Revealing Us
Page 2
After closing the overhead compartment, Chris murmurs something I can’t hear to our elderly companion, who smiles in reply. I smile watching them interact until I catch a moment of bleakness in Chris’s eyes, reminding me of the pain he hides beneath all his sexy charm. My decision to travel to Paris with him was absolutely the right one. Somehow, some way, I’m going to make that pain go away.
As Chris settles into the seat between me and our companion, I glance at the Band-Aid on his forehead and then at the bandage covering his arm. I knew he’d cut his head last night, but not his arm.
My stomach lutters at how easily he could have died, crashing his bike on the lawn to try to save my life. “How are you?” I ask, gently covering the bandage with my hand.
“The head was more minor than I thought. The arm was a surprise, but a few stitches and it’s ine.” His hand covers mine—big and warm, and wonderful. “And the answer to your question is, I’m perfect. You’re here.”
“Chris.” His name comes out as a silky rasp of pent-up emotion. There is so much unspoken between us, so much tension created from the ight we had before I’d left for Mark’s house, and he’d followed. “I—” Laughter from the row behind us cuts of my words, reminding me of our lack of privacy.
“We need to—”
He leans in and kisses me, a soft caress of lips against lips.
“Talk. I know. And we will. When we get home, we’ll igure it all out.”
“Home?”
“Baby, I’ve told you.” He laces our ingers together. “What’s mine is yours. We have a home in Paris.”
Of course he has a home in Paris. I just hadn’t given it any thought until now. My gaze drops to where our ingers are twined and I wonder: Will his house there feel like home to me, as well?
Chris touches my chin and I look at him. “We’ll igure everything out when we get there,” he repeats.
I search his face, looking for the conidence in his vow that a man who is always in control would have, and I don’t ind what I seek. The shadows in his eyes tell a story of doubt. Chris isn’t certain we’ll igure things out—and because he’s not certain, neither am I.
But he wants us to, and so do I. His words have to be enough for now, but we both know it’s not enough for the future. Not anymore.
Friday, July 13, 2012
I called him.
I shouldn’t have called him, but I did, and just hearing him say “Rebecca” in that rich, velvety voice was nearly my undoing.
I’m supposed to leave for Australia tomorrow, and I’m not sure I can do it. I’m not sure it’s fair to my new man—not when I now know that I’m still in love with my Master.
And tonight he was diferent. He was more than a Master.
Tonight he was a man who seemed to recognize me as a woman, not just his submissive. I heard vulnerability in his voice. I heard raw need, and even a plea. Could I dare believe he is a man who is ready to discover that love exists?
Now I am swimming in a sea of his promises that everything will change if I go home. He called San Francisco, and his house, my home. He wants me to move back in with him, to get rid of my apartment and the backup plan it had been. There will be no contract between us. There will be just us.
I want us. I need us. So why does this deep foreboding claw at me, the same feeling I got when I was having those horrible nightmares of my mother? What is there to fear about my decision to go to him, but heartache? And it’s worth a little heartache to reveal the real us I’ve always believed we can be. . . .
Two
I blink awake, the haze of sleep clinging to my mind, seeing Chris lying in front of me, his lashes lowered in slumber. The sound of an odd announcement begins to permeate my fog, and I remember I’m in a private section of the international light we’d boarded in Dallas many hours ago. One of the light attendants is speaking in French over the intercom, and the only word I understand is “Paris.”
I focus on Chris, his sensual mouth relaxed, his hair a rumpled, adorable mess. My lips curve at the thought of how he’d react to being thought of as adorable, and my ingers go to his cheek, trailing softly over his strong jaw. He is so beautiful, not classically like Mark, but raw and masculine, so completely male.
Not that I’m sure I think Mark is handsome anymore. I’m not sure what I think of Mark anymore at all.
Chris’s lashes lift and those brilliant green eyes of his ind mine. “Hey, baby.” He grabs my hand from where it’s trailing over his lips and kisses my palm. The touch tingles up my arm and over my chest, and settles low in my belly.
“Hey,” I say. “I think we’re about to land in Paris.” The light attendant starts speaking in English, conirming what I’d surmised. “The prior announcement was in French, and as you know, I don’t speak French.”
“We’ll ix that,” he promises me as we raise our seat backs.
I give a delicate snort. “Don’t get your hopes up. The foreign language part of my brain doesn’t work.” I swipe at my hair, certain I look like a complete mess. If not for the fact that Chris has seen me sick and throwing up and still loves me, I might feel insecure. Then again, I’m probably too tired to be insecure right now.
“You’ll be surprised how easily you’ll pick it up from being around it,” he promises. “Why don’t I give you a small lesson while we descend? I know that’s the part of lying you hate the most. It’ll keep your mind of the landing.”
I shake my head. “I’m too tired to get scared of crashing, and too tired to handle a French lesson.”
“Je t’aime.”
“I love you, too,” I say, having watched enough television to know what he’d said. But that’s the extent of my French.
His lips curve in that sexy way they always curve. “Montrez-moi quand nous serons rentrés.”
The way the words roll of his tongue sends a shiver of pure female appreciation down my spine. I’ve oicially found a reason to like the French language. “I have no idea what you just said, but it was sexy as hell coming from you.”
Chris leans in close and nuzzles my neck. “To which I repeat,” he murmurs, “montrez-moi quand nous serons rentrés.
Show me you love me when we get home.”
And just like that, I’m not nearly as tired as before, but eagerly looking forward to this new home. What could possibly go wrong here in Paris? There is art and culture and history.
There are new adventures. There is living life. And I’m with Chris.
When we step of the plane, I will myself to be excited about being in Paris, the city of lights and romance, but I fail. That bone-weary feeling has returned like a steam engine, and even Chris admits he needs rest. I can truly say that I’m looking forward to sleeping in a real bed with Chris very soon.
We clear the ramp from the plane, stepping into the airport, which looks pretty much like any other airport. Signs in English and French point us in the right direction. Back in the States the signs would be in English and Spanish, so it feels familiar and that’s comforting. I also hope it means I won’t be completely disabled by my lack of French.
Then we step onto a moving sidewalk that takes us through a strange, winding underground tunnel. Beside it is an odd, awkward stairwell that juts up and down in an uneven line, and I can’t imagine anyone using it. Why does it jut up and down? I ind it illogical and disconcerting, and my comfort level plummets again.
Suddenly our bags are on the belt by our feet, and Chris pulls me close, his hard body absorbing mine. I don’t look at him. I don’t want him to see how out of sorts I am. Besides, he is warm and wonderful, and I wrap my arms around him, inhaling his familiar scent, reminding myself he is why I’m here.
That’s what matters.
“Hey,” he says softly, leaning back and sliding a inger under my chin, not allowing me to escape his inspection.
When my eyes meet his, I ind them illed with concern. It never ceases to amaze and please me that he can be so gentle and sensitive, and also be the man who inds pain to be pleasure.
I raise to my toes and touch my lips to his for an instant.
“I’m just tired.” My ingers replace my mouth on his, tracing the sensual curve of his lips.
He captures my hand and holds it. “You know I’m not buy-ing that, right?”
I manage a weary smile. “I’m just ready to be alone with you.” And oh, how true this is.
He runs his hand down the back of my hair, his touch protective, possessive, and I have the sense he feels a need to hold on to me, like I could change my mind and leave at any moment. He murmurs, “That makes two of us, baby.”
I’d promise him I’m not going anywhere, but I’m not sure words matter at this point. Actions do. Me being here. Me weathering the storm he believes is coming, without abandon-ing ship.
Once we’re inside the main area on the opposite side of the tunnel, we’re greeted with restaurants and stores to our left and a huge security line that winds seemingly forever. “I am so incredibly glad that’s not for us,” I gush with relief.
“Actually, it is,” Chris replies grimly. “That’s to clear our passports and enter the airport.”
I stop dead in my tracks and turn to him. “No. Please tell me we don’t have to stand in that line when I’m this tired.”
He shifts the bags on his shoulders. “It won’t take as long as it looks like it will.”
“Says the receptionist in the packed doctor’s oice,” I reply, and sigh. “I have to go to the bathroom before I stand in that line.”
He leans in and kisses my forehead. “Sounds like a good plan. I’ll go, too.”
We part ways at the restrooms, which say “toilette.” Toilette sounds so crass to me, and as I walk into the crowded facility I wonder if bathroom seems the same to the French. There’s a line of at least ive women ahead of me and only two sinks and two stalls. No hope of a speedy departure.
A woman gives me an up-and-down look as she passes, her gaze lingering on my face, and I wonder if I look more American than I realize. Not that I know what an American looks like.
I look like them. I think. My phone beeps and I pull it from my purse to ind a message from my cell provider, basically telling me I’ll spend a small fortune to use my phone if I don’t adjust my plan. One of many things I have to deal with, I suspect.
I glance up as the line moves. Another woman stares at me and I wonder if, when I brushed my teeth and applied lipstick on the plane, I created a mess. Do I have lipstick smeared on my face? I scan for a mirror, but there isn’t one. What? No mirrors?
No American woman would stand for such a thing. Women around the world can’t be so diferent, can they?
“Is there a mirror somewhere?” I ask the general population of the room, and get blank stares. “English?” I get more blank stares and two shakes of the head. Great.
Certain I’m a mess, I sigh, wishing my cosmetics were in my purse with a mirror, rather than in the bag Chris has with him. I glance at the time on my phone, and try to set my world clock without success. It’s early morning here, and I think San Francisco is six or eight hours diferent. Or is it nine? Regardless, if I go to sleep anytime soon, I’ll never adjust to the time change.
When I inally exit the bathroom I do so with hurried steps, and run smack into a hard body. With a gasp, I look up as strong hands right me before I fall. “I’m sorry,” I say, blinking as a big man with rumpled dark hair and handsome thirty-something features comes into view. “I didn’t mean . . .” I hesitate.
Does he even speak English?
He says something in French, and then says, “Pardon” before he departs.
An uncomfortable shiver races down my spine and the un-explainable need to follow him has me whirling around, only to ind Chris there.
His brows dip. “Something wrong?”
Yes. No. Yes. “I just bumped into a man, and—”
Chris curses and grabs my purse, and I look down to realize it’s unzipped. I’m certain it was zipped before. “Oh no,” I say, and shove it open to ind that my wallet is missing. “No. No no no no. This can’t be happening. He took my wallet, Chris!”
“What about your passport?” he asks calmly, setting our bags down between us.
My eyes go wide and I quickly dig for it. Feeling sick, I shake my head. “It’s gone. What does this mean?”
“It’s okay, baby. I forgot to give you your plastic card; I still have it. That’ll get us past the entry in France with some extra efort. And you can use it at the consulate to get a new booklet.”
I draw a deep breath and let it out. The way he says “us” is calming. I’m not alone. He is with me every step of the way, not just here and now. I know this, and I want to believe it won’t change. It’s one of the many things about him, and us, that delivered me to the airport today. “Thank God you have my card.”
Chris reaches over the bags and caresses my cheek. “I should have warned you how bad the pickpockets are here.”
“Pickpockets,” I repeat. “Here in the airport, or everywhere?”
“Any tourist area.” He hikes the bags back on his shoulder.
Welcome to the land of romance, I think, but then romance has never been an easy ride for me. “I have to call all my credit card companies, and I have no afordable cell service.”
“You can use mine when we get to the other side of security.”
I nod and zip my purse, then slide it cross-body and hold it with my hand. My world is spinning out of control and I am thankful Chris is a rock, or else I might just plain panic. It’s not that I want to dart back across the border, though I’m actually not sure I’ve technically passed it yet. I couldn’t go back to the States right now if I wanted to; a stranger has stolen that freedom from me. And I’m worried about my personal information in an unknown person’s hands, too.
As Chris settles into the seat between me and our companion, I glance at the Band-Aid on his forehead and then at the bandage covering his arm. I knew he’d cut his head last night, but not his arm.
My stomach lutters at how easily he could have died, crashing his bike on the lawn to try to save my life. “How are you?” I ask, gently covering the bandage with my hand.
“The head was more minor than I thought. The arm was a surprise, but a few stitches and it’s ine.” His hand covers mine—big and warm, and wonderful. “And the answer to your question is, I’m perfect. You’re here.”
“Chris.” His name comes out as a silky rasp of pent-up emotion. There is so much unspoken between us, so much tension created from the ight we had before I’d left for Mark’s house, and he’d followed. “I—” Laughter from the row behind us cuts of my words, reminding me of our lack of privacy.
“We need to—”
He leans in and kisses me, a soft caress of lips against lips.
“Talk. I know. And we will. When we get home, we’ll igure it all out.”
“Home?”
“Baby, I’ve told you.” He laces our ingers together. “What’s mine is yours. We have a home in Paris.”
Of course he has a home in Paris. I just hadn’t given it any thought until now. My gaze drops to where our ingers are twined and I wonder: Will his house there feel like home to me, as well?
Chris touches my chin and I look at him. “We’ll igure everything out when we get there,” he repeats.
I search his face, looking for the conidence in his vow that a man who is always in control would have, and I don’t ind what I seek. The shadows in his eyes tell a story of doubt. Chris isn’t certain we’ll igure things out—and because he’s not certain, neither am I.
But he wants us to, and so do I. His words have to be enough for now, but we both know it’s not enough for the future. Not anymore.
Friday, July 13, 2012
I called him.
I shouldn’t have called him, but I did, and just hearing him say “Rebecca” in that rich, velvety voice was nearly my undoing.
I’m supposed to leave for Australia tomorrow, and I’m not sure I can do it. I’m not sure it’s fair to my new man—not when I now know that I’m still in love with my Master.
And tonight he was diferent. He was more than a Master.
Tonight he was a man who seemed to recognize me as a woman, not just his submissive. I heard vulnerability in his voice. I heard raw need, and even a plea. Could I dare believe he is a man who is ready to discover that love exists?
Now I am swimming in a sea of his promises that everything will change if I go home. He called San Francisco, and his house, my home. He wants me to move back in with him, to get rid of my apartment and the backup plan it had been. There will be no contract between us. There will be just us.
I want us. I need us. So why does this deep foreboding claw at me, the same feeling I got when I was having those horrible nightmares of my mother? What is there to fear about my decision to go to him, but heartache? And it’s worth a little heartache to reveal the real us I’ve always believed we can be. . . .
Two
I blink awake, the haze of sleep clinging to my mind, seeing Chris lying in front of me, his lashes lowered in slumber. The sound of an odd announcement begins to permeate my fog, and I remember I’m in a private section of the international light we’d boarded in Dallas many hours ago. One of the light attendants is speaking in French over the intercom, and the only word I understand is “Paris.”
I focus on Chris, his sensual mouth relaxed, his hair a rumpled, adorable mess. My lips curve at the thought of how he’d react to being thought of as adorable, and my ingers go to his cheek, trailing softly over his strong jaw. He is so beautiful, not classically like Mark, but raw and masculine, so completely male.
Not that I’m sure I think Mark is handsome anymore. I’m not sure what I think of Mark anymore at all.
Chris’s lashes lift and those brilliant green eyes of his ind mine. “Hey, baby.” He grabs my hand from where it’s trailing over his lips and kisses my palm. The touch tingles up my arm and over my chest, and settles low in my belly.
“Hey,” I say. “I think we’re about to land in Paris.” The light attendant starts speaking in English, conirming what I’d surmised. “The prior announcement was in French, and as you know, I don’t speak French.”
“We’ll ix that,” he promises me as we raise our seat backs.
I give a delicate snort. “Don’t get your hopes up. The foreign language part of my brain doesn’t work.” I swipe at my hair, certain I look like a complete mess. If not for the fact that Chris has seen me sick and throwing up and still loves me, I might feel insecure. Then again, I’m probably too tired to be insecure right now.
“You’ll be surprised how easily you’ll pick it up from being around it,” he promises. “Why don’t I give you a small lesson while we descend? I know that’s the part of lying you hate the most. It’ll keep your mind of the landing.”
I shake my head. “I’m too tired to get scared of crashing, and too tired to handle a French lesson.”
“Je t’aime.”
“I love you, too,” I say, having watched enough television to know what he’d said. But that’s the extent of my French.
His lips curve in that sexy way they always curve. “Montrez-moi quand nous serons rentrés.”
The way the words roll of his tongue sends a shiver of pure female appreciation down my spine. I’ve oicially found a reason to like the French language. “I have no idea what you just said, but it was sexy as hell coming from you.”
Chris leans in close and nuzzles my neck. “To which I repeat,” he murmurs, “montrez-moi quand nous serons rentrés.
Show me you love me when we get home.”
And just like that, I’m not nearly as tired as before, but eagerly looking forward to this new home. What could possibly go wrong here in Paris? There is art and culture and history.
There are new adventures. There is living life. And I’m with Chris.
When we step of the plane, I will myself to be excited about being in Paris, the city of lights and romance, but I fail. That bone-weary feeling has returned like a steam engine, and even Chris admits he needs rest. I can truly say that I’m looking forward to sleeping in a real bed with Chris very soon.
We clear the ramp from the plane, stepping into the airport, which looks pretty much like any other airport. Signs in English and French point us in the right direction. Back in the States the signs would be in English and Spanish, so it feels familiar and that’s comforting. I also hope it means I won’t be completely disabled by my lack of French.
Then we step onto a moving sidewalk that takes us through a strange, winding underground tunnel. Beside it is an odd, awkward stairwell that juts up and down in an uneven line, and I can’t imagine anyone using it. Why does it jut up and down? I ind it illogical and disconcerting, and my comfort level plummets again.
Suddenly our bags are on the belt by our feet, and Chris pulls me close, his hard body absorbing mine. I don’t look at him. I don’t want him to see how out of sorts I am. Besides, he is warm and wonderful, and I wrap my arms around him, inhaling his familiar scent, reminding myself he is why I’m here.
That’s what matters.
“Hey,” he says softly, leaning back and sliding a inger under my chin, not allowing me to escape his inspection.
When my eyes meet his, I ind them illed with concern. It never ceases to amaze and please me that he can be so gentle and sensitive, and also be the man who inds pain to be pleasure.
I raise to my toes and touch my lips to his for an instant.
“I’m just tired.” My ingers replace my mouth on his, tracing the sensual curve of his lips.
He captures my hand and holds it. “You know I’m not buy-ing that, right?”
I manage a weary smile. “I’m just ready to be alone with you.” And oh, how true this is.
He runs his hand down the back of my hair, his touch protective, possessive, and I have the sense he feels a need to hold on to me, like I could change my mind and leave at any moment. He murmurs, “That makes two of us, baby.”
I’d promise him I’m not going anywhere, but I’m not sure words matter at this point. Actions do. Me being here. Me weathering the storm he believes is coming, without abandon-ing ship.
Once we’re inside the main area on the opposite side of the tunnel, we’re greeted with restaurants and stores to our left and a huge security line that winds seemingly forever. “I am so incredibly glad that’s not for us,” I gush with relief.
“Actually, it is,” Chris replies grimly. “That’s to clear our passports and enter the airport.”
I stop dead in my tracks and turn to him. “No. Please tell me we don’t have to stand in that line when I’m this tired.”
He shifts the bags on his shoulders. “It won’t take as long as it looks like it will.”
“Says the receptionist in the packed doctor’s oice,” I reply, and sigh. “I have to go to the bathroom before I stand in that line.”
He leans in and kisses my forehead. “Sounds like a good plan. I’ll go, too.”
We part ways at the restrooms, which say “toilette.” Toilette sounds so crass to me, and as I walk into the crowded facility I wonder if bathroom seems the same to the French. There’s a line of at least ive women ahead of me and only two sinks and two stalls. No hope of a speedy departure.
A woman gives me an up-and-down look as she passes, her gaze lingering on my face, and I wonder if I look more American than I realize. Not that I know what an American looks like.
I look like them. I think. My phone beeps and I pull it from my purse to ind a message from my cell provider, basically telling me I’ll spend a small fortune to use my phone if I don’t adjust my plan. One of many things I have to deal with, I suspect.
I glance up as the line moves. Another woman stares at me and I wonder if, when I brushed my teeth and applied lipstick on the plane, I created a mess. Do I have lipstick smeared on my face? I scan for a mirror, but there isn’t one. What? No mirrors?
No American woman would stand for such a thing. Women around the world can’t be so diferent, can they?
“Is there a mirror somewhere?” I ask the general population of the room, and get blank stares. “English?” I get more blank stares and two shakes of the head. Great.
Certain I’m a mess, I sigh, wishing my cosmetics were in my purse with a mirror, rather than in the bag Chris has with him. I glance at the time on my phone, and try to set my world clock without success. It’s early morning here, and I think San Francisco is six or eight hours diferent. Or is it nine? Regardless, if I go to sleep anytime soon, I’ll never adjust to the time change.
When I inally exit the bathroom I do so with hurried steps, and run smack into a hard body. With a gasp, I look up as strong hands right me before I fall. “I’m sorry,” I say, blinking as a big man with rumpled dark hair and handsome thirty-something features comes into view. “I didn’t mean . . .” I hesitate.
Does he even speak English?
He says something in French, and then says, “Pardon” before he departs.
An uncomfortable shiver races down my spine and the un-explainable need to follow him has me whirling around, only to ind Chris there.
His brows dip. “Something wrong?”
Yes. No. Yes. “I just bumped into a man, and—”
Chris curses and grabs my purse, and I look down to realize it’s unzipped. I’m certain it was zipped before. “Oh no,” I say, and shove it open to ind that my wallet is missing. “No. No no no no. This can’t be happening. He took my wallet, Chris!”
“What about your passport?” he asks calmly, setting our bags down between us.
My eyes go wide and I quickly dig for it. Feeling sick, I shake my head. “It’s gone. What does this mean?”
“It’s okay, baby. I forgot to give you your plastic card; I still have it. That’ll get us past the entry in France with some extra efort. And you can use it at the consulate to get a new booklet.”
I draw a deep breath and let it out. The way he says “us” is calming. I’m not alone. He is with me every step of the way, not just here and now. I know this, and I want to believe it won’t change. It’s one of the many things about him, and us, that delivered me to the airport today. “Thank God you have my card.”
Chris reaches over the bags and caresses my cheek. “I should have warned you how bad the pickpockets are here.”
“Pickpockets,” I repeat. “Here in the airport, or everywhere?”
“Any tourist area.” He hikes the bags back on his shoulder.
Welcome to the land of romance, I think, but then romance has never been an easy ride for me. “I have to call all my credit card companies, and I have no afordable cell service.”
“You can use mine when we get to the other side of security.”
I nod and zip my purse, then slide it cross-body and hold it with my hand. My world is spinning out of control and I am thankful Chris is a rock, or else I might just plain panic. It’s not that I want to dart back across the border, though I’m actually not sure I’ve technically passed it yet. I couldn’t go back to the States right now if I wanted to; a stranger has stolen that freedom from me. And I’m worried about my personal information in an unknown person’s hands, too.
