Icing on the Cake (Close to Home) (19 page)

He’d stroked her hair and spine the way he knew she liked. Once she’d relaxed, he’d moved to kissing, starting at her shapely calves and working his way up. He’d pushed her legs apart, nice and wide. Jesus, what a sight she’d made. He’d crouched behind her, spreading her cheeks and licking her everywhere, every way, taking her to the edge of climax. Then he’d stood and graced her sexy, round ass with a heavy smack. One that stung his palm. A hard enough spank to make her jerk away—not that she had anywhere to go.

Over and over, he’d repeated those things, until she was begging—truly begging—to come. But he’d kept going, teasing her to the fringes of orgasm but never letting her get there. Not until her ass was a pretty pink and his cock threatened to push through his zipper to get at her.

Between every touch, lick and spank, he’d told her how beautiful she was. How smart, strong and important she was. He’d told her that she belonged to him. That even when he untied her, he wouldn’t let her get away.

When he’d fucked her, finally, it’d been the most intense sensation of his entire goddamn life. With her spicy-sweet taste on his tongue, the scent of her perfume in his nose, and the sound of her sexy fucking moaning filling his head, he’d been practically high. When she’d come around him, so hot and tight and endless, he’d had no choice but to join her.

He’d come for what felt like forever. Then he’d collapsed on her back with his teeth clamped around her soft skin.

She’d wanted to forget who she was, but in taking her there, he’d forgotten himself as well. All he’d been able to think of, to feel, was
them
. Together.

Her belongings in his bathroom didn’t freak him out, but that sure as hell had. She’d fallen asleep in his arms almost immediately, a whispered “thank you” the last thing to slip from her lips.

Sleep hadn’t claimed him. Not even close. His brain had refused to shut down. Questions about Sara, about the feelings rolling around in his head and chest, had kept him wide-fucking-awake. The state he was in right now, still.

“What the hell does this shit mean?” His reflection stared back in silence. Useless bastard.

He splashed water on his face, killed the light and headed to the living room. The lofts in this renovated shoe factory had tons of character but not tons of space. His single, small bedroom sat directly behind the living room. Since it didn’t have a window of its own, both walls opened on the corner to receive natural light from the living-room windows. Didn’t make for the most private bedroom, but he’d never had to worry about that before.

He slid the pocket doors shut as quietly as possible. His options were still limited. The bedroom walls only went up nine feet, not the full thirteen to the ceiling. Watching TV was out. Sara’s library book and laptop sat on the coffee table. Reading had never really been his thing. Neither was surfing the internet. Had to do something to get his brain off its singular track though.

He leaned forward and snagged her laptop. Easier than getting up to retrieve his from the cabinet, and right now, he needed easy. He’d have to keep the speakers muted, but at least he could watch some sports reels. Didn’t need sound for those, even if he did enjoy hearing the crack of the bat during the home-run highlights.

The screen illuminated as the computer did the typical waking-up routine. The desktop background changed from the standard-issue green welcome screen to a family portrait. Not with Nia, Peter and Meredith though. A little girl smiled at him from the display. So did the adults whose hands she held. If he had any doubt about the child’s identity, he had only to look at the little girl’s mother. Sara’s family shared some strong genes.

Even with the uncanny likeness to her mother, Curtis could see a resemblance to her father as well. All three had dark hair. Sara had her mother’s bone structure, body type and facial features, but she’d inherited her incredible amber eyes from her father. They’d been a beautiful family.

The image faded out, replaced by one of Zeus licking Sara’s cheek. A string of drool dangled from Zeus’ mouth. Sara had a big, open-mouthed smile, the kind she got while laughing. Nia had probably snapped this picture. It was a great shot. Happy in an entirely different way from the previous image.

Curtis settled in against the couch cushions and let the slideshow play through. Had to be forty or fifty pictures before it returned to the beginning of the cycle.

Sara avoided conversation about her life and the past. When she did talk, her comments tended to be joking things off as lame or highlighting the many ways she’d screwed things up. Sometimes both at once. A
fuck it all, none of it really matters
façade. The slideshow she’d assembled on her laptop told a different story.

Behind Sara’s walls lived a sentimental woman. Not news to him. Her ringtone was an old song her dad—her first dad, Ray—had sung to her as a little girl. And Curtis had been with her the morning of Nia and Conn’s wedding—he’d seen her distress over the mix-up about the ring, her horror at having lost Zeus. He’d heard her very real, from-the-heart speech at the reception.

Her car was another example. In one of her less-guarded moments, she’d explained why its upkeep took priority over her monthly bills. The Trans Am had belonged to Ray originally. The fire that had stolen Sara’s parents had burned the Robinson house nearly to the ground, but hadn’t reached the detached garage. Peter had stored and maintained Ray’s prized Trans Am until Sara was old enough to manage the expense of owning it. Her attachment to that car was incredibly, understandably personal.

She had all these damn layers. All he wanted to do was peel them away. Not stop until she’d let him in, all the way to her core.

Shit, he needed to stop thinking. Especially if he wanted even a sliver of sleep tonight. Next stop—sports. He dragged his finger over the mouse pad, guiding the cursor to the tray at the bottom of the screen. As he hovered over the internet symbol, his eyes shifted across the row. Highlight surrounded one icon—she’d left a document open. None of his business. Invasion of privacy. He plain-old shouldn’t bloody care. So many reasons he should ignore it.

Instead, he clicked. The document expanded and the onscreen page filled with words. This wasn’t a budget file or a to-do list. It was a story. One with Sara’s name at the top of the document.

He scrolled up, then up a whole lot more. Dozens of pages whipped by before he reached the beginning.

The counselor had told her the dreams were a coping mechanism. One of the ways the brain managed grief caused by a profound loss. What did the shrink know about profound loss? Zero, that’s what. The woman had a husband, two kids and
her
parents were still alive.

Amara knew this because she’d asked, point blank. She gave the woman credit for being honest. But with that honesty came another truth—the counselor she’d been stuck visiting every week for the past year knew nothing about how grief really felt.

As for the dreams…maybe they were just products of her imagination. Wishful thinking, nothing more. Or maybe Amara’s gut and heart were right and there was more to them.

The shrink had suggested Amara slept a lot to avoid the reality of a world without her parents. The woman had it backward. Amara slept to visit another reality, the one where her parents lived now. One she longed to join.

Curtis closed the laptop at the sound of shuffling and murmurs beyond the bedroom door. His temples throbbed and sweat dampened his brow. Symptoms of a guilty conscience, oh hell yeah. He wasn’t reading Sara’s journal, but goddamn close.

She’d joked it off the night he’d suggested she use the sexy stuff in her brain to write a story. Redirected the subject, more accurately. She hadn’t given him the slightest clue she already wrote stories based on the
other
stuff in her head. Since this file had almost two hundred single-spaced pages, she’d been at it for a while.

He sat motionless in the semi-dark. A perp waiting to see if he’d get caught red-handed. The bedroom doors didn’t slide open. No more sleepy noises escaped the small gap he’d left rather than click the doors completely closed. He was in the clear.

He opened the laptop again. A couple clicks and the document would be the way he’d found it. That would be the right thing to do.

But not what he did.

*

“Hey,” Curtis said as he joined Sara in the kitchen. Good thing he had exhaustion to blame for his half-closed eyelids, because he couldn’t meet her eyes full-on. Not after what he’d done.

“Dude, you look like the walking dead.”

Dude.
He chuckled, internally enjoying the subtle affection of the term as he slid onto a stool at the breakfast bar. “You look the opposite. And you’re cooking, which makes you even sexier.”

“No need to butter me up, I’m making enough for both of us.”

“Good. I’d hate to eat in front of you.”

“Zombie man still has his sense of humor.” She filled a mug with coffee, added a quick pour of milk to cool it off—just the way he liked it—and slid the cup across to him. “What did you do after I zonked, lace up and take one of your crazy ten-kilometer runs in the middle of the night?” She raised her hands before he could respond. “Never mind. None of my business.”

Oh man, did she ever have that one wrong. “No run this time. But I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d cruise the internet for sports highlights until the adrenaline from fucking you dropped off. After that, time got away from me.” The truth, minus a few key details in the middle.

“I’d say I’m sorry for keeping you up, but that’d be a lie.”

The coffee he’d just sipped curdled in his stomach. Truth. Lies. The massive gray area between the two that both of them seemed to negotiate so well. Shit.

He pushed the hard-thinking stuff to the back of his mind. “Never be sorry for keeping me up.” He reached across and caught one of her hands, gently brushing his thumb over the faint rope-burn line circling her wrist. “I’m not sorry about this. These bracelets will let those meatheads ogling you at the front desk know you already have a workout partner.”

She jerked her hand away. The relaxed stance and smile vanished, replaced by shuttered eyes and tense posture. Any hope he’d had of luring her into a conversation that might lead to the topic of her writing habit disappeared behind her walls.

She turned her back to him, furiously divvying up eggs and bacon.

“Thanks,” he said when she passed him a plate. “This is amazing.”

“Don’t get used to it. I’m looking at rentals later. Immediate occupancy, so I’ll be gone sooner rather than later.”

“There’s no rush. You don’t have to jump at the first thing you see.”

She stared at him over her plate of scrambled eggs. “I wouldn’t still be here if you hadn’t threatened to tell Conn about the stupid spray paint on my door.”

Probably true—which is more than he could say for her feelings about the message that’d brought her here. “And if the spray paint on your door was really no big deal, like you keep saying, you wouldn’t care about your sister finding out.”

As any kitten whose tail has been pulled would do, Sara shot up from her stool. “You think you know everything, don’t you?”

“Fuck no.” He pushed his half-finished food aside and joined her in standoff mode. “If I knew everything—hell, if I knew even a fraction of everything—I’d know why you’re working a job you despise when you could be doing something way more fulfilling.”

She laughed, sharp and shallow. A mockery of humor, and of him. “Right. Because a college dropout with a criminal record has
so
many options for career fulfillment.”

He ground his teeth together. Hard as necessary to keep the words he wanted to say from escaping. If he told her he’d read her book, especially while she was in this mood, he’d never see her again. Of that much he was certain.

“I’m done with this.” In typical Sara style, she walked away.

Done with breakfast, talking, or done with their relationship—if you could call it that—only Sara knew what her semi-threat meant.

Curtis wasn’t about to ask for clarification. He was done too. Done with her evasive answers about everything. Done with her aggressive defensiveness and not having a goddamn clue what’d set her off.

He grabbed his gym bag from the entryway and threw on some shorts, a sleeveless tee and his running shoes. She reappeared from the bedroom, eyeing him up and down on her way to the door. Perfect. Let her believe he was heading out to log some kilometers. He’d be doing exactly that—from behind the steering wheel. Sara didn’t know it, but they were about to spend the morning together.

*

Sara took a parking spot near the door. As soon as her boss had discovered the classic Trans Am in the back lot belonged to her, she’d insisted Sara move it—and always park it—around front.

“That a man’s car,” Nuwa had said. “People see that car parked in front of Lucky’s, they think some big strong stud inside getting VIP massage from my girls. Good for business, that car.”

Nuwa Lee didn’t have a subtle bone in her slim body. She saw the world through entrepreneurial eyes, everything in terms of the dollar. She didn’t ask nicely and she didn’t take no for an answer.

So out front it was. Sara’s chest constricted every day she had to park beneath the
Lucky’s Healthy Life Massage
sign. Partially because her dad would roll over in his grave if he knew his prized vehicle had become a pawn to draw men to a massage parlor. Mainly, though, because parking in plain view meant anybody could see her car. And there weren’t a lot of red 1980 Trans Ams rolling around anymore.

Lucky’s was in an industrial park. Not an area the average person generally traveled, but if Conn or Nia—and now Curtis—ever chanced by this place while her car was here…

She pulled out the paper lunch bag she kept beneath the seat and breathed into it. She had no idea if this trick had scientific merit, or if it was age-old bullshit. Either way, it worked every time she used it. Not coincidentally, that was every time she parked in front of this damn building.