Very Wicked Things
Page 46
“Let it go,” I said.
He grumbled under his breath, but I ignored him. Maybe I was a little ticked at him because he’d been gone so long. But, he wasn’t my protector either.
Thankfully our food came and both of us got quiet.
“So. Emmo is preggo,” he sang in between bites of his pizza.
I set down my knife and fork on my plate. My food was tasteless anyway. “Yes.”
He shrugged and took a sip of the beer he’d ordered with his fake ID. “She’ll get fat, you know. We can make fun of her. But, she’ll probably get rid of it.”
“Don’t be so flippant,” I snapped, angry with his attitude. “What if that was you and not Cuba?”
He smirked. “Emma is not my type. Too much fake going on.” His eyes scanned over me. “I want someone real, someone like you, Dovey.”
Not this again.
I looked away and took a sip of water to cover up my nervousness, but I don’t think I fooled him.
A few minutes later, we finished and walked out of the restaurant. “Why don’t you come home with me tonight, and we’ll watch a movie.” He pointed out at the white-covered parking lot. “And it might be a good idea if you spent the night. The roads will be crap.”
I nodded. Heather-Lynn was with Sarah tonight, and sleeping at Spider’s sounded perfect. Right?
AFTER SLIPPING AND sliding the entire way back to his dorm in his SUV, he smuggled me into his one bedroom apartment—he paid extra for a private suite—and we watched Pulp Fiction. We lay on his suede couch while his beer bottles accumulated, and I dozed on and off, the screams and the blood from the movie not registering. We’d only watched it a dozen times together.
I woke to the credits rolling across his big screen. Stretching out, I eyed my bag, resting next to his discarded pizza boxes from one night this week. Or maybe it was last week? Ha. His room was a mess, and I wondered if I should pop over one day and offer to clean it up for him. It was the least I could do since he was loaning me money.
Spider sat his drink down on the side table next to the couch and tugged me into his arms. “You staying?” he asked, his nose nuzzling my cheek.
I stiffened at the touch, yet the moment I’d climbed in his car, I’d known we were teetering on the edge of something dangerous.
But why not experiment? And maybe I wanted this. To prove to him that Cuba meant nothing to me.
“Let me check in with Sarah,” I said, calling home. I half-way wanted her to tell me to come home, but Heather-Lynn answered and said they were fine and for me to stay put in this weather.
I hung up the phone and my eyes locked with his warm ones. I gazed into them, searching for answers about our iffy relationship. Were we friends who turned into lovers?
He must have read the question in my eyes because he took my hand and kissed my palm. And it wasn’t a friendly, let’s be BFFs kiss. No, it was I want to throw you down and have my way with you kiss. He kissed it with an open mouth, the pressure of his soft lips and the heat from his tongue making me fall toward him.
He threaded our fingers together and gazed down at me, his eyes hot. “I’m going to kiss you, Dovey. You good?”
Was I? No idea. But I nodded.
He tilted my face up to his and kissed me, his mouth fitting over mine easily and, of course, expertly. This was Spider, and he’d been with countless girls, filling a void I didn’t understand.
His hands encircled my nape as his tongue coaxed my mouth to open, the pressure hesitant and easy as if he were afraid I’d pull away. I sighed, liking the sweetness, getting lost a little in playing with his stud, rolling it around, experimenting. Kissing him didn’t make my heart fly like Cuba’s first kiss had, but there was something to be said for kissing someone who you knew cared for you.
He pulled me on top of him as he stretched out on the couch, and we fit. His hardness against my stomach created an ache in me, reminding me of the emptiness I felt. I sank into him deeper, and he groaned, his hands working my shirt up, until his fingers reached the front snap of my bra. In seconds, he had the clasp undone, my grey tunic and pink lace bra off and over my head. I sensed more than saw him toss my things over the couch.
He had some lightening moves.
“I’ve been wanting this…you…for so long,” he said, cupping breasts and kissing across my jaw line, whispering sexy words, and I whispered words back, feeling into the moment, surprised by the slow burn but going with it.
And he was surprisingly gentle. Most of the time when I’d watched him interact with girls, I got the impression he wasn’t a tender lover, that he took what he wanted hard and fast. I’d always suspected he fucked, not made love. But, maybe I was wrong.
We escalated faster than I wanted. But, he felt good against me, especially when he whipped his shirt off, the searing touch of his chest against mine making me pant. I kissed him harder, my tongue searching for his, needing him.
See, I tried to convey with my lips, I do not still love Cuba.
And I didn’t. Cuba was long gone. Yesterday’s news.
Yet, in the middle of our kiss, I pictured Cuba and Emma at some place like Babies R Us. I tried to push the image away, but it kept resurrecting itself over and over. Them oohing and ahhing over cute baby clothes, taking a Lamaze class together, pushing a stroller. My stomach roiled.
“Open your eyes,” Spider said, his hands framing the sides of my face, his thumbs against my cheeks almost painful. I shook my head and buried it in his shoulder and bit his neck, finding his erratic pulse and sucking on it. He smelled good, clean and woodsy and yet not quite right.
He grumbled under his breath, but I ignored him. Maybe I was a little ticked at him because he’d been gone so long. But, he wasn’t my protector either.
Thankfully our food came and both of us got quiet.
“So. Emmo is preggo,” he sang in between bites of his pizza.
I set down my knife and fork on my plate. My food was tasteless anyway. “Yes.”
He shrugged and took a sip of the beer he’d ordered with his fake ID. “She’ll get fat, you know. We can make fun of her. But, she’ll probably get rid of it.”
“Don’t be so flippant,” I snapped, angry with his attitude. “What if that was you and not Cuba?”
He smirked. “Emma is not my type. Too much fake going on.” His eyes scanned over me. “I want someone real, someone like you, Dovey.”
Not this again.
I looked away and took a sip of water to cover up my nervousness, but I don’t think I fooled him.
A few minutes later, we finished and walked out of the restaurant. “Why don’t you come home with me tonight, and we’ll watch a movie.” He pointed out at the white-covered parking lot. “And it might be a good idea if you spent the night. The roads will be crap.”
I nodded. Heather-Lynn was with Sarah tonight, and sleeping at Spider’s sounded perfect. Right?
AFTER SLIPPING AND sliding the entire way back to his dorm in his SUV, he smuggled me into his one bedroom apartment—he paid extra for a private suite—and we watched Pulp Fiction. We lay on his suede couch while his beer bottles accumulated, and I dozed on and off, the screams and the blood from the movie not registering. We’d only watched it a dozen times together.
I woke to the credits rolling across his big screen. Stretching out, I eyed my bag, resting next to his discarded pizza boxes from one night this week. Or maybe it was last week? Ha. His room was a mess, and I wondered if I should pop over one day and offer to clean it up for him. It was the least I could do since he was loaning me money.
Spider sat his drink down on the side table next to the couch and tugged me into his arms. “You staying?” he asked, his nose nuzzling my cheek.
I stiffened at the touch, yet the moment I’d climbed in his car, I’d known we were teetering on the edge of something dangerous.
But why not experiment? And maybe I wanted this. To prove to him that Cuba meant nothing to me.
“Let me check in with Sarah,” I said, calling home. I half-way wanted her to tell me to come home, but Heather-Lynn answered and said they were fine and for me to stay put in this weather.
I hung up the phone and my eyes locked with his warm ones. I gazed into them, searching for answers about our iffy relationship. Were we friends who turned into lovers?
He must have read the question in my eyes because he took my hand and kissed my palm. And it wasn’t a friendly, let’s be BFFs kiss. No, it was I want to throw you down and have my way with you kiss. He kissed it with an open mouth, the pressure of his soft lips and the heat from his tongue making me fall toward him.
He threaded our fingers together and gazed down at me, his eyes hot. “I’m going to kiss you, Dovey. You good?”
Was I? No idea. But I nodded.
He tilted my face up to his and kissed me, his mouth fitting over mine easily and, of course, expertly. This was Spider, and he’d been with countless girls, filling a void I didn’t understand.
His hands encircled my nape as his tongue coaxed my mouth to open, the pressure hesitant and easy as if he were afraid I’d pull away. I sighed, liking the sweetness, getting lost a little in playing with his stud, rolling it around, experimenting. Kissing him didn’t make my heart fly like Cuba’s first kiss had, but there was something to be said for kissing someone who you knew cared for you.
He pulled me on top of him as he stretched out on the couch, and we fit. His hardness against my stomach created an ache in me, reminding me of the emptiness I felt. I sank into him deeper, and he groaned, his hands working my shirt up, until his fingers reached the front snap of my bra. In seconds, he had the clasp undone, my grey tunic and pink lace bra off and over my head. I sensed more than saw him toss my things over the couch.
He had some lightening moves.
“I’ve been wanting this…you…for so long,” he said, cupping breasts and kissing across my jaw line, whispering sexy words, and I whispered words back, feeling into the moment, surprised by the slow burn but going with it.
And he was surprisingly gentle. Most of the time when I’d watched him interact with girls, I got the impression he wasn’t a tender lover, that he took what he wanted hard and fast. I’d always suspected he fucked, not made love. But, maybe I was wrong.
We escalated faster than I wanted. But, he felt good against me, especially when he whipped his shirt off, the searing touch of his chest against mine making me pant. I kissed him harder, my tongue searching for his, needing him.
See, I tried to convey with my lips, I do not still love Cuba.
And I didn’t. Cuba was long gone. Yesterday’s news.
Yet, in the middle of our kiss, I pictured Cuba and Emma at some place like Babies R Us. I tried to push the image away, but it kept resurrecting itself over and over. Them oohing and ahhing over cute baby clothes, taking a Lamaze class together, pushing a stroller. My stomach roiled.
“Open your eyes,” Spider said, his hands framing the sides of my face, his thumbs against my cheeks almost painful. I shook my head and buried it in his shoulder and bit his neck, finding his erratic pulse and sucking on it. He smelled good, clean and woodsy and yet not quite right.
