Chapter Seventeen

Teala

His shower products are nicer than mine. He spends a fortune on personal grooming, a fact that surprised me the first time I showered here. We’re drying off in his bathroom, grinning at each other. He has a goofy look on his face, and I’m not sure what that means. His hair is tousled and wet and his thick eyelashes are clumped together with water. His body is insane. Not that I haven’t seen it in all its glory and know exactly what it’s capable of, but with a towel slung low on his hips and his gaze fixated on me, I’m noticing things I haven’t before. Maybe he hasn’t worn that smile before. Maybe he wasn’t lying when he told me nothing would change after we had sex. I didn’t believe him. How could I?

I drop my towel and sort through my bag for the black pair of thongs I threw in there for this exact situation. I slide them on, and he watches my every move with a feral gleam in his eye. The wide, dimpled smile is still in place.

“What? Spit it out. What’s on your mind?” I ask. Even half naked I’m going to command authority.

He shakes his head, laughing now. “Nothing. I was just thinking we can call showering together done,” he says, facing me. He turns toward the mirror and slides a comb through his hair. “Check that zoo life experience off the list,” he mutters quietly.

I cock my head. “What do you mean by zoo life?”

He presses his lips into a firm line to stifle his laughter. I urge him on with a blazing look, my arms crossed underneath my breasts.

“You peed in front of me. In the shower. It kind of creeped me out,” he says, chancing a side eye glance in the mirror.

I sigh. “You peed in front of me first, Macs. Don’t be so weird.”

He slams an open palm down on the warm colored granite, again, the smile working its way across his face. He doesn’t meet my eyes when he responds. “My pee is a perfect straight stream.”

“And mine is what?” My face heats.

Now he has the good sense to turn his dimples down the counter. “Something out of National Geographic,” he whispers. “Like a zebra or a reindeer. When they pee at the zoo, you know? It looks all wild and wide and sloppy. No aim whatsoever. Like a dam being unclogged or a pipe bursting.”

I throw a hand over my mouth. I’m too amused and shocked to take offense. “How long were you thinking about that?”

He does this often. Has the perfect formulated response to stupid things most people don’t even register. Most times he keeps them to himself. He probably would have kept this whole comparison locked away in his twisted brain had I not asked for an explanation. He continues smiling.

“How long?” I ask again.

“Since the moment you opened stream in my presence,” he admits.

I shake my head, keeping my gaze locked on his guilty looking face. He peeks up at me through his envy worthy lashes, eyes slanted with happiness. He gives me a look that says. “Hey, you wanted to know.”

I nod, wiping the amusement from my face. “I suppose you wish I had a dick then? I’d be able to pee in a nice straight line. We could sword fight next time.”

Macs is holding his stomach, bent over, roaring with laughter.

“Better yet, we could pee at the same time and make it a game. Who can pee the farthest with the most accuracy?”

With happy tears streaming down his face he wraps his arms around me and pulls me against his warm, bare chest. “No. No. I like your zoo display. I do. I’ve never seen something so…wild before. That’s all.”

I’ll admit. I was peeing before I even realized what I was doing because it’s a habit.

I keep my arms pinned by my sides, still refusing to reciprocate his hug, but it gets harder and harder as every second passes. His skin is so hot and tinged with the musky scented bodywash it makes my mouth water. My cheek is pressed against his hard chest muscle, right on top of his solitary tattoo. It’s a dark blue inked portrait of a skeleton frog. It spans an entire pectoral muscle. He told me most SEALs have the tattoo, and it means a lot to him. I bring up one hand to trace the outline with my finger.

“You hurt my feelings,” I say, smiling because he can’t see it. Inside I’m wildly happy to see how happy he is right now. It’s a carefree nature I’ve never seen before. “Are you this nice every time you have sex?”

His body stiffens under my fingertips. I feel his chin come down to rest on the top of my head. “No,” he says, grudgingly.

“Was that a hard question or something?” I ask, confused.

He shakes his head on top of mine and clears his throat. “A simple question. A hard answer,” he replies.

I try to pull away to glimpse his face. My heart is thumping at a rapid pace. I try to bury the excitement at his confession because I’m not sure exactly what it means. “Explain,” I reply, knowing I could avoid this messy conversation by simply moving my hand lower and releasing the white, damp towel around his waist. I could make him forget everything in a matter of seconds. I could use all my skills, everything I’ve learned about pleasing a man, and he would be as good as putty in my hands, but selfishly, I want him to tell me what’s going through his mind right now.

“How was sex for you?” he asks.

“Amazing,” I reply. Perhaps it’s the way I’m going about asking. I’ll take his lead. “How was it for you?”

“Worth the wait,” he says. Finally, he leans away from me. “Fucking amazing. I want to fuck you again. And again. And I’m thinking about it right now even though you violated my shower.”

I huff. “You violated it first,” I say. “So we’re clear. I like your cock very much too. And the fact you know what you’re doing. I want to fuck you multiple times as well.” And I’m falling in love with you.

I tuck my fingers into the waistband of his towel. His dimples pop. Just one side, though. “Why was answering that question hard, Macs?” I use his name in hopes of getting his attention.

He sighs. “I thought I could fuck you out of my system.”

“I’m in your system?” I ask, grinning.

He shrugs. “And it looks like you’re staying there for the foreseeable future.” He shifts uncomfortably. I see the cost it takes to admit this to me. “If you want to be there.” There’s question in his gaze. He’s asking, even though he stated it as fact.

I put him out of his misery right away. “I want to be in your system. In fact, wait here,” I say, holding up one finger. I retrieve my cell phone from my bag, open the camera, and hand it to him. “Take a photo of me,” I command.

Macs quirks a brow and looks at me like I’m crazy.

“Just do it. Take a photo of me right now.”

He raises the phone up and focuses with a tap of the screen. I try to look innocent while topless, but sexy because I am wearing a black fucking thong. I smile softly, no teeth. He smiles at the screen as he watches me fidget to find a proper pose. He clicks the button a few times.

“Send the photo to yourself,” I say.

He doesn’t reply, but I can tell he’s going through the motions to send the photos, plural, to himself because his grin doesn’t fade a smidge. He hands me the phone back. I snap a quick photo of him, and he makes a move to duck out of the frame, but ends up smiling wider than he was before. I click the droolworthy photo and toss my phone in my bag.

“What was that about?” he asks, stroking my nipples in between his large fingers.

My body has become his. I can tell by the way he touches me. No one else has ever touched me with such reverence, with such appreciation.

“You’ve realized by now that photos mean different things,” I say, watching the muscles ripple in his arms. “That one you just took of me was the moment I knew I was falling for you.” I swallow. The words tasted dangerous, villainous—traitorous. I don’t back down from them. I face him head-on, bare of any pretenses.

His hands still on my chest, and I chance a glance up. His eyes are on my mouth. “Say that again. But look at me,” he whispers.

“I’m falling for you. Not because you’re an amazing fuck, either.” Adding humor to soften the emotional blow is a tactic I’m going to always use with Macs. He responds to that.

His face is stoic, completely unreadable. He doesn’t respond or reply to my sentiment. He leans down and kisses me so passionately, there’s no question he feels the same way. He holds me tenderly, like I’m a fragile doll expected to break any second if he doesn’t show me how he feels using his lips and his tongue. I see stars and fireworks and my stomach turns as my hands wander up his chest.

It’s not falling. In this moment I know it’s not. It’s love. And everyone is right. It feels like nothing else. Goosebumps prickle my skin and I’m aware of him and nothing else. The world vanishes around us and whatever our chemistry has transformed into. He picks me up and backs me into the wall. I lock my hands around his neck and meet his kiss head-on, telling him I know what he’s trying to explain without words. I’m hot and chilled to the bone. I’m terrified. He has all the power and I’m helpless to surrender. I clutch his hair in my hands now to intensify the kiss and to try for some control.

It’s a tugging match of power. He wants it. I want it. The common denominator is we both want it for the same reason. We know what power means. What it can destroy.

Everything.

Somewhere during our kiss he lost his towel and he’s fumbling in the bathroom drawer and comes away with a condom. He tears the package open with his mouth and has it rolled down his erection in mere seconds. I realize that’s a skill well practiced. My back is against the bathroom wall again as he fills me. He fucks me so hard he leaves his hands on either side of my shoulders flat against the wall and pins me and my weight with only his hips and dick.

It’s a quick, blissful pace, but he’s kissing me with the same passion as before. He chants my name like a prayer in between stealing my breath.

This time it’s quick and my orgasm takes me fast and hard. I slump over his shoulder when he comes, his cock buried as deep inside me as it will go. Minutes pass and we stay connected that way. Him holding me while I’m tangled around him. We end up back in his bed, under the covers.

I’m rolled onto my side, looking at him as he gazes back at me. He looks like he’s trying to figure me out. The feeling is mutual because from this angle, lying in bed with him, I want to know what it is about him, too. I trace the planes of his face with my fingers. He doesn’t take his hand off my hip and the side of my stomach.

“I’m glad you told me,” he says. His voice is creaky. Neither of us has spoken for what seems like forever.

My nail brushes over his bottom lip. It’s so full. “I didn’t know how you would respond. If I knew it would be with orgasms, I would have told you sooner.”

He offers a soft smile. “Consider me felled, Teala.”

I flick my gaze up to meet his. “Yeah?”

“I don’t say things without knowing for certain I meant them. Especially ones as significant as those. Let’s not label our feelings, though. Don’t call it something. Then it won’t be the same.”

Love. He won’t say it. And I’m so in shock right now, there’s no way I want to hear it anyways. This is what he’s saying without using the word. Isn’t that exactly what Carina told me? This indescribable feeling that’s different for everyone?

“I feel the same way,” I admit.

I’ve regained my composure enough to scoot toward him for a small kiss. Macs crushes me to his chest and kisses every place on my face he can fit his lips.

“You just became everything.”

“I can’t become something, Macs,” I say into the crook of his neck. “Especially everything.”

He sighs. “Tell that to my heart.”

My own heart leaps out of my chest. There’s no harried panic in his admission, just truth and it puts me at ease and I think this is the happiest I’ve ever felt. I relax against a man, in his bed, for the first time in my life. He falls asleep before I do, and he does call it something, because Macs sleep talks. He tells me he loves me four times before I fall asleep, wondering how many more times he can take my breath away with three simple words.

****

“I do a lot of things well, but cooking isn’t one of them,” Macs exclaims, standing in front of his new range with his hands on his hips.

It’s early. So early the sun hasn’t risen and the coolness of night still warps the air. I’m wearing one of his T-shirts that hits mid-thigh and no panties. We made love this morning. And I finally realized there was definitely a distinction between the two. Fucking is hard and selfish. It’s about orgasms and carnal desires—about slick openings and hard, throbbing cocks that taste like salted caramel. Making love is a completely different animal. It’s slow and thoughtful. Perhaps it’s best described as giving what you think you don’t own, and taking what you don’t think you deserve.

I ask him if he has plain oatmeal, and he looks pleased he does and sets off on his task to not fuck up oats for our breakfast. He tells me, sort of surprised, that oatmeal is his breakfast of choice too.

“I’m going to look around,” I tell his wide, muscular back.

He grunts his approval, and I take my mug of steaming coffee and wander down the hallway on the opposite side of the house. The guest bedrooms are over this way.

“Careful in the back room. I’m building a bookshelf and there’s some equipment in there,” he calls out.

It truly is a marvel what this space looks like now compared to what it did when I first came over. He turned it into a home. I can imagine myself spending time here. My stomach starts spinning, but I don’t let it control me. I open a door and see a large, disassembled bookcase. Books are neatly stacked in piles, lining the bare walls. Some titles I recognize as the classics. The thick tomes that you have to be in just the right mood to tackle, he also has an equal number of non-fiction works. The types of books you read when you want to read, but you also want to learn. I’ve never really understood that practice, but I can appreciate it.

I walk in and head for the back window. It’s long and rectangular. The view is just as stunning as my view at home, yet completely different. The sun is rising and the colors are magnificent. Buildings block my view of sunrise. The pinks create a halo around the burnt oranges and reds. It’s silent still. The time of morning I usually spend by myself, flipping through social media on my phone, huddled over oatmeal before I head in to teach the early class. I swallow at the reminder of change. Not all change is bad, or even that life-altering, I remind myself. Some change happens without disturbing anything else. It’s possible. It has to be.

“Your gourmet oatmeal is ready. I sweetened it with honey and raisins. Figured it was a morning to celebrate,” Macs says, his voice commanding the small room. His bare feet make a firm noise as he approaches from behind. “Some view, huh?”

“I was just making a pros and cons list. This might top my view and I never thought it possible.” Because I never considered any other options. The dark of night is giving way to the dark royal blues of morning, the sky lighting the surrounding area.

Macs pulls me against him, my back against his chest. My head tilts back automatically. “What time do you have to go into work?” he asks, his lips already skirting the edge of my neck. It’s a whisper of a kiss.

Tilting my head to the left so he can continue his assault, I close my eyes and grin. “My thighs are still sticky from sex less than an hour ago, Macs,” I breathe.

There’s no conviction in my statement. He knows it. My appetite for him is probably even larger than his for me. My core clenches a few times at the thought of having him inside me again.

“Let’s go eat and then we can take another shower,” he rasps into my ear.

I make a joke about the zoo, and he holds my hand all the way to the high bar in his kitchen. He goes to switch on the news, but then turns the television off again. He’s not used to having company in the morning. Old habits die hard. I understand completely.

“Should we talk about last night?” I ask, in between bites.

The oatmeal is a little firm. I make a face when I crunch on a bite. He apologizes with a cute grimace.

Macs has a way of masking any emotions he may not want to show. The thing is I now know when he’s doing it, so I’m able to see when he’s trying to hide something. It’s just as telling. He does it now. I clear my throat.

“I’m not sure what to say. Can we let last night speak for itself?” he asks, taking a bite.

I take a sip of coffee. “The thing is I’m going to have to answer to people and I’m not sure what to say and it seems crazy I even have to ask. But assuming makes an ass out of you and me.” Humor. Again.

He shrugs. “Call it what you want.”

Macs doesn’t comment on the fact that all of my friends know about us, but his friends don’t even know what the hell is going on. He’s like me. A master at evasive techniques. We decided not to label it, so I decide we’ll be together. That’s good enough for me.

We finish our breakfast and our coffee. The conversation is light and breezy as we discuss the facets of his kitchen. I don’t have to pretend to be interested. I truly am. I tell him I want to redo my kitchen and his eyes light up at the prospect of another project. He takes our bowls and mugs to the sink and disappears down the hall to the bathroom. It’s where my stuff is, so I can’t get ready yet. Approaching the sink, I wash the dishes myself.

I startle when someone pounds on the front door. My heartbeat leaps into my chest as I peek around the corner to peer out the window. His driveway is hidden by the garage, but I see the uniform right away. I’ve never seen Macs wear it, but I know merely by sight this is one of his teammates. The severity of the slamming on the door forces me over. I unlock the deadbolt and pull the door open as quickly as my fumbling hands allow. This man, this beast of a man, looms over me like a goddamn nightmare. Where Macs is beautiful, this man is…rugged. His eyes flare the second the door opens and he sees me.

“Oh,” I say, pulling at the hem of my shirt. “I’m sorry. You didn’t seem very patient,” I explain. “I’ll go get Macs.” For a second I think I should introduce myself, but then decide against it. Macs should do that.

He shakes his head, closing his eyes. “I knew it. I fucking knew it,” he says under his breath.

Macs rounds the corner with his towel slung over his shoulder, wearing only his boxer briefs.

His whole demeanor changes when Macs sees this man. “Tahoe. What the fuck?”

“Time to stop playing fucking house. Grab your shit. We need to leave. Like now. Like fucking yesterday,” the man named Tahoe explains using a gruff, emotionless voice.

I step to the side and take a few steps back.

I’ve never seen this side of Macs and I watch his face change as he processes the vague information given to him. His brow furrows, and his lips turn down in the corners. No dimples or smiles, or warm eyes. His face is made of stone and ice. You could carve a fucking swan out of it and set it on display on a cruise ship. This is work Macs, and I don’t know him.

“What’s the matter?” I ask. No one looks at me. “Macs,” I say, my voice pleading. I look between the men and it’s only been a matter of seconds since Tahoe spoke, but it feels like years.

Macs is heading back into the bedroom, and I’m left standing in this beautiful room with a man who looks like he deals out death for a living.

“What happened?” I ask, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. It matches the pit in my stomach that sinks further and further every second.

The beast named Tahoe flicks his gaze to me instead of the hall Macs disappeared down. “Stay here today. Don’t go out,” he says.

My brow crinkles in confusion. Tahoe doesn’t notice, though. He’s eyeing my bare legs up and down, wearing a smile that looks like it belongs in Shark Week. The dread is so deep I don’t even give him a zing or readjust the tee. I stare at his uniform. The camouflage printed fabric that looks starched to death, the seams, his boots, the collar and Trident emblazoned over his heart. It’s weird to see it, but I know what it means. I can’t look at it another second. I retreat to the bedroom. The first thing I notice is the bed. It’s still in a disarray, the covers and sheets a tangled mess from our morning sexual escapade, then I see Macs. He has the bags out of their hiding place and he’s tucking his white shirt into his twin camouflage pants.

“Macs,” I whisper.

He glances over his shoulder and his face looks pained. “I’m sorry I have to go. I keep a spare key under the doormat. Take it. Okay?” he approaches quickly, his pants still unbuttoned. His hands embrace my cheeks. “I’ll call you.”

“Is everything all right?” I ask.

His face closes down. “I’m sure it is. I’ll call you,” he says again. “I missed a bunch of calls this morning.” Macs shakes his head, irritated.

I frown.

“It’s my fault. For being so into you.” He tries on a smile, but it fails. No dimples or happiness. He kisses me slowly, lips and tongue and the desire that always simmers when our lips are joined is there, but he’s not. He’s already the other person. He releases me. “Stay put for a second.”

I sit down in the middle of the bed. I hear him talking to Tahoe in hushed whispers and when he comes back to collect his bags he’s a different person.

“Will you be gone for a long time?” I ask, quickly.

He shakes his head. “I have no idea. I need to get into to work and figure this out. Bye, Teala.” He leans over, putting his palms flat on the bed to reach me for another kiss.

I lean up on my knees to wrap my arms around his neck.

“Be safe,” he whispers.

“Text me.”

A small grin starts to appear on his lips, but disappears just as quickly. He tells me the same thing Tahoe did about staying home and then he’s gone. Trusting in someone other than myself might be the hardest thing I’ll ever do. I don’t know what the hell is happening, and I’ve never had to accept half-truths before. I grab another cup of coffee and open the sliding glass doors in his living room. The sun is a burning ball in the sky now. Somewhere in between him holding me and Tahoe banging down the door, I know something huge changed.

I won’t heed their instructions to stay home. I shower and dress quickly and pull my wet hair into a bun on the top of my head. On a whim I take a photo of the messy bed before I make it and send it to Macs. He doesn’t reply right away, and I know he won’t. I grab the key from under his welcome mat, lock the door, return the key to its hiding spot, and head for the yoga studio. I call my mom on the way, but it goes straight to voicemail. I narrow my eyes at my phone and try it a dozen more times. My Bluetooth must be glitching, so I turn it off completely. The radio automatically picks up where my morning playlist left off. It’s not Adele blasting through my speakers anymore. It’s a frantic radio host screaming about a terror attack.

“Tone it down, buddy,” I say, grimacing.

I mute the mayhem with a shake of my head and try my mom again by doing it the ancient way, with my phone pressed to my ear. It’s still going straight to voicemail. “Where are you?” I ask the air. “Call me back, Mom. Where are you? Why is your phone going straight to voicemail? I have news I need to talk to you about ASAP. Call me back. Your phone never goes straight to voicemail. What is going on?” I hang up the call and my fingers twitch on my steering wheel, tapping out a furious rhythm of annoyance. I park my car in the empty parking lot and check my watch to find it’s ten minutes before nine. I unlock the mirrored door to the studio.

The business phone is ringing off the hook. I run over and answer it by leaning over the counter. I answer with the standard greeting.

“I’m going to the mall,” Carina rushes. “What was the name of that tea you made the other day? I want to grab some while I’m there.”

We talk for a few more minutes, and she’s happy, and I’m happy. I forget I can’t reach my mom and I’m worried about tea and everything is right in the world.

And then it’s not.