast. I gasp, my breath trapped in my throat when he draws my nipple deep into his mouth as if looking for sustenance.

  My heart races, a thousand beats per minute pumping liquid fire through my veins, from his mouth at my breast to my soaking wet crease and back again.

  His cock presses against my belly, distending the front of his pants. I want more. My fingers shift to his buckle, working it loose as he teases my nipples and fondles my breasts generating heat within me as if he’s building a fire. The button comes free easily, but the zipper encounters resistance. Boston groans sending vibrations from his mouth humming against my nipple as he tries to help. I slip two fingers behind the zipper to protect him as I gently ease it down the length of his cock.

  Finally free, I push his pants and boxer briefs down to his knees, his cock tapping my belly as it bobs between us.

  Boston shoves my pants down further, lifting me to his chest as we struggle to pull them over my knees. I straighten one leg and then the other, my pants legs turning inside out as he peels them away. I slide down his chest, coming to rest on my knees. I realize that his cock is trapped between my
legs. He groans at the downward angle and shifts to find relief.

  “Oooh.” It comes out high-pitched and startled. His cock is wedged between my folds and slides against my clit with the slightest motion. I pull Boston’s mouth back to mine, lifting myself slightly and groaning again as he slides against my clit. “I need you,” I breathe against his lips, my words pitched with urgency. “Love me. Love me please.”

  Boston eases me back on the futon, holding my hips tight and maintaining contact between his cock and my crotch. My shoulders land first and I wrap my leg around his waist. The futon is still folded in the seating position, trapping my other leg between Boston’s hip and the futon back.

  As my ass settles, his cock drags through me again, the head catching, making furrows, or maybe he did it on purpose because he is poised in position all in one quick maneuver. I flex my leg, pulling him toward me. I am slick and my breath is marooned in my throat as his tip slips into me.

  “Hold on baby.” He’d let me go, rummaging in his pants and coming up with a foil packet.

  I groan as he pulls away and I hurry him along, my fingers helping to smooth the condom in place. Then we’re ready.

  Boston positions his cock at my entrance. Our eyes meet, me reclining as he kneels between my legs. His cock surges forward, my fingers clenching into his arms. He’s sleek and I am slippery and he rams home, sinking into place, the fullness causing pressure all the way to my belly and chest.

  He’s not moving, remaining still, plugged into me. My chest is tight, my breathing shallow, the edge of bliss is glistening and beckoning, enticing me to the other side and we’ve only just begun. This is more than the artful dance of romance. We connect deep down inside, where my secrets are stashed. I’m certain he can see into my soul and I want to see into his, but I try not to look. Flirting with forever and always is dangerous and I’m a coward. I close my eyes.

  He kisses me then, lips clinging and lilting like music. He begins to move. It’s a rhythmic blending of us. I strain to match him, tilting my hips and lifting myself to him in spite of our awkward positions. I hover as if in purgatory, wanting but not deserving, getting and feeling guilty until Boston pounds into me matching my urgency. I’m desperate for fulfillment; every cell in my body blossoming with desire as waves of sensation begin to crest, threatening to overwhelm me. He rams home, plunging in and out. I rise up to meet every pounding, smacking thrust.

  Boston pummels furiously as I hurtle over the edge, spiraling into the abyss and landing in the crashing waves. He slams into me—thrashing—his cock powering the waves washing over me. They’re relentless as I drown in the sensation, wanting out yet unable to stop the pounding until I’d rather stay right where I am. My muscles clutch at his mass, grasping with every jagged pulse, bursting with sensitivity. I feel his cock swell within me as my muscles tighten again. He groans under my grip, expanding and throbbing as he comes, yet still he pounds into me, surging, amplifying my response and threatening to devastate me every time he slams home, pulling away, but always coming home, until he goes deep and stays, refusing to leave. Boston collapses on top of me as my world goes dark, my mind spinning somewhere, reveling in the sensations, but gone from this moment, at least for now.

  When awareness slowly returns, I realize the futon is still folded in the seating position. I scoot sideways to reach for a blanket, Boston’s now flaccid cock slipping from me.

  “Don’t go,” he mumbles, thrusting fingers into my hair to hold my head steady as his lips move over mine, gentle and spent. Boston’s kiss slows and goes slack as sleep takes him, leaving nothing but breath against my lips.

  With one hand, I lift the lid on the coffee table and drag the blanket free. Pulling as much of it as possible over the top of us, I drift off to another place, the dim light from my desk wrapping us in a warm glow.

  Chapter 10

  I don’t know what I expected, but I guess I’m let down that I didn’t wake with Boston by my side. Instead, he’s in my kitchen wearing boxer briefs and nothing else.

  He looks my way and smiles. I’m not sure whether I made a sound or whether he’s just checking. “Morning,” he calls before turning back to his task.

  I struggle to put sleep behind me while trying to make sense of another person in my home. I pull on my clothes and stumble to the kitchen. Boston pulls out a chair for me.

  “Sit.”

  Straightening my tee and pushing my hair from my eyes, I sit. “I can’t believe you found this much food in my kitchen.”

  “As long as you have the basics, I can make something.”

  He made pancakes and scrambled eggs. I could smell coffee too. I don’t drink coffee, but I like the smell. Boston must have found some in the cupboard left over from Brock.

  The table would never be big enough for the both of us. Hell, who am I kidding, my kitchen, my whole apartment, is much too small for Boston. He’s tall and lean and commands attention. I can feel his presence dominating my space. I try to keep our knees from touching, but I understand, after only three bites that he’s trying to do just the opposite.

  I look at my plate, uncertain and uncomfortable once again about making eye contact.

  Sharing a meal in our night clothes, or in Boston’s case underwear, is somehow more intimate than if we’d both been naked. Sitting together over breakfast, we face a deeper intimacy that isn’t at all sexual, but so easily could be. His very presence in my kitchen makes me hum, until the moment screeches to a halt, a crunching, disintegrating, shivering halt.

  “Why do you sleep on the sofa? Isn’t there a bedroom in this place?”

  An innocent question and my middle twists into knots. He’d opened my bedroom door. My heart raced; my respiration kicked up a notch. He knows my secret, even if he doesn’t understand it. Chagrined, I’m not sure how to answer. I don’t want to talk about this. I can’t talk about it. I’ll become a blithering idiot if I do. I have too much history. I’m just beginning to like this guy and I cringe at the censure I am sure to see in his eyes, the condemnation and the rejection.

  I’ve learned that everyone judges, usually within their own frame of reference and rarely by putting themselves in another’s position. I can’t lie if he’s already seen the bedroom, but I can’t tell him, not yet. Maybe he’ll judge me less harshly after we get to know each other a little better. Isn’t that part of the reason we save our secrets for later. We present ourselves as an enigma cloaked in the safety of ignorance, all to preserve our virtue.

  One hand rubs over the other, applying just enough pressure but not yet going the distance as I hang my head in the misery of indecision. I have to say something, but what can I say? My wrist gives way and a soft crack fills the air.

  “Forget I asked.” His fingers slide under my chin, his thumb caressing below my lips, fingernail grazing the fullness in the center. “I don’t need to know.”

  My downcast eyes watch the base of his thumb glide back and forth. I am mesmerized by the movement and bemused by how he brushes off the question. I didn’t say anything and he’s prepared to let it go, prepared to wait.

  “It holds too many memories, reminders of what can never be. I can’t go in. I haven’t been in there since.”

  “Hey, it’s okay. I get it.” My eyes meet Boston’s as his fingers drift along my jaw, his thumb now stroking the corner of my mouth. I lean into his palm drinking in the comfort, the reprieve I find in his eyes.

  “I’ve opened it once or twice, looking in like it’s someone else’s space, like I’m a voyeur, watching from a distance.” My voice is a cold dull monotone.

  “Did Logan live here with you?” I pull away from his palm, my eyes slump sideways away from the allure of his. Why didn’t I leave it alone? Why did I respond, continuing the conversation? I know why. I haven’t talked to anyone about it. Lyla doesn’t even know I’m not sleeping in my own bed.

  My hands are busy in my lap; fingers from one massage the wrist from the other, not yet applying pressure, b
ut ready. “He never lived here,” I confess, not meeting his eyes, watching his mouth instead. “We broke up my senior year in high school.”

  “Okay.” He circles my wrist with his fingers, long and tanned and strong, his thumb stroking the inside of my wrist.

  “Pressure builds, making it ache. It feels better when it pops,” I confess.

  “It doesn’t sound like it feels better.”

  “Actually, it’s worse in the morning.” I try to tug my hand away, but he holds firm. “It’ll feel better when I’m moving around.”

  “Maybe you need a less violent way to reduce the pressure.”

  “I haven’t found anything else that helps.” I try pulling my hand away again, my wrist tugging against his grip.

  Just when I think I’ve misjudged him, when panic begins to set in at the restraint, he lets go.

  “How does that feel?” His lips quirk, a glimmer sparkles in his dark eyes. He knows I’d been frightened, just for a fleeting moment. I don’t want to be afraid. I want to be strong, but he pushes my boundaries, threatening my self-imposed security. He is smiling now, almost laughing. “Better?”

  I’d misunderstood his intention. He didn’t mean to restrain me when he pulled against my hand. I hold up my hand, rotating at the wrist. The movement is loose and supple. “That’s a lot better.” I smile too, laughing at myself. “Wanna watch a movie?”

  * * *

  We spend the afternoon lounging on the futon talking and searching for weird stuff online. I expected him to leave at any moment, but he didn’t. We talked about classes and work and the world around us, inconsequential topics that allowed us to get to know one another without sharing anything too personal until he made it personal.

  “So why don’t you live in the dorms?”

  “You should know that I’m not required. Besides, I already had this place and it’s cheaper.”

  “Hmmmh.” He said it like he didn’t quite believe me, but he didn’t push, allowing me to change the focus.