Chapter 7
The February chill had seeped into the hallway outside David’s apartment. I stretched out my legs, wiggling my toes. My wool pea coat wasn’t enough to counter the cold snap and make the wait for my boyfriend comfortable. He wasn’t that late—maybe fifteen minutes. But each minute served as a reminder that I needed to ask him for a key to his place.
And I knew that it was mainly my fault; if I had asked, I was pretty sure he would have given me one. But I wanted him to offer. Wanted him to want me there. And so we were stuck in this strange place where I spent most nights at his place but didn’t keep more than a toothbrush there, didn’t have a key, and didn’t count on an invitation. For the most part, I was happier than I’d ever been in my life, but this strange, unsettled feeling had descended, along with the temperature, made worse by a truly crap week.
“Sorry!” David came rushing up the stairs, Whole Foods bag dangling from one wrist. His thick wool dress coat and gray scarf made him look like a dapper 1950s businessman. He took the narrow hallway in quick, easy strides. “Been waiting long?”
“Nah.” Heaving myself up, I took the bag while he unlocked the door, juggling it along with my messenger bag. “What’d you get?”
“Carol at work was going on about this vegetarian butternut soup she had the other day and how easy it was to make. Thought I’d try it.”
Just like that, affection chased out the chill in my bones and the frustration in my brain. Neither of us were great cooks. David had a whole drawer of take-out menus we made liberal use of, so him going out of his way to cook for me made me feel all cozy.
“You don’t always have to do vegetarian just for me. You can eat meat around me,” I said as we unpacked the groceries in his tiny kitchen.
“I believe I’m well aware of that.” Arching one eyebrow, he held my gaze until I was the one blushing for once. “You want to chop the onion?”
“Sure. Hacking something up sounds perfect.” I grabbed a knife and cutting board.
“Bad day?” He reached over and squeezed my shoulder. The kitchen was small enough that our hips touched as he grabbed a stockpot.
“Saw you at lunch.” I gave him a weak smile. “So not all terrible. Just more roommate drama at home.”
“More?”
“Oops. I forgot to tell you.” The onion aroma stung my eyes like a penance for the lie. It wasn’t an accident that I hadn’t told him. “Seth and Mark want to buy a place in St. Johns. Small two bedroom row house.”
“Where does that leave you and Sarah?” He put down the box of vegetable broth and came up behind me, rubbing my shoulders.
“Sarah’s been itching to move to the Pearl, and she’s got a lead on a friend who might need a roommate. But Seth and Mark gave notice without telling the two of us, so we’ve got to scramble for something by March.”
“That sucks. What are you going to do?” David’s fingers worked magic on my shoulders, but his question hardly had the same effect.
“Not sure,” I mumbled. I leaned forward to chop, not shaking him off exactly but also not giving in to the urge to sink into him. “Guess it’s time to get a listing on Craigslist and start checking bulletin boards again.”
“You don’t want your own place?”
I want a place with you. Badly. I wanted to bring color to his brown and gray universe. For Christmas I’d gotten him a bright green picture frame with a picture of us at a Timbers game. It was now the lone spot of color in the room. I wanted to drag him to the little shops on Hawthorne I loved. Pick out paint and sheets together. Cook dinner together like this every night. But I couldn’t get those words out. As happy as I was, I wasn’t sure whether David felt the same way. He’d asked me to be patient and I wasn’t sure whether expressing my deepest desire would be too much pressure for him.
“Can’t afford my own place. As close as my business margin is most months, I need roommates.” There had been more than one month when I’d been late getting money to Seth, but he’d been far more understanding than the average landlord. “But man, I am not looking forward to sorting through ads and trying to find sane people.”
“Well . . .” He trailed off, and I waited, my heart in my throat.
“Yeah?”
“Doesn’t Portland have some roommate matching services? Some place that sorts out the crazy people for you and matches you with a list of places?”
“Not sure.” I minced the onion into a pulp and started in on the celery, chopping hard enough to make the board shake.
“I’ll ask Carol at work to check for you. Her husband’s a Realtor.” He nodded, like it was all settled. Asking his friend to use her Realtor connections should have made me happy— he wanted me safe and not living with crazy people. But my stomach felt sour and I wasn’t sure I’d have room for soup with all the disappointment churning in my gut.
He reached around me to grab the cutting board, dumping the contents into the pot before adding a package of precut squash and some herbs. The kitchen smelled like sizzling onions and pungent rosemary and home—like the promise of comfort on a cold night. I need this.
“Um . . . David?” I really needed to simply tell him. “I was thinking—”
“You need a distraction,” he said at the same moment.
“You want me to flip on the Blazers game?” I asked, chickening out on telling him what was happening in my head. I watched far more sports these days. My dad would be so proud. Heck, he’d probably trade me for David. He and David had talked more about sports when my folks came for Christmas than I’d talked to my dad in total in the last year.
Thanks to a number of holiday fund-raisers, David hadn’t gone back home to Idaho for Christmas, but my dad had snuck in a Blazers game with us while they were here, and we’d had a cheery Christmas Eve meal in Portland’s small Chinatown. I’d suffer any amount of sports talk for more cozy holidays like that.
“Wasn’t what I was thinking.” He wrapped his arms around me, pulling my back against his front. He dropped a kiss on my neck, right in the spot that always made me shiver. “I was stuck in a long, boring meeting all afternoon. Very, very dull. Had plenty of time to . . . think.”
“Think, huh?” I leaned into him with a big sigh. Being pissy wasn’t nearly as much fun as this—and flirty David was still a rare treat, one to be savored.
“Uh-huh. Thought about you the whole way home too.”
“I thought about you last night.” I tilted my head to give him more access to my neck. “All alone in my tiny little cold bed.”
“You could have come over. My work thing was over at about nine.”
“Mmm.” I couldn’t speak as he idly licked along one of the tendons in my neck.
“Next time you should uh . . . text me while you’re thinking of me.” I swore I could feel his blush against my skin.
“Yeah? How about I call you instead?”
“That . . . might work.” He was hard against my back and he sounded more than a little excited at the prospect. And nervous. Which just made me want to try it all the more. Edging him past his comfort zone was my new favorite hobby.
“Tell me what you were daydreaming about.” I spun in his arms, the cabinets digging into my back.
“How about I show you instead?” Claiming my lips in a scorching kiss, he went from gee-this-is-nice to must-fuck-or-die in less than ten seconds. Whenever he took charge like this happiness hummed through my senses, canceling out all the worries and thoughts usually clogging my brain.
“David.”
“Yeah?”
“Tell me the soup has to simmer a while.”
“The soup needs to simmer.” He flipped the burner control to low and threw a lid on the soup with a loud clatter.
He returned to me with a growl, diving right back into the kiss. The assertiveness had my toes curling. I sucked on his tongue, trying to insinuate what I’d do to his cock if he moved this to the couch. But he didn’t move from our cramped spot between the cabinets. Instead, he kneaded my ass and hauled me closer.
“Couch. Now.” I broke away. The way he was going, another thirty seconds and I’d be coming in my jeans.
“Bedroom.” Grabbing my hand, he hauled me through the living room.
“Too far.” I stopped by the couch, trying to move Mt. David onto the couch.
“Couch doesn’t . . . uh . . . have supplies.”
“Well, why didn’t you just say that?” I gave him a flirty wink before skipping down the short hall. “Race you.”
Usually, David didn’t ask me to bottom unless he’d had a couple of beers. Made my stomach go all tingly how he always asked so haltingly for something I was only too happy to give.
“So tell me about this fantasy of yours.” Forget waiting for him to unwrap me like a late Christmas present. I stripped off my clothes with surgical precision before hopping on the bed.
“Um.” Going all pink, he stumbled out of his pants. My dick jumped at the sight of him shedding his dress clothes. Pulling off his tie was a huge turn-on for me, and the thunk of his belt hitting the floor and the rustle of his crisp dress pants was more effective than a double shot of Jack at loosening up my muscles.
I already knew I’d be down with whatever he had in mind, anticipation thrumming through me like a heavy bass beat. There was a trust level with David that I’d never had before—a comforting reassurance that he wouldn’t push for more than I wanted to give.
“Hurry up and show me.” I patted the bed. Our bodies moved together with a fluid familiarity—a rasp of hair as our legs tangled, a glide of muscle as our chests met. Kisses that dragged on for long minutes, him working my cock with a practiced hand.
“Gonna . . . come if you keep that up,” I warned.
“Tell me what you want.” Oh, yes. Toppy David was out in full force and my whole body shivered with eagerness.
“Fuck me,” I whispered in his ear. His dick leapt against my hip at my words. He might not be able to force the words out himself, but he sure loved me talking dirty.
Grabbing a pillow, he maneuvered me until I lay on it, facedown.
“This okay?” He dropped kisses down my spine.
“Totally.” I suppressed a laugh. His big idea was predictably tame and I loved him for it. Loved him. Of course, I hadn’t managed to tell him that yet. He hadn’t said the words either, and I wasn’t about to be the only one with the words hanging between us, out of place and as awkward as jeans at a black tie dinner.
“Is it okay if I come this way, though? You gonna care if the pillow gets spooge on it?”
“Not at all.” He kissed the dimple right above my ass before reaching for the lube. He knew exactly what I liked, how hard to work me with his fingers, exactly what spots to hit to open me up. I shuddered as he found the perfect rhythm. There were definite perks to having a detail-orientated boyfriend. I loved his big, strong fingers almost as much as I loved his dick.
“Please.” I humped into the pillow. I’d come from just his fingers before and my body was hurtling toward that point. “Can’t wait.”
“Okay, baby.” Thank God he didn’t make me wait. Slowly, he pushed in, breath hissing out between his teeth. The position forced him deeper and I rocked back into him, needing more. The hard press of his body limited my motion, intensified even the smallest wiggle. Slipping one arm around my chest, he cradled me as he stretched out along my back.
“Kept . . . thinking about . . . angles all morning.”
My laugh strangled in my throat as his dick grazed my gland. God, I loved my left-brained, math-obsessed man. Only he could make geometry so fucking sexy. We settled into a rhythm of him stroking into me, me pushing into the pillow, cascading waves of pleasure spreading out with each thrust.
“Love that,” he groaned. My head collapsed onto the mattress as I let him surround me, let my senses tunnel down to just this, just his scent, his warmth, everything collapsing into this cozy, safe space where I could let go of everything except him. Never letting go of him.
He nipped at my neck, his teeth sending jolts of electricity down my already lit-up spine. Wedging a hand beneath my chest, he rested his palm over my heart. His other hand grasped mine, leaving no spot unconnected. Energy spiraled through us, and all I could think was that I wanted this to last forever. Didn’t even want to come. Just wanted to be here like this, breathing the same air, sharing the same skin, feeling the same pleasure.
“Jesus, I love you,” he breathed against my neck. I knew what he meant—he loved the sex, the connection, the sheer awesomeness of surging together like this, but the words gave me a thrill that pulsed through me, inched me closer to the edge.
“Me too. More.” I pushed back hard against him.
“God . . . do that again,” he moaned, and I obliged, rocking faster against him, tightening my muscles to intensify the drag of pleasure with each thrust. His chest hair tickled my back and sweat pooled between us. The room reeked of sex and man and the scent got me hotter. His heavy weight on my back, his low grunt every time I pushed up against him, his thighs tense against mine—all the sensations intensified with each thrust.
“Oh, fuck. David.” Much too soon, I felt orgasm sneak up on me—not an explosion as much as a flood of emotion and sensation, rushing past every neuron in my brain, leaving my body limp and exhausted. Three quick thrusts and David joined me with a low groan, collapsing on me.
Pulling out, David rolled onto his back, dragging me against him so that my head was on his chest. My eyes drifted shut, sleepiness winning out over all other impulses.
“You know what’s funny?” David asked, almost chipper.
“Yeah?” I cracked one eye open. Unlike most normal dudes, sex didn’t make David sleepy. If anything it revved him up, made him all talkative and full of plans. One Sunday morning he’d bounded up out of bed to start vacuuming moments after an epic fuck session that had me taking a two-hour nap. Crazy, lovable guy.
“Sorry. You can sleep.” His cheeks turned pink.
“Oh, now I’m curious.” I raised my head to smile at him. Even brain dead and blissed out, I wasn’t going to miss out on his candor.
“It’s just . . . before you I never really thought of myself as someone who liked to top.”
“No kidding?” I tried and failed at keeping the sarcasm out of my voice. I’d already figured out that Sheriff Perfect had been all things toppy and butch. “Wait. Had you never .. .”
“Uh. Yeah. I’d topped.” He turned even pinker. “I . . . experimented some in college. And there were a couple of times with Craig, but it wasn’t really his thing.”
I had a feeling that the “couple of times” in twelve freaking years involved Craig drunk off his ass, but I wisely kept my snark to myself. Dear old Craig had been seriously missing out because David was the best lover I’d ever had—the whole attention-to-detail thing helped, but it was also the way he created such a safe space for me to let go. He was instinctively toppy without any of the asshole side effects that often came with it.
“But you like it, right?” Worry crept past all my post orgasm fuzzy happiness. Being good at something didn’t always translate to fulfillment; my aborted grad school attempt was proof enough of that.
“Oh, yeah.” He laughed. “That’s the thing. First time I saw you, my first thought was ‘Man, I want to fuck him.’ Sorry. That’s crude.”
“No, it’s sweet.” I propped myself up on an elbow, stretching to kiss his cheek. “But . . . do you miss it?” I wasn’t sure if these were just idle postsex observations or if he was trying to ask to switch in a very David sort of roundabout way.
“Not really.” He rolled his shoulders. Thank goodness. I hadn’t offered to switch mainly because I had no desire to compete with Sheriff Perfect. It wasn’t that I never topped, but I definitely felt most comfortable fucking a guy who knew how he wanted to get done and kept charge of the scene, as opposed to a guy who wanted me to go all toppy and commanding. I wasn’t anywhere close to the throw-him-down-and-ride-him-hard cowboy I imagined Craig to have been.
“If you ever want to . . .” It took a lot to offer, but if that was what he needed, I’d try. There wasn’t much I wouldn’t try for him.
“I’ll let you know.” He kissed the top of my head. “But it’s kind of like mashed potatoes.”
“Like potatoes?”
“Like liking mashed potatoes and being convinced it’s the perfect food but never having tasted steak.” He scratched his jaw. “Sorry. Wrong metaphor for a vegetarian—”
“No, I’ll take being your steak.” I kissed his flushed cheek. Suddenly the whole moving thing seemed rather petty. Why begrudge him his slow pace when it got me this? When things were pretty much perfect, every single time we got together?
“Hey. You know what?” I asked. “You want to come check out some places with me this weekend? Help me weed out the crazies?” I could do this. I could embrace another roommate situation, put my desire for us to live together on hold.
“I would, but I’m going home this weekend. My dad’s birthday.”
Just like that, my zenlike peace burst. His hometown was at least nine hours away; spending the weekend there would likely be a big deal. Something you’d mention to your boyfriend.
“But . . . it’s Valentine’s on Sunday.” I sounded like a freaking girl, but I couldn’t help it. My first time having an out boyfriend at the right time of year—yeah, I’d been looking forward to it. I’d gotten him a pair of Winterhawks tickets. Nothing cheesy or sentimental, but I’d been planning on our usual brunch, maybe a little extra cuddling in line.
“That’s right. Totally slipped my mind.” He ran a hand through my hair. “Not surprising, I guess, since I’ve never really celebrated that day. Is that like a thing for you? You one of those guys who digs the hearts and flowers?”
“Not really. Overblown commercial crap,” I lied. “We can do something when you get back. How old’s your dad turning?”
“Seventy. Whole family’s descending. Probably a hundred people, all crowded into the Grange. Trust me, I’d rather be spending the day with you.”
“Me too,” I said softly. You could. Huge family gathering like that, I’d bet there would be other girlfriends and boyfriends dragged along. And okay, probably not same-sex ones, but still, the fact that going together wasn’t even on the table stung. I felt a bit like I had with Brian: a dirty secret, not fit for his family. It rankled that the holidays had come and gone and he’d met my parents, but no mention had been made of meeting his. Frankly, he’d seemed almost relieved that his schedule had precluded a visit home. Maybe he had no plans to make this more permanent. Sometimes waiting for him felt like an actual weight—a heavy iron thing hanging around my neck, pulling me down.
“Hey, maybe it’ll be the perfect time to try out your phone idea.” He was all kinds of flustered suggesting it, but I couldn’t enjoy his cute discomfort. Phone sex was a pretty empty substitute for a boyfriend who thought I was steak yet still seemed to want to save me for special occasions.