Maybe (6 page)

“We should dance,” Hollis says in my ear, her arms wrapped around my shoulders like we’re the closest of girlfriends and this is just another night out.

I laugh, settling into her side and letting her hug tighten. Her chin is on my head when I answer. “I don’t dance.”

Tyler’s beer bottle hits the table hard enough to make us both jump. He squints and shakes his head. “Liar.”

“I’m not a liar. I don’t dance.”

“Listen, Peach. You do ballet up there. I’ve seen your place.”

Jon and Shawn are suddenly very interested in this exchange. Carrie leaves for the bathroom, and Hollis releases me and tilts her head in question.

“Don’t call me that,
Tyler
. I don’t dance anymore. I use that barre for exercise. It’s a little hard to dance when you have a busted knee.” I hate talking about it, but if the truth will shut him up, it’s worth it.

Jon nudges Shawn, and they both look at the guy staring at me from across the table. “That’s fucked up, Mace. Why were you in her apartment?”

“Who do you think set up the mirror?” He’s still looking at me like I’ll stand up and tell him it’s a joke, but this is real. I’ve never found it amusing.

There’s too much tequila in my system, and his eyes are on me, unwavering, fingers still wrapped around the neck of the beer bottle.

“Fine.” I slide off the stool and grab Hollis by the wrist. She doesn’t object. Jon, on the other hand, is watching his wife cross a crowded dance floor into a sea of bodies with me. I can’t tell if he’s pissed, worried, or thinks he’s about to get a show.

Hollis smiles and pulls me close, laughing while we move. It feels nice, like I’ve won some kind of bet. Tyler looks like an asshole, or maybe I look weak and immature. I’m not dwelling on it because Hollis has her hands on my hips, and I’m laughing hysterically with my wrists resting on her shoulders like we’re a couple of ninth graders at Homecoming.

“I’m a terrible dancer,” she yells into my ear.

I’m about to tell her that I am, too, now, when she’s roughly pulled away from me and twirled into her husband’s arms. They’re so cute it makes me want to throw up. Or that could be the liquor. I’m not too sure which it is, but my head is spinning, and I feel a little lopsided before a pair of hands grab me by the waist and pull my back against someone’s chest.

“Easy now.” Tyler is holding me upright, and I’m not complaining. “You’re a lightweight.”

“I didn’t have time for dinner.” I’m pretty sure my speech is slurred, and maybe I should have stopped at the second shot. Or third. Though I can’t feel my fingers, I can definitely feel the throbbing in my knee.

When I bend to rub it, Tyler leans down with me, chest arched over my back and lips by my ear. “I was messing with you. You didn’t have to dance.”

“Of course I did. You were calling me out. I couldn’t let you win.”

He chuckles and breathes softly. “I’ll take you home.”

Home sounds fantastic, so when he turns around, drops a little lower, and motions for me to get on his back, I don’t hesitate. It feels good to be carried, and I’m so tired. This is not how I thought the night would turn out.

Tyler carries me the entire way back to the apartment, during the ride in the elevator, and through the door. He lets me down inside my room, and I limp pathetically over to my bed, flopping backward on the comforter.

“You need food.”

He won’t find much of anything in my refrigerator. Maybe a yogurt.

“There’s bread,” I call weakly and lie back down to get my bearings. “This is why I don’t drink,” I whisper to no one in particular.

He’s at my side with a peanut butter sandwich and some aspirin, which he follows with a glass of water. I feel like I’ve never been this hungry in my entire life. Once the food is gone and I’ve taken the pills, I sink back onto the bed and close my eyes.

“You’re a cheap date and a lousy drunk.” The mattress sinks under his weight.

My eyelids are heavy when I try to open them to locate his whereabouts.

“Not a date.”

“No. Of course not.”

I yawn and stretch, sliding up the bed on my back until I can locate a pillow. The food is helping, but I’m still nowhere near sober. “I’m so tired, Mace Face. Aren’t you tired? Don’t you want to sleep?”

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his body blocking out the light from the street below, and his silhouette is glowing. I’m fighting it, but I’m not in any position to be strong.

“I need to get out of these clothes.” I try to sit up, but he leans over and tugs my wrists to bring me upright. My arms are starting to feel less like logs, but I’m still sleepy. “Can you help?”

“I should probably go.” His voice is low and quiet, like he can’t speak any louder in the dark.

“Stay here. We’ll sleep. You’ll like it. Sleep is great. Awesome, even. It’ll be the best you’ve ever had.” I laugh at my own innuendo and glance up to gauge his reaction.

“Shameless.” He’s chuckling while he helps me take off my shirt, and I lie down to shimmy out of my jeans, throwing them over the other side of the bed. Then I turn over to crawl beneath the sheets. They feel so good against my overheated skin, beneath the tank top I’m still wearing. I pat the bed and crack an eye to see Macy still leaning over, watching me curiously.

“Get in. Come on.”

There’s a hesitation in his response when he agrees. “I don’t want you choking in your sleep or whatever.” The answer makes me laugh because it’s such a lame excuse, but if I keep him here, then he can’t drum my good night’s rest away.

His belt clangs and denim and cotton rustle, but he’s silent when he crawls in next to me. His body is warm, and he smells like the bar. Also like candy and fresh water. I turn over and shimmy back until I make contact with his chest. I don’t have to ask—he just curves into me and wraps an arm around me.

I’m just on the edge of sleep when I feel it. My entire body tenses, and I freeze, holding my breath just in case I’m wrong. The warmth and weight against my back is too real in this moment, and I’m not sure what the protocol is. If I were clear-headed, I might have an answer. His fingers are tapping against my side, and I’m trying to decipher the rhythm when I feel it again.

It takes nothing to press back against him, and his fingers stop their movement, curling into my side as he exhales.

“Tyler . . .”

“Just stop moving.”

We both sit in silence, and I listen to my heartbeat while it races. There’s a tightening in my stomach when I squeeze my thighs together. The movement pushes me closer, and he starts to angle away, mumbling something about going home when I turn and reach up to stop him.

“Wait.”

He does, his whole body rigid. “You said you wanted to sleep.”

“I do.” Everything in me is saying I need to let him go, but I’m ignoring it. “Come here.” We’re nose to nose on my pillow, and I can see his features in the darkness, mouth set and eyes trained on mine. My fingers run a soft line over the shell of his ear, across his earlobe, and against the pulse point on his neck. His hands aren’t touching me, but I want them to, and I can’t stop hoping.

He gives a small smile. “It’s the tequila. It’ll pass.”

I blink and whisper that I’m not that drunk anymore, but he doesn’t seem to be buying it. Even though I’m terrified, I can’t ignore it anymore. He gets to me. Under my skin. I’ve been thinking about him, and I’m not supposed to. He’s here in my bed, and I’ve never been one to pass up a great opportunity. “Kiss me,” I whisper.

In the darkness, his eyes wander my face. I can feel his hesitation when I lay my fingers against his cheek, but when he lifts up the tiniest bit, I know he’s going to do it. He hovers over me and waits, like I’m going to say it’s a joke and he’s an idiot and he should get out my bed, but I don’t. When he’s convinced I mean it, he bows his head and does what I’ve asked.

Our lips meet, and I’m too fast, too aggressive, tasting his candy-flavored tongue and wrapping my hands around his neck. He breathes out, and I breathe in, and he’s finally touching me, one hand on my side and the other against my face. I want his weight. I want him higher or lower or just more. It elicits a short, high pitched sound when his palm tightens at my hip, and he pulls back like he’s touched something blue-flame hot.

“Stop, stop.” He’s breathing heavy and staring at me with the widest eyes, but I don’t want it to stop. I wrap my legs around his and try to angle upward, but he’s talking low and closing his eyes. The only thing I decipher is a quiet ‘what the fuck.’

“Be still,” he whispers, and I am, unsure and almost embarrassed. “Wait, Emily. Just hold on.” He licks his lips and backs up a little to press both palms against the skin that peeks out from between my tank top and underwear. He’s breathing heavy and running his fingers higher, covering my breasts before trailing down again. “Jesus.”

“What?” I’m shaking, wondering what he could be thinking when he leans down and kisses me again. There’s a sound from his mouth that makes every muscle in my body tense when the kiss deepens and his weight settles on me, hands pulling and reaching, trying to touch everywhere he can. He’s between my legs, and I’m wide open. Fuck being professional. I can’t do what’s right when he’s there and I can feel him between the cotton that separates me from what my entire body is craving.

My hands are in his hair, on his back, touching his spine until they brush the waistband of his boxers, and I lean up, my lips no longer on his. His kisses are soft and breathy against my neck and lower, hands slipping higher until his thumbs brush my nipples, palms curving to knead and squeeze. I’m pushing up to where he’s pressing down. Into his chest. Against the top of his boxers.

“Macy.”

His hips roll forward, and I’m breathless, arching to meet him. He rests his ear against my chest, and my heart is hammering under the weight, but I’m still pushing. I don’t want to ask. I just want him to do it. When he turns his lips to slide lower and replace his hands on my breasts, I can’t help but squeeze his flesh, digging into the top of his ass cheeks, pressing his dick against me again. My hips lift higher, and I can feel the tip against my entrance. The only thing stopping us from being together is the cotton barrier between us, but he pushes forward. I can feel it pressing into me, far enough to let me feel him.

“Mace.”

“Shh. Slow down.” His eyes reappear when he looks up at me from my chest, and he blinks away the expression on his face to replace it with a devious smile. “Let’s play a game.”

“What?”

He rolls into me once more, and I close my eyes, wanting, aching. “I bet you I can make you come without taking your clothes off.”

I’m anchored to him when he turns us so I’m on top, flush with his erection. His fingers dig into my sides, and he exhales whispered words I don’t get to hear. Splaying his open hand against my spine, he rocks into me, and I sink against him, pressing my mouth shut when his shaft is between my lips, against my clit, making me shake. Pushing up my tank top, he runs soft fingertips over my hard nipples and passes callused palms up to my neck to pull my face back to his.

We grind, and our hips roll, pulsing and pressing there. I want to feel more, so I reach between us and free him from his boxers, sitting up while I push them down, and he lifts to let me. He turns me onto my back, and I’m feeling, reaching, guiding him. He holds back and finds where I want him most, cups a palm over cotton, pressing with his fingers and palm in slow motion.

My back arches, and I can’t find my breath when he begins to press harder, move faster, his fingers relentless, circling and sliding over and over again in a perfect succession. He’s humming, and I can’t get a good grip on him as the heat and weight builds below my belly button until I want to close my legs. He holds me open, fingers higher and pelvis pulsing against my entrance until I can’t hold back any longer, losing my breath as I come.

He slows, his mouth on mine again before he drops his face to my ear and whispers, “I win.”

Opening my eyes to see his, I want to laugh, but I’m liquid beneath him and still trying to grip him with my fingers. Raising a hand to my mouth, I lick my palm and reach between us again, fingers wrapped as tightly as I can manage. I want to see him like he just saw me. After a few minutes, his mouth drops open, and he lets out a breathless gasp, spilling onto my stomach while I slow and finally still.

I want to stay there. I want him to hover over me and kiss me and let me touch him, but he shifts away, settling onto his back next to me, one arm over his stomach and the other across his eyes.

“I’m thirsty,” I whisper, because really there’s nothing else to say right now.

I stand at the kitchen counter and fill a glass, drinking the water slowly and feeling the gravity of what’s just occurred. The evidence is between my legs and on my stomach.

He’s still on the bed, staring at the ceiling when I pass by and mention that I need to clean up. I don’t know if he is expecting the water to run in the shower, but I’m sure it will give him ample time to grab his clothes and slip out the door, so I brace myself to walk back into an empty room.

Instead, he’s sitting up on my bed with his boxers on, staring at the map on the wall.

“What’s this?” he asks like nothing just happened, and a part of me is relieved. Another part feels a little wary.