CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
If Stella’s place is small, Anthony’s is microscopic. It’s a ground-floor unit in an old brownstone building and we key in through two doors before reaching his apartment.
The room is ten feet wide and at least twelve feet high with a tall window facing the street and one wall all in brick. A couch faces a large flat-panel television on a desk, a table has two wooden folding chairs tucked under it, and the only access to the bathroom is through a tiny kitchen that seems more to scale for an airplane or a sailboat.
A wide wooden ladder in front of me draws my eyes up the brick wall to a loft above the kitchen and bathroom.
“What’s up there?” I point to the loft.
“Bedroom,” Anthony says. “It’s small, but it’s just what I need right now. Close to work, close to fun, and not much to keep clean.”
I look more closely and see that the apartment is meticulously clean. His work boots are lined up neatly by the door and the wooden floor shines.
Anthony mistakes my inspection for disapproval rather than appreciation. “I know it’s not as fancy as your Upper West Side place…”
I hush him with a kiss that has his hands deep in my hair, pulling my face toward his, bringing me to my tiptoes to reach his full mouth.
When we break, I explain. “That’s not my place. I’m just the house sitter. I’m taking care of a dog.”
Anthony’s eyebrows quirk. “Then where do you live?”
“Nowhere yet. I told you, I just moved to the city. My roommate situation fell through, but thankfully I have this house-sitting gig to buy me time to figure out a permanent address.”
Anthony nods in understanding and I excuse myself to the bathroom where I wash my hands and neck, trying to avoid smudging my mascara. I finger-comb the tangles from my curly hair and straighten my dress.
I look at myself in the mirror. Am I ready for this?
No idea.
So I jump.
Anthony has the full seduction routine going when I exit the bathroom—there’s music on the radio, he’s poured us two glasses of wine and he’s swapped the harsh overhead light for a softer glow from a table lamp.
Nice.
He beckons me to the couch and I sit, taking the glass of wine he offers.
I try to figure out how to cross my legs properly on his deep couch that feels like it’s sucking me in. The thrum of sexual tension coursing through my body doesn’t help, and I feel pinpricks of sweat at the nape of my neck even though Anthony’s air conditioner is running.
“So do you have brothers and sisters?” His question seems genuine, but I can’t help but feel disappointed. It’s a slow draw, a nice guy move, not the ferocious need that he attacked me with outside the restaurant.
It freaks me out that I like ferocious better.
I shake my head. “Nope. Just me.”
“And do your parents still live in Oregon?”
Ding! This is the question that always comes up in every friendship or relationship—some variation of a totally normal, totally mundane question about my folks that forces me to explain my dad is dead.
And in that moment, I am transformed from a normal girl into someone to feel sorry for. To pity. But I grit my teeth and make the admission.
Anthony holds my hand. “I’m sorry, Beryl. I have no idea what that’s like, but I’m sorry.”
It’s as good a response as I generally get, especially from a person who hasn’t lost someone close to them.
“Yeah. That question always turns me into Debbie Downer.” I force a grin and drain my wine.
“Well, life’s not always perfect. Even for people who look perfectly happy.”
I nod, my mind instantly flashing to Gavin, the charmed life of a white-hot rock star on the outside, while behind the scenes he’s a broken boy who’s run away from home.
Anthony sets down his wine glass and takes mine again. Like the time he took my glass in the club, it’s an intimate gesture that turns up the heat between us. He brushes a curl that tangled in the strap of my sundress.
“I like this curly,” he says. His fingers hook the strap of my dress and pull it down. His thumb traces my collarbone from shoulder to clavicle, then down to the scoop neck of the dress between my breasts.
I hold my breath, frozen, watching him watch me, melting into the couch as he undresses me, finding the hidden zipper under my arm and dropping the other strap. Soon, my pale pink strapless bra is exposed and the dress pools at my waist.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs, pulling me closer as his hands skate across my back, sending shivers from the crown of my head to my belly and lower.
His head bends to kiss me and I kiss him back, letting him tip me back on the couch as our mouths get hungrier, more impatient. He supports most of his weight on one arm and I feel him shift, his lips trailing down my neck to my décolletage, his tongue tracing the line where my bra begins.
I relax into the couch, relax under his touch, letting my mind float with a mixture of wine and music on the radio. Currents of pleasure radiate from where Anthony’s mouth is on me, exploring each curve, savoring it.
I shift beneath him, our legs tangled, and I feel his arousal through his gray slacks. He’s slow and sweet, earnest in his quest to pleasure each part of me and I feel my bra fall away as he teases my nipples with his teeth.
I moan before I realize it’s happening. He’s opened a floodgate—a dam I’ve built against this feeling. I wrap my arms tighter around his broad shoulders, urging him to come closer, settle more heavily on me.
“You’re not hurting me, if that’s what you’re afraid of,” I whisper. He probably outweighs me by a hundred pounds, but I want that weight, that realness of his body. His presence.
“I’m not afraid of anything,” he says, confidence and clarity in his keen eyes. But he pulls back, and for a moment I feel exposed and vulnerable, my top half completely uncovered while he’s still fully clothed.
“Come with me,” he offers a hand and a smile and pulls me to standing from the couch. I clutch my dress with the other hand, still nervous about baring my breasts to a near stranger.
He leads me to the ladder—more of a vertical stair, with wide treads that lead up to the loft and his bed. It’s covered in royal blue sheets, neatly made, and a short clothes rack stands to the side, his shirts precisely hung and shoes in a row.
This guy is meticulous. He’s responsible. He’s solid.
I turn as he comes up the ladder in three efficient pulls, his biceps bulging beneath his shirt as he hauls himself up.
“Now then, where were we?” His voice is husky as he pulls me into his arms, his head bent beneath the low ceiling.
“You were busy seducing me,” I sass, breaking the serious moment and skipping to the bed, where I plop myself down and pat the duvet beside me. “But we have a problem,” I add, just to set him off balance. “You’re wearing too many clothes.”
His fingers fly across the buttons on his shirt, and he tosses it over the clothes rack. I cross my legs, revealing a bit more to fuel his imagination, and spin my finger in his direction. “Now turn around. The T-shirt. And do it slowly.”
He flashes a grin, picking up on the balance of power that’s shifted in my favor. I’m a bossy little bitch when I want to be. He pulls the shirt over his head inch by inch, agonizingly slowly, as I enjoy the view.
Damn. You’d think this man invented sexy.
“More,” I say, and it comes out in a rasp, betraying the cool I’m trying to project with the impromptu strip tease I’ve ordered. Anthony offers a wicked smile as he follows my direction—belt, shoes, socks, trousers.
Finally, my finger curls, beckoning him to me. His boxer-briefs leave no doubt of his intention.
“Now we’re even,” I say. “Or a little more than even.”
His hands run the length of my arms and I drop my hold on my sundress, revealing my breasts to him again. My bra is somewhere down on his couch, but my mind is here—on this bed, as he eases me back against the comforter, his hands still moving across my skin and lighting it on fire.
“If you want to get even, I can help you with that,” he growls, the rich promise vibrating in his chest as his hand traces my shin, knee, and thigh, finding its way to the lace boyshorts beneath my dress. “Like this dress. It’s beautiful, but it’s not exactly playing fair, is it?”
His voice is silky as I feel the scrape of his calloused fingers that tug my dress down my hips, piling it on the floor. Now all that’s left between us are a few scraps of cloth.
Anthony reaches across me, beneath my far shoulder, and in the instant I think he’s going to pin me beneath his massive weight, he shifts, pulling me across him. He’s on his back and I’m straddling him, his hands running up the back of my thighs, teasing where the lace meets my rear.
I rest my hands on the planes of his chest. He is tanned the way only a man who works outdoors shirtless can be. My breasts are heavy and taught under his gaze, which devours them, me, everything. I buck my hips forward slightly, feeling his response beneath me and seeing it in his face.
I can’t believe this is happening.
But I’m a big girl. I want this. It’s a rite of passage into my new life in this new city.
I take a shuddering breath, hearing familiar chords from the radio below. Anthony reaches for my breast but the voice I hear is Gavin’s.
Crashing, clawing world
Breakneck broken girl
I find you undone…
I flinch. Anthony feels it, and I see it in his face. His hand recoils from my breast as if he’s been bitten.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.”
He searches my face for the meaning in my lie as I try to rock my hips against him to make him forget. He grabs my hips to still me.
Tonight
Can I give you peace?
Not a chemical release
It’s madness, sadness, spinning out with you
“I’m a smart guy. That ‘nothing’ was something. What happened?” he asks, oblivious to the rock ballad on the radio.
“This is moving pretty fast,” I say, my eyes downcast. I’m unsettled, my chest constricting, my body too cold. “I like you—a lot—I just need to go slower. I need to go.”
I can’t keep you
Can’t tame you
Can’t fix you
Can’t blame you
Anthony is a perfect gentleman, handing me my dress and throwing on sweats as I descend the ladder. He crouches next to me on the couch, tapping the screen on his phone as I tie on my sandals and tuck my bra in my purse.
“I called a cab for you,” he says. “I hope it wasn’t something I said or did.”
“No, I promise,” my eyes stray to the radio that I desperately want to shut off or turn up to drown out the noise in my head. “You were perfect. Tonight was perfect. I’m just a little shell-shocked with everything that’s changing so fast in my life.”
Can’t rescue
Can’t bring you
Back to me
“I can understand that,” Anthony smiles and his eyes are kind. “You’re an incredibly beautiful woman, and I am more than happy to take it slow. Take all the time you need.”
“Thank you.” I force a smile, wrap him in a hug that’s more friendly than lusty and give him one sweet kiss on the lips.
Reality
It hits me so hard, so come down
I’ll catch you, wherever you’re falling from
He sees me out, watches as I climb into the cab, watches it drive me away. I drag my face away from that scene, his gorgeous shirtless body in silhouette against the doorway to his apartment building.
A sob bubbles up in my chest and I let the tears flow.