Escape In You (15 page)

It’s just too much; too much fear and stress and worry. I can’t even enjoy the good days because they only put everything into stark perspective for me. The rush of excitement that I feel knowing my mom had stayed out of bed all day is all the evidence I need to prove that things are really messed up around here. I’m freaking happy that she managed to make her own damn tea—how pathetic is that? How bad are things when something so insignificant can make me feel so happy?

Pretty damn bad.

I jump up from the couch. I have to get out of here. I’m going to lose it soon. All I want is to sneak into her room, climb into bed with her like I did when I was little, and beg her to be okay. Beg her to comfort me and care for me. I’m tired of being the strong one, the one who takes care of her. I’ve been doing it for years now, and I am so
fucking
tired of it. I want someone to take care of me for a change. Is that so wrong?

I’m out of the house and on my way to Taylor’s before I even realize what I’m doing. It’s cooled down even more in the past two hours, and the fresh air clears my head, wiping away the remains of my earlier Jack-induced headache. I know I’m being ridiculous, know I just left Taylor’s and he will probably think I’m a crazy person when I show up again. I should just go home and be happy that things are looking up.

But I can’t.

When I get to his house, I pause at the door to his apartment. I probably should have called first. It’s not exceptionally late, only ten-thirty or so, but what if he isn’t in the mood for company? The guy spent his afternoon watching me get wasted and puke in the bushes before having to put my drunk ass to bed. He could very well have had enough of me for one day—or longer.

Feeling stupid, I take out my phone and call him. He picks up on the second ring. “Hey, baby,” he says, his voice low and flirtatious. “You didn't call when you got home. I was getting worried.” I expect his voice to calm me, but it doesn’t. I’m still keyed up, scared out of my mind.

“Hey,” I say. “What are you doing?”

“Painting. What are you doing?”

Damn. He’s working. I should totally not be here right now. I start to back away. “Not much. Just thought I’d say good night.”

In the yard next door a patio light flicks on, and a dog barks, loudly. There’s a pause.

“Are you here?” Taylor asks.

“Um…”

“I can hear the Goodwin’s dog over the phone.” The garage light flicks on, and I look up to see his face in the window. “You came back. Why didn't you say?”

“I didn't want to interrupt your work.”

“Whatever. I’ll be right down.”

I slip my phone back into my purse, feeling ridiculous. The feeling intensifies when I see his eyes. He’s clearly concerned about me, peering into my face in the light from the garage as if looking for clues to my well-being. “You okay? It freaked me out when I woke up and you were gone.”

“Sorry. I was feeling kind of sick, still. Thought I should just get out of there into the fresh air.”

“But you missed me.” He smiles. “That’s why you came back, right? You realized your massive mistake in walking away from me and can't wait to get me back into your arms?”

Tonight his teasing doesn’t relax or amuse me. I smile as sincerely as I can and look past him to the stairs. “Can we go in? The light’s attracting bugs.”

“Sure.” He’s looking at me in that concerned way again, so I turn my face from his and wait for him to head up the stairs so I can follow.

Up in the apartment he turns to face me. I know he’s going to pull me into his arms, and I duck away at the last minute, not sure I can handle his kindness right now.

“What do you have to drink up here?” I ask, rubbing my arms. That tingling, itchy feeling I get when panicked hasn’t gone away yet, despite my distance from the house. Taylor rakes his hands over his face.

“I still feel shitty from this afternoon,” he says before sighing. “And you were in much worse shape than me. Do you really want to drink again?”

A wave of hot shame washes over me. Even though this is Taylor of all people, I feel embarrassed. Judged. Like there’s something wrong with me, like I’m pathetic. Weak.

Then he takes my hands in his, bending slightly so that our faces are level. “Usually, when I just need to escape from it all for a while, it helps to just be with you,” he says. He grins before his face turns serious again. “You take the edge off, babe. That’s probably the cheesiest thing I’ve ever said in my life, but it’s true.”

I stare into his face, stunned. Just like that the thread of guilt and worry that was tying me to the house seems to snap, freeing me. I’m here with Taylor, really here with him, and that’s all I care about.

His continues to stare at me, his eyes intense and dark and oh so gorgeous. My heart is beating hard, and I have to remind myself to breathe. It’s unbelievable, really, that he would say something like that about me. Like I’m important to him, or something. How could that be true?

He tugs on my hands, pulling me closer to him so our chests are nearly touching. “I usually escape in whiskey, Zoe, when things really suck. Which is pretty much all the time. I think you do that, too.”

I nod, silent, and his eyes soften slightly. “Well, tonight I want to try something different. I want to escape in
you
.”

I’m kissing him before he’s even done talking. As his lips part against mine, I know he’s right, so right. I want to escape in him, too. In his lips, in his touch. He’s exactly what I need, the only thing I need.

He pulls me over to the couch, and we’re stumbling, falling, neither one of us willing to let go for even a second. He stretches out on the cushions, my body flush on top of his, holding me tight. His hands are everywhere, his mouth hot and hard against mine, his tongue coaxing open my mouth. My skin is already on fire. He barely has to touch me to make me come alive, and he sure as hell is touching me now.

There’s too much clothing between us. I pull back so I can yank at the hem of his shirt, and he gets the point, sitting up so he can slip it off in one smooth, fluid movement. God, the sight of his body. His skin is so brown now, and I vaguely recall that he’d taken his shirt off during the game. I must have been in pretty shitty shape for that not to have made a bigger impression. I feel bad again, just for a second, but then I notice how his tattoos are vivid against his tan and, just like that, I’m back in the moment. He’s all muscle and tightness, smooth skin and color.

I want him so bad.

I push him back into the cushions so he’s lying down and, straddle him. His eyes widen slightly as I sit up, and, before I can get scared or change my mind, I grasp the hem of my own shirt to take it off. His hands still me.

“Let me,” he says. His voice is low and sexy, and it makes me shiver. “Please.”

I nod, and he sits up, pulling me lower on his lap. Slowly, he lifts the hem of my t-shirt, bringing it up over my head. I raise my arms, and he pulls my shirt free. I shiver again when the air hits my heated skin.

“Zoe.
God
.”

The look in Taylor’s eyes makes me blush, which is silly. It’s not like this is new territory for me. But it
feels
new. It feels like no one has ever seen me this way, like no one has ever looked at me with so much desire and…something more. Understanding? It’s like Taylor really
looks
at me, looks at
all
of me, like he sees more than anyone else does.

Wanting nothing more than to see that look in his eyes forever, I reach behind me and unhook my bra, letting the straps fall around my shoulders. His sudden intake of breath brings a smile to my face, but then he’s kissing me again, and I can’t remember why I was amused. I can barely remember my own
name
. The feel of his skin against mine is almost more than I can bear. He stands suddenly, bringing me with him. I wrap my legs tightly around his middle as he walks, our lips never parting.

I marvel at how strong he is. His shoulders are taut, his biceps straining under his ink as he kicks open the door of his bedroom and carries me to the bed. He rests his head against mine and his breath comes shaky and fast. “Are you okay?” he asks, and my heart softens at his consideration. God, I’m turning into such a girl. I just nod, but still he watches my face.

“I want you, Zoe. I really want you. But if you’re not ready—”

“I’m ready,” I say quickly. If he doesn’t get my pants off soon I’m going to implode.

“Are you sure?”

“Taylor,” I say firmly, “it’s nice of you to be a gentleman and everything, but my God, man, get a move on.”

He throws his head back and laughs. His chest vibrates against mine, and I’m fascinated by the tendons standing out in his neck. I indulge my urge to taste them, running my tongue over his skin. He hisses and drops me to the bed. I bounce a little on the mattress, laughing, but then he joins me and the urge to laugh vanishes.

I try to memorize every moment of it, the way his fingertips trace my collarbones before dipping down to my breasts, the pads of his thumbs brushing against my hardened nipples until I’m writhing and mindless on the bed. The way his lips feel on every inch of my skin, kissing and teasing and nipping at me. The groan that comes from deep in his throat when I slip my hand into his boxers.

He gets my pants off remarkably fast after that, and my underwear soon follows. Hazily I try to remember which ones I was wearing, whether they were pretty and matched my bra, but I decide that neither of us probably cares. And then his fingers are trailing between my thighs, gently moving them apart, and I lose all ability to think.

All I’m aware of is heat. Heat where his fingers brush against my core. Heat where his lips touch my breast. Heat against my fingers, too, as I take him in my hand, helping him with the condom. And all the while his eyes are on mine, dark and deliciously intense, watching me like he can’t bear to look away.

When he finally moves in me, it’s all I can do to keep from laughing in delight. How had I ever thought what I had with those other guys was worth anything at all? I’d been a fool. They were nothing like this, nothing. Not even close to this, to Taylor. I feel like I’m melting and flying and breaking and dying all at the same time.

“Taylor,” I whisper as I start to come apart. “Please.” Struck with the certainty that I’m about to fall, I wrap my arms and legs around him as tightly as I can.

“Yes,” he says. He’s kissing my eyelids, my cheeks, my neck, my lips. “
Yes
, Zoe.” He says my name like it’s sacred, like it’s the only thing he has to hold onto. As if he can save himself, keep himself from falling just by repeating it. “
Zoe
.”

I close my eyes and follow him over the edge.

Chapter Thirteen

Taylor

I spend the next week in a Zoe-induced sex coma.

I sure as hell am not complaining. Nothing in my life has ever felt so good, so completely right, as having her in my arms. Or in my bed. I do everything I can to make sure that happens as often as possible, using any excuse to get her into my apartment. I tempt her with movies she likes and promises of new paintings for her to check out. I even cook for her a few times, that’s how bad I have it. The look on her face when she sees me turning bacon makes it worthwhile, though—and the way she thanks me with her warm little lips is the icing on the cake.

If I really think about it, I know I will freak out. It’s too much and way too fast, the way I feel about her. I’m not this guy—the type a girl like Zoe deserves and can count on. I’m not even capable of
attempting
to be this guy. I’m terrified I’ll screw it up—and I’m sure I will eventually—and she’ll leave. Or, worse, she’ll realize how freaking crazy I am about her, and she’ll bolt. She told me from the start that she doesn't believe in fairytales or happy endings. What would she do if she knew the things I was thinking about her, if she knew I was thinking about our future together?

And then there’s that—our future. It’s not worth thinking about because I don’t have one. I’m stuck right here, trapped in this fucking apartment where I can keep an eye on the woman who hates me so much she can barely stand to look at me. My life is a mess, a hopeless mess, and dragging Zoe into it is probably the most selfish thing I’ve ever done. And the fact that I can’t make myself care just proves my mother right, doesn’t it?

So I don’t think about all of that. Instead, I just enjoy her as much as I possibly can for as long as I possibly can.

We’re spending almost every night together now. Even when she says she needs to go home to help her mom she inevitably comes back to my place sometime after dark. I hate that she’s walking here on her own, and I beg her to just call me to come get her. But still she shows up. I promise myself to do something about transportation for her as soon as I possibly can.

Sometimes, when she shows up in the middle of the night, I can tell she’s been crying. Other times she’s breathing heavy, as if she ran the whole way. She never tells me what’s going on at home, what causes her to take off in the middle of the night. That her step-dad might be involved fills me with a rage so intense I actually scare myself.

She notices one night. She’d let herself in around midnight—I’d told her about the secret key after the first time she’d showed up so late—and her eyes were red with tears. She won’t tell me what happened, will only say that she’s fine, and it makes my hands shake with rage. So she holds them and kisses my palms until I feel better—then she kisses the rest of me, her lips and her eager little fingers making me forget why I was upset in the first place. It isn’t until an hour later, when we’re curled up, naked under my sheets, that she brings it up.

“Your hands shake,” she says, her voice free of question or judgment, like she’s commenting on the color of my curtains or something. “When you get upset.”

I exhale, my hands clenching a little against her bare stomach. I try to relax. “Yeah. That’s usually one of the signs I’m going to lose it.”

She turns in my arms so that she’s facing me. I’m momentarily distracted by her breasts. The way she’s lying pushes them together, her cleavage peeking out at me from under the thin sheet. I have to swallow heavily to get myself under control. It doesn’t matter that we made love less than fifteen minutes ago—it’s never enough.