More Than Him (16 page)

It was quiet for a while as we served up the food. After the first mouthful, I swear, my mouth orgasmed. I didn't even wait to swallow before announcing, "Holy fucking shit, this shit is good!"

"Logan Wilbur Matthews," Dad reprimanded.

Amanda's guffaw filled the room. "How funny," she said to herself, and then snorted. "Wilbur."

I was about to warn her not to tell anyone or I'd hunt her down and start making out with her in random places, but Dad spoke first. "You could've had Taco Casserole more often if you'd come back when you said you would."

Buzz. Fucking. Kill.

I sighed. I didn't want to get into it with him. Not now.

"Sorry," Dad mumbled. "I didn't mean for that to come out the way it did.

My shoulders lifted, but I stayed quiet. I reached out for my drink, but my hand trembled. I watched as it attempted to pick up the glass.

"Logan." His voice was strained. "I thought it was getting better."

I didn't speak, just concentrated on my dry mouth and the need for some form of liquid. I gripped the glass, but my hand hadn't improved. A small amount of soda tipped over the lip and onto the table. I cursed under my breath.

I felt her hand first; it brushed against my forearm, then her fingers second, as they slowly linked with mine.

I turned to face her but she was looking at our hands, her lips turned down into a frown.

In my head, I counted the seconds it took before the shaking stopped. It wouldn't take long. It never did when she was comforting me.

One.

Two.

Then her head raised and our eyes locked. "Taco Casserole is pretty amazing," she declared. Her smile was genuine. It wasn't pity. It wasn't forced.

I unlinked our fingers to take the drink. No spillage this time. I thought she'd move her hand away once I'd separated them, but she left it there, palm up, waiting. I didn't hesitate for a second.

She tried to continue eating with her left hand, but it was clearly a struggle. I laughed quietly as I watched her. She glared at me, but a smile played on her lips. She huffed out, as if annoyed, then placed my hand on her leg and released it.

I could feel the warmth of her skin through the material of her dress. I think I moaned; I'm not sure, but she giggled quietly. Then Dad cleared his throat. I'd forgotten he was here.

He stood up, dramatically. "I'm tired," he announced. "I'm going to bed. You should show Amanda your old room and those posters of 50 Cent."

Then he was gone.

"50 cent?" She laughed.

I didn't even care. I just wanted to hear her laugh.

15

Amanda

"Why are you blushing?" I asked him.

He laughed. "I'm about to show you my room from when I was fifteen."

"Do you have pictures of naked ladies?" I teased.

"Honestly?" He put his hand on the handle and pushed down. "Most likely."

He swung the door open and I stepped in. "Well," I told him. "This is a total anti-climax. It's just an average teenage boy’s room."

"Sorry to disappoint you."

I walked around, looking for something I could make fun of, but there was nothing. Apart from the posters of rappers that were cool more than ten years ago, there wasn't much at all. Surely he had a porn stash. What fifteen-year-old boy didn't?

I walked to his bed and checked under it. Nothing.

"What are you doing?" He followed and looked under it himself.

I went to his nightstand and opened the drawer. Nothing.

"Hmm." I tapped my lip with my index finger. "If I was Logan Matthew’s porn collection, where would I hide?"

His laughter filled the room.

I stepped towards his walk-in closet.

"Where are you going?" He blocked me, with a panicked look on his face. One step closer and we'd be chest to chest.

I shrugged. "I told you, searching for your porn collection."

He let me pass. I turned the light on in the small room and looked around. He chewed his lip, his hands going in his pockets.

And then I saw it: a box on the top shelf. I smirked at him. He shook his head. A blush crept to his cheeks.

"Busted," I told him.

I got on my toes and tried to reach for it.

I sensed him before I felt him. The warmth of his hard chest against my back made me tense. "It's not what you think it is." His voice was hoarse.

"Yeah?" I asked, hoping my nerves didn't show. When any part of us connected, it was more than just physical. Or even emotional. It was a collision of comfort and unease. Gut-wrenching and heartwarming. He did this to me.
We
did this to each other. "So, what is it then?"

I heard his shaky breath against my ear. Then his hand settled on my hip as he pressed into me. I let out a moan. It had been a year since I’d felt a guy like this. This close.
This hard
. He reached up with his spare hand and pulled down the box. Then, with the hand still on my hip, he guided me to turn around. He didn't step back and away from me; in fact, he moved closer, and closer, until my body was up against the wall under the shelf. He pulled back slightly, his arm raised, gripping the bar above my head. There were no hangers on it, no clothes; the small space was empty, apart from a few boxes on the floor against the walls. The sleeve of his shirt bunched together, allowing me to see his tattoo again.

"Amanda," he whispered, then opened the box between us. Inside were dozens of pendant glass vials, like the one he’d given me that day in the rain. The day he’d promised me that we would make new memories, ones that I wasn't afraid of. He said that we'd be amazing. We really could have been.

My hand reached in for one. Each vile was in a ziplock bag with a date and location handwritten. "Every time it rained, I thought of you." He sniffed one. My eyes lifted to his. "I wanted to send you these, but I just—I don't know . . ."

"There's so many in here."

He nodded. "There are four more boxes."

"Why?"

"For the same reason you came here every other week. It made me feel closer to you. It made me miss you less."

"Why didn't you just come home then?"

He placed the box back on the shelf, and pressed his body against me. "Because I'm a coward. And an asshole. And I don't deserve to have you in my life, let alone here, in my room."

Wrapping his hand around my neck, he brought me closer to him. "Don't you dare kiss me," I told him. I wasn't ready for it. Not yet. But soon. Maybe once my head was out of the clouds and my heart could handle it.

"Okay," he agreed. Then leaned in close and brushed my lips with his.

"What are you doing?" I whispered against them. I didn't pull back. I let my heart control my head, which made my actions confusing.

"Not kissing you," he confirmed. He moved his lips away from mine, trailed them up my jaw and to my ear. He nibbled gently, just underneath it. Then his lips parted and his tongue darted out, as he moved down my neck, so fucking slowly. He paused on my shoulder, moving the strap of my dress to the side, and his teeth skimmed along my skin.

My hands flattened on his stomach. I could feel the dips of his muscles. "You said you wouldn't kiss me," I breathed out.

"I'm not." His mouth never left my shoulder.

"So what are you doing?" My voice was strained. My breathing was heavy. I squeezed my legs together.

He pulled away and looked into my eyes. "Remembering you."

My head flung back and hit the wall behind me. I heard him moan from deep in his throat, just before I felt his mouth on my neck, his tongue flicking slowly, gently against my throat. "Oh my God." I sighed. My hands moved lower on him. I couldn't control them, even if I’d tried. They passed the band of his shorts and brushed against his hard-on.

He groaned into my neck, vibrating my skin. I felt it all the way in my core.

My body felt like it was on fire, ready to combust. He removed the other strap from my shoulder and licked and sucked there, right before his hand gripped the side of my chest. His thumb skimmed across my already strained nipple. He placed his knee between my legs and separated them. It was too much. Too many things happening at once. His thumb on my nipple, his mouth on my skin, and his legs between mine—I couldn't take much more.

He pulled away abruptly, and I almost felt grateful. But he just looked at me; his eyes were the darkest I'd ever seen them. They seemed to widen slightly, like something had just dawned on him.

"Fuck," he spat through clenched teeth. I could feel the material of my dress shifting against my breasts with each breath. His eyes zoned in on my chest. In a flash, he'd removed the straps from my arms and was standing there, studying me, as if wondering what to do next. He smirked slightly. His next action had been decided. And then he did it. He yanked my dress down, just enough so that my breasts were free. His breathing was so heavy, so short. He was panting. He rubbed his hand against his dick, just once. But the image of it was enough to drive me insane.

Then his hands held mine, pulling them away from him and raising them above my head. His mouth was still on my neck, licking, sucking. I felt him everywhere. He shifted my hands until they gripped the bar above me. "Keep them there."

And then he moved.

The instant his mouth covered my nipple, my grip on the bar tightened. I cried out in pleasure. But it wasn't enough, not for him. He spread my legs—with his hand this time. I felt his fingers skim my folds through my panties. I could've come. If I wasn't so embarrassed about how wet I was—I would have.

He switched breasts, making sure they both got the same attention. My arms were still raised, gripped tight against the cold metal. Somehow, without me realizing, my hips were moving. His hand on me, moving ever so slightly, just enough that my clit could feel the friction of his palm.

Then his tongue on my breast stopped moving. I thought we were done. But he sucked on it.

Hard.

I was too consumed with the pleasure of his mouth that I didn't even know how or when it happened. I felt the cold air on my wet sex and my panties around my ankles. He started on the outside, fingering and spreading my wetness, making circles around my nub. One finger slid in and out, replaced my two. He started moving them, slowly.

I got lost in the fog of his actions. I wanted to touch him. I wanted him to feel as good as I felt. "You're so fucking wet." He watched my face as his flattened tongue moved from one nipple to the other.

"I want to touch you," I told him.

"No."

"Please," I begged.

His fingers moved faster, harder, more determined. I felt myself building. I wanted to hold out. It was too soon. I wanted to feel this intensity longer. I'd started thrusting into his hand. It'd only been seconds, not even minutes. There was no slow build-up, no warning. His fingers, his mouth—all of him—were so determined to make me feel. To make me want. To make me his.

And I was. Whether he was around to know it or feel it.

I was always his.

Three years ago to the day—on our very first date—I became his.

His fingers took up a rhythm. He knew I was close. "Baby," he murmured. My legs squeezed tight around his hand and-

"Oh my God," I moaned. I repeated the words over and over as his movements slowed and my vision cleared. When my breathing settled I opened my eyes, just as he reached into his shorts to adjust himself. I went weak at the knees. I let go of the bar and slid down the wall until my ass hit the floor. "Holy shit." My body was still trembling with the aftermath of the most intense orgasm I'd ever had. My head felt heavy, so heavy. I could barely lift it to see his reaction. He smirked, right before he walked out of the tiny space in the closet. A second later, I heard the stream of water turn on from a shower.

16

Amanda

I sat on his bed and waited while he was in his bathroom. He came out and paused mid-step when he saw me. I wasn't sure why; I didn't know what he was expecting.

"Hey," he said quietly, taking a seat next to me.

I looked at the floor, feeling a little awkward. "Hey."

"I thought for sure you'd bail."

The thought hadn't even crossed my mind. I turned to face him, but his gaze was focused off in the distance. "M . . . maybe I should go."

His eyes darted to me. "What? No." He stood up. "I mean—of course if you have to—but I don't want you to." He cursed under his breath, and started pacing the floor. "I wanted to ask you to stay with me tonight . . . if you wanted to."

"I don't—"

He cut in. "Of course you don't want to. I'm an idiot—"

I got to my feet and stood in front of him. "I was just going to say that I don't have anything to wear."

"Oh." A small smile appeared. "That's it?"

I nodded. My own smile matched his.

"Easy fix," he announced. He led me to the bathroom, shrugged out of his shirt and handed it to me.

When I returned, he was lying in bed with his hands behind his head, waiting for me. I didn't know what we were doing. I don't think he did, either. We didn't discuss it; maybe if we did it would have ruined the moment.

He put his arm out for me, like he used to do every night. I could see the tattoo on it so clearly. I lay down next to him and rested my head where he wanted it. His hand began playing with my hair. "Mm," I hummed. It was so familiar. So perfect. I moved closer and nuzzled into his neck. My leg covered his. I placed my hand over his heart; I could feel it pounding through his chest.

All of a sudden, I was crying. I wasn't sobbing or weeping but the tears fell silently onto his shoulder. His heart thumped faster, harder. "It's going to be okay, Amanda." He kissed my head. "I promise," he said. "I'm going to make it okay."

I let out a small sob. He had no idea. It wasn't up to him to make things right. We were both to blame. It wasn't just him. It was me, too.