Restore Me (12 page)

I suck the tip of him into my mouth and take him
as deep as I can manage. The head of his cock butts against the
back of my throat with each pass. He whimpers and his hands move to
cup my head, his fingers tangling into my hair. His skin is silky
soft against my tongue and I take my time exploring every ridge and
vein of his cock. The feel and taste of him on my tongue is a heady
combination that has me aching to be filled. He thrusts his hips
and I take as much of him as I can, stopping every once in a while
to look up at him. Apparently the sight of a girl on her knees
sucking cock is even better when she makes eye contact, because as
soon as I do, he sucks in a breath through gritted teeth. His body
tenses and he tugs my hair. With a jerk and a guttural moan, he
comes deep in my throat. I’m pleased with myself as I swallow every
drop and take my sweet time licking him clean.

“Come here,” he orders. His cheeks are stained
pink and he’s breathing hard and fast.

I comply, standing slowly and stretching
languorously before climbing on top of him. My opening hovers just
over his still erect cock.

He grips my chin between his thumb and
forefinger. “Next time you say something about
Handy Andy
,
just remember whose cock has claimed that filthy mouth of yours.”
His words have me even hotter for him and before I can say a word,
he positions himself at my wet opening and pulls me down on him.
The exquisite feel of him driving deep into me, inch by velvety
inch, steals my breath.

“Now, get yourself off.” He interlocks his
fingers behind his head and watches me with heavy eyes.

I glance down at our connection, watching his
cock disappear over and over into my body. It’s fucking perfect. My
body accepts him so readily. I press my hand to my lower stomach,
reveling in the feeling of physical completeness. His eyes follow
my hand to my stomach then come back to meet mine. I grind my hips
into his then begin to move up and down. I lean forward to grip the
back of the couch, rubbing my clit gloriously against him. Damon’s
hands go to my breasts, squeezing them almost painfully and
tweaking my nipples. He leans forward to suck them and it sends a
zap through me, making me grind harder on him. I moan as I approach
release.

“Don’t stop,” he growls through gritted teeth,
burying his face between my breasts. “Please. Don’t stop!”

A momentous surge of energy rips through me,
stealing my breath as it goes. I throw my head back in ecstasy.
“Fuck!” I cry out, my body clenching around his length over and
over. I ride out my orgasm for everything its worth.

Damon’s hands go to my hips. His fingers dig in
as he makes another hard thrust and then comes apart. I feel him
jolt as he empties himself deep within me again.
God, he’s
amazing.

“Look at me.” He grips my jaw, forcing me to
look him in the eyes before I’ve recovered. “No games.”

I nod, knowing full well what he means. “If you
fucked her, I don’t want to see her around. At all.”

He taps my hip with his hand. It’s my cue to get
off of him.
So much for that moment.
I ease him out of me
and get to my feet. Damon stands up and tucks himself in his pants
and gets zipped up.

“It was one time and it doesn’t matter. Tell
Brian to help you find another designer, if you want, but I won’t
discuss it anymore. And I don’t want you going near that asshole
Andy again.” He points his finger at me like its fucking
loaded.

Cold and uninviting Zombie Damon is reemerging.
He’s damn good at making me feel used. We just had sex. Amazing
sex. He came twice, for crying out loud. That’s practically unheard
of for a guy. And already he’s acting like it was nothing. Like I’m
nothing. I’m fucking sick of it.

I snatch up my clothes from the floor and hold
them protectively in front of my chest. “You know, I believe you
when you say you’re trying, but don’t forget that I am too!” I
snap.

Damon runs his hands through his hair and
watches me blow up.

“You refuse to just
talk
to me. You fuck
me then walk away. It makes me feel like some used up piece of
trash, Damon! I love
you
and I’m waiting for
you,
so
if you think I give two fucks about some maintenance guy, you’re
dead wrong!” I shove myself into my clothes and storm off in search
of Hemingway.

I find my pup and plop down on the floor to pet
him.
I need to take a drive or something.
I snapped at him,
but it felt good for all of five seconds and now I feel like I’m
the asshole. I don’t want to yell at him. I don’t know what he’s
thinking, but I’m trying hard to find out. If he would just open up
and tell me, I could help him.

Every bit of an hour has passed since I stomped
upstairs. I know I should go find him and apologize.
That’s what
couples do, right? They fight, and then apologize, and life goes
on.
I pat Hemingway on the head then hop to my feet. I pad
barefoot down the stairs, then down the hall to his office. He’s
always in there. I don’t even have to guess where he is anymore. If
he isn’t in his bed or the kitchen, he’s in his office. I hear a
big thud when I get close to his office door and I waste no time
swinging open the door.

Damon is walking away from that damned cabinet
with a limp. The bottom of one of the cabinet doors shows a crack
in the wood. Small splintered pieces protrude in all directions.
Christ. Maybe I should get him a punching bag. It’d be safer
than kicking the furniture.

“What’d the furniture ever do to you?!” I demand
loudly.

He turns to see me, his eyes glistening with
tears.
He’s been crying. Fuck.
I really feel like shit now.
He flops down in the chair behind his desk and I rush to him,
climbing awkwardly up to straddle him.

“Listen to me.” I take his face in my hands and
force him to look at me. “I’m sorry. We’re both trying and that’s
all that matters. It’s not perfect and it doesn’t have to be
perfect, it just has to
be.
Just
being
is enough.
It’s fine. It’s plenty. We may be fucked up but at least, we’re
fucked up together, right?”

I swipe my thumbs across the moisture beneath
his gorgeous, sad eyes and lean in to kiss his forehead. He doesn’t
do much to respond and that’s fine. It’s not always the most
wonderful relationship, but it’s mine and I wouldn’t give him up
for the world. He needs me and I know it, even if he can’t or won’t
say it.

***

One month
later

It’s the same thing every day. Damon gets up and
goes to “work,” which usually consists of him spending most of the
day in his office on the phone and on his computer. He owns a
string of clubs, bars, and other businesses that require his
attention. He delegates a lot of stuff to Brian and seems to have
good faith in all of his site managers. He makes site visits to the
bars and clubs every once in a while, but for the most part he
works from home.

I get up and pretend to be handling his distant
behavior just fine. I’m not. I’m lonely and still grieving for the
old Damon. I do most of my thinking on my drive to the bookstore
each morning. I try not to make a big deal of it at home because I
don’t want to throw it in his face. I have to believe that he’s
working on getting himself together.

Every other week, I drive my swanky new Volvo
SUV over to Captain’s house and drive his car around. I can’t bear
to sell it and Damon seems to be okay with me keeping it as long as
I drive it often so it doesn’t just rot in the driveway. I’m still
trying to get Noni to rent the house; I’m thinking of throwing the
car in as part of the bargain.

Captain’s sensible Taurus sedan comes to life
with a contented purr. Driving his car makes me feel close to him.
I can still smell him in here. It smells like his awful, cheap,
bright blue aftershave; I know because he used to ask me to pick up
a bottle of it for him when he forgot to buy more. I’d bring it to
the store and he’d twist the cap off and douse it on. It smelled
like rubbing alcohol mixed with a bar of soap and I hated it. Now
I’m tempted to go to the store and buy a bottle just to smell it
when I want to. To remember that he was here. To remember that my
Captain was just that; mine. He was my family.

I spent seven years in his company and the only
thing that can steal that from me is time. I have memories; for
now. But they’ll fade, just like my memories of Maman and Papa.
After 16 years, my precious memories have faded so much so that I
strain to remember the sound of Maman’s voice when she would sing
to me. I have to close my eyes and concentrate hard to picture
Papa’s face smiling back at me.

My memories of Captain are still fresh. It’s
been over two months since he died and I still see him with my eyes
open. I still smell him in this car. I still hear him in my head.
But I know it won’t last; time will pass and rob me of more
memories. I’m so fucking tired of getting the short end of the
stick. I’m pissed off that I can’t be one of those lucky bitches
cruising through life with a stupid grin on my face and a pleasant
little life to show for it.

Without paying much attention, I’ve somehow
arrived back at the penthouse in one piece. I groan and park
Captain’s car and debate going inside or taking the car back to his
house first. I’m so damn overwhelmed and I just feel like hiding. I
don’t want to be strong and brave anymore. I want Damon to
magically get better already. I want my grief to miraculously
disappear. I want the store to renovate itself. All while I hide;
preferably in Damon’s arms. All of that shit is wishful thinking. I
have no choice but to get my shit together and to push through all
of this.

“One thing at a time. Tackle one thing at a
time. Damon first. Brian can always take the car back later,” I say
to myself and the steering wheel. I should call Grams. Talking to
her always makes me smile. I’ve bonded with that comical old bat
over the past two and a half months. I love her like crazy and I
have Damon to thank for bringing the two of us together. She and
Versan are singing the same damn tune, though, and it’s called sit
and wait. Be patient, they say every single time. I’m tired of this
song and dance. I’m close to losing my head over all of this.

I enter the penthouse expecting two things:
Hemingway to run up to greet me and to see Damon in his office,
either staring at that fucking cabinet or acknowledging me
dismissively from behind his computer screen.
Same shit,
different day.

Damon is, surprisingly, not in his office. I
walk in and look around, but he’s nowhere to be found. Hemingway
and I go upstairs in search of him but still no luck. I peek into
the kitchen. “Not in here, Hemingway.” I check my cell phone to see
if he’s left me a message or anything.
Nothing.
I go back to
his office to see if, by some stroke of luck, he’s left a note. I
walk around his desk and snoop around. His desk is exceptionally
neat, no interesting papers scattered or anything. My hip bumps the
desk, causing his computer screen to light up. An email pops up and
my eyes struggle to focus on the screen. I have a seat in his chair
and take a closer look.

I know we fought last time we saw each
other, but I love you very much and I always will. I heard about
your girlfriend and I’m assuming that’s why I haven’t heard from
you. I wish you would just talk to me. Can we meet at our usual
place? Call me.

-Elise

I feel my blood start to boil until I see the
name at the end of the email. I remember Grams telling me that
Damon’s sister’s name is Elise. From what I understand, they rarely
talk or see each other. Another thing I should ask Grams about it,
I guess. He’s probably gone to meet up with her. I stand to leave
and notice that the key he uses to lock that fucking cabinet is
sitting beside his computer. I swear, he has a better relationship
with the cabinet than he does with me. I look down at Hemingway,
seeking his approval.

“Don’t judge me,” I whisper. Hemingway tilts his
head to the side and watches me snatch up the key then shamelessly
march over to the cabinet. “I’ve been dying to know what he keeps
in here. You know you’re curious; aren’t you, Mr. Hemingway?” I
turn the key over in my hand to inspect it before I slip it into
the lock on the cabinet. With one half turn the locking mechanism
clicks, giving me access.

“What in the world?” I furrow my brows at the
sight of dozens of notebooks. They’re piled high in three tall
stacks. There have to be dozens here. I pick up one from the top of
a stack. It’s a black and white composition book. A child’s
scribbled handwriting in the title box on the front of the notebook
declares the owner.