I’m a fool. A huge, dumb, nervous fool. When I think about how I’ve treated Roman the past few weeks, hiding my fear and uncertainty about us as a couple with silence and only work-related conversations, it’s no surprise the man believes I’m playing games. I’m beginning to believe that I am doing what he’s accused me of, even though I don’t feel like I’m being hurtful in my decision to give myself time to think this over. There’s no hiding the fact that I’ve done nothing but waffle back and forth. There’s no doubt in my mind that I want him, but I’ve had to ask myself repeatedly if that is merely a physical response I’m having or something much deeper.
I can’t blame him for being angry. I’d be angry too if I left myself wide open for someone and they were continually slamming the door in my face. There’s only so much a man can be expected to take and quite honestly, I’m rather surprised he’s still hanging around. I fully expected my call to roll to voicemail and never be returned. I also fully expected that he’d be the playboy he comes across as, the big romancer, but he’s been nothing more than a sweet and very kind man to me and my child.
Rolling my eyes at myself, I pull my knees to my chest and hug them tight. I shouldn’t have called him, not tonight anyway, and I sure as heck shouldn’t have mentioned the birthday dinner. I know Mia meant well, but I don’t want my child dragged into the middle of whatever this is between me and Roman, especially since I seem to be doing my damnedest to screw it up. Emmy outright asked me why we weren’t going to the birthday celebration. Short of telling her that her mother is a damn fool, I told a little white lie and said I wasn’t feeling well. Thankfully M & M pulled her away for an impromptu sleep over, otherwise I’d have been spending the evening defending myself to my child.
How pathetic am I that I’m grateful Jack is gone for the weekend? I love him dearly, but he’s spent the past few weeks on a mission to remind me that I’m a woman and I need to learn to take chances. I’ve heard enough, thank you very much, and were my mind not so overflowing with unnecessary advice, I might have been able to actually have a decent conversation with Roman when I called him earlier.
This is part of the reason I’ve avoided getting involved with anyone before now, not that there’s exactly been a long line of men waiting to shack up with a single mom of a teenager, but all these doubts are starting to weigh heavily on me. Throw in the anger that he couldn’t hide in his voice and I’m not the least bit surprised that I can only sit here and stare at the muted TV, trying to make sense of my life.
I’m baffled at my own complete turnaround the day of our outing. I’d spent the entire day locked in his embrace, openly flirting and feeling like I was part of something for the first time in years and then out of the blue, I’m all of sudden feeling overwhelmed and suffocated. It doesn’t make any sense at all. Not one bit.
In one of the many conversations I’ve had with Jack the past few weeks, only one thing he said to me has lingered. He asked me to close my eyes and picture myself with Roman in the future, at Emmy’s graduation perhaps or maybe helping me move her away to college. I did as he requested. I brought the images to life and slowly it became so very clear to me. Roman is exactly who I can imagine myself with in five years, ten, twenty. I can see us traveling together. I can picture him walking Emmy down the aisle in her wedding dress. I can almost picture us both with graying hair and wrinkles, though the Roman in my dreams will continue to get more handsome as the years go on.
This is the stuff that scares me, imagining myself with this man, being enveloped into his family, maybe one day eventually becoming his forever. This is the sort of stuff that keeps me awake at night, asking myself if I really am ready for the responsibility of another’s feelings. It is all so very new to me and yet nothing feels more right. That in and of itself is terrifying.
Unwinding my body, I head into the kitchen to refill my wine glass and pull open a bag of potato chips. Dinner of champions, I think as I carry everything back to the couch and settle into my spot. Wine and potato chips may not help the ache that’s overtaken my heart, but in all honestly I don’t really know what will. Before I talk to Roman again I have to figure out what I want, for good this time. No more waffling, no more games. If I want to make this work with him, regardless of the pace we go at, I have to believe without a doubt that he is the one I want.
Half a bag of chips later, wine glass empty, I’m no closer to figuring out what I want and now I’m a little more than tipsy. I will admit that it feels good, having this quiet time to simply think. Although, I’d give the remaining half bag of these chips for my thinking to not be man-related. I wish I was one of those women who took everything in stride, allowing life to happen and accepting those changes with a smile. I suppose it’s because I’ve always had Emmy to think about, but I’m just not like that. This is what I do and I do it well, I think with a snicker. I’ve got this musing thing down to a science.
I’m just dozing off to sleep, a Hallmark movie playing in the background, when I hear a knock at my door. The sound is barely audible, like the person is trying real hard not wake the entire house. It’s only when the knock comes again do I step timidly toward the door and peer through the peephole.
My stomach flutters with happiness when I pull the door open. “Hi. This is a nice surprise.”
Roman glances over my shoulder. “Did I wake you or Em?”
Waving him inside, I shake my head. “Emmy’s at a sleepover, and I was trying real hard to watch a movie.”
He glances at my smorgasbord of goodies and grins. “Big evening huh? Wine, chips and…” his eyes narrow as he starts to laugh “…is that the Hallmark Channel?”
“Stop it.” Gesturing for him to take a seat, I ask, “Can I get you something to drink?”
“No thanks. I’m still full from dinner.”
Settling on one end of the couch with plenty of space between us, I look him over. This is the first time in two weeks that we’ve been close, close enough to see that he looks just as tired as I feel. None of that deters from the fact that the man is dripping with sex appeal every time I look at him. He makes casual look classy with his dark jeans and gray button-up, though honestly I fully believe he looks good no matter what. His hair is wildly tousled, like he’s spent a whole lot of time running his hands through it. My own fingers clench, wishing he and I were in a good enough place where doing something like that would not only feel natural, it would feel right.
“I’m sorry about earlier. I shouldn’t have called.”
He glances over at me and rests one arm along the back of the couch. “I’m glad you did.”
“Was the dinner nice?”
Grinning, he rubs his stomach. “Oh yeah. Mama made paella, my favorite. I think I had three or four helpings.” He groans and stretches his legs out in front of him. “I think I overdid it.”
Oh good lord … give me one hot, relaxed, satisfied male, and I’m practically itching to get my hands on him. “That good, huh?”
He groans again and this time my entire body breaks out in shivers. “Oh, you have no idea.”
Our eyes meet, hold, linger. That one connection tells me everything I need to know. He is who I want, who I will exit my comfort zone for, who I want to grow old with. He is who I see myself with, who I see helping me raise Emmy, who I’d love to build a family with. Sure, this is partly due to the wine and partly due to the fact that he showed up here out of the blue, but the truth is I’ve missed him. I’ve missed our talks, regardless of how brief. I’ve missed our Saturdays at the office. I’ve missed the gentle way he holds my hand, the sweet and sensual way he kisses me. And even though I know myself, and I’ll continue to have fears about where this is all going, I’m fully certain that he is the one I want to go there with.
In a flurry of motion, I straddle his waist and sink my hands into his hair, smiling at the shocked expression on his face. “Can I kiss you?”
Roman smiles and slides his hands up my thighs and around to grip my butt. “I thought you’d never ask.”
My lips come down on his gently at first, a few nibbles here and there, a sweep of my tongue in search of his. Then his hand slides up to the back of my head, gripping tighter as I melt into his touch and kiss him like I’ve been wanting to for weeks now. My heart is instantly racing as our tongues duel, as he tightens his hold around my waist and presses our bodies closer together. And like that day in my office, I seek pleasure from him as my hips start to move and he hardens considerably between my legs.
Then I’m being dipped backwards, onto my back, and he settles between my legs like that’s the only place he wants to be. One large hand remains on my butt, gently guiding our movements and thrusts against one another while the other slides up my waist to settle just under my breast. I’m surrounded by his warmth, his body enveloping mine in only the sweetest of ways as I’m pressed fully into the couch cushion.
The kiss changes, intensifies, and as it does, he growls out a groan and slowly slides his hand up, cupping my breast in his palm and brushing his thumb across my nipple. Braless, I feel that touch almost as if his hands were directly on my skin, a touch that instantly floods my panties with wetness.
Lifting his mouth from mine, he kisses his way over my jawline, down my neck and across my collarbone, whispering, “I need to see you.” Gently, he pinches my nipple between two fingers. “Fuck … I want to taste you.”
Head spinning, body humming with denied release, I reach down for the edge of my tank and peel it off, sending it flying. He sits back just enough to look at me, eyes coal black with need as both hands reach for me. His wicked thumbs glide over my pebbled skin, diligently watching my reaction, taking stock of my level of fear. I can only lie there loose-limbed and panting, drifting my fingers up and down his forearms.
His hands leave me only long enough to rip his own shirt off. Then we’re touching, kissing once more, a mess of tongues and teeth and lips and hips seeking relief from one another. My nails rake down the skin of his back, up over his wide, muscled shoulders, then slide slowly over his chest.
Roman lifts his mouth from mine once again, only this time it’s to watch as my hands touch him. It’s a lesson in patience, a frustratingly slow trip to the Promised Land. As I skim my fingers over his abs and they jump in response, I know without a doubt that this—that he—is worth every bit.
Bending over once more, he gently takes my lips, nibbling at the lower one while his tongue teases the other. “Can I touch you? Make you come?”
My face flushes as I recall the last few orgasms I’ve had, courtesy of the hand-powered boyfriend in my nightstand drawer. “Pretty sure you can do that by just kissing me.”
He chuckles and slides his hand between my legs, the smile fading as quickly as it appeared. Then he mutters a curse, groans, and sets his eyes on mine. “Tell me to stop and I will. But knowing how wet you are right now is really doing a number on my restraint.”
Boldly, I reach out and drag my nails across his very impressive arousal. “You’re doing a number on mine as well.”
His head falls to my chest, and I hear a mumbled “oh fuck” between my breasts. Then his mouth and tongue are on my skin, and he’s tugging one nipple with his teeth and that oh so curious hand of his is diving underneath my yoga pants and finds the edge of my lace panties.
Our eyes meet. “Please tell me you’ve at least gotten off these past years.”
Averting my eyes, I murmur, “Uh … yeah.”
Chuckling at my reaction, he kisses his way up my neck to my ear and whispers, “Tell me.”
Given that my one and only sexual partner was a jerk who barely knew where all the pertinent parts were, this is the last thing I expected. I suppose if I was like all other regular people, I’d have been having a lot of sex during my adult life and expanded not only my horizons but learned how not to blush at every word out of his mouth.
Roman’s fingers slide into my panties but refrain from going any lower while he repeats, “Tell me.”
“The usual way, I guess. Jack gave me a…” I roll my eyes at myself and squirm “…you know, he gave me a … well … a vibrator.”
His face does this fairly odd color change then his jaw hardens and so does pretty much everything south of the equator. Though, to be honest, I don’t think the man could get any harder. “Jesus. Please tell me it’s readily available so I can watch you use it.” His eyes widen at what must be a completely shocked expression on my face. “Not now … Christ … I can only take so much.”
“I don’t want to use it. I want you.” Those are the boldest, most honest words I’ve ever said to him and its clear by the almost reverent way he’s looking at me that he knows it to be true. Keeping our gazes locked, he dips his fingers lower, trailing them slowly over my folds. His thumb starts a mind-numbing circular pattern over my clit then slowly one and then another finger slides knuckle-deep inside of me. Moaning, my hips start to move with the motion of his fingers, seeking relief in the most basic, human way possible. My hands grip his back as our mouths settle on one another’s in a kiss that is reminiscent of the frustration we both feel. His teeth nip at my lips, suck on my tongue, make love to my mouth in every way possible as his fingers work me higher and higher and higher until I’m clinging right on that precipice and straining to take that last leap. Then he groans, growls, grinding his hips against my thigh as I start to fly off into oblivion, arms cast wide as I start to moan and let pleasure be my guide.
The waves of orgasm roll over me again and again and just when I think it’s starting to fade, he rolls his thumb and I start to shake once more. I hear his muttered curse against my breast, welcome his hand guiding mine to his cock. I start to stroke and grip and work him just as hard as he’s worked me, but it’s not enough. Nothing is at this point, but what I need more than anything is to keep shamelessly riding his fingers as my own reach for the button and zipper on his jeans.
“Babe …”
Ignoring the warning, I inch the zipper down and shove my hands into his pants. “I need to touch you too.”
His eyes roll when I shove his boxers aside just enough to take in the view of his cock. Then I wrap my hand around the shaft and rub my thumb over the glistening end.
“Fuck. Keep touching me like that and it won’t take me long.”
Continuing my torture, I can feel my body respond to the sight of him in my hand, sighing with approval when he adds another finger and stretches me fully. Our eyes meet again as we work one another over, occasionally drifting our gazes down to watch our hands in motion. Then he leans down and takes my mouth with his, telling me without words that this right here is more than enough. Pleasure is pleasure and while it’s more juvenile than the obvious path toward completion, I wouldn’t change one moment.
I step off that precipice once more, moaning out my release into his mouth. A few more fast, hard strokes and he groans out a curse, spilling all over my fingers and stomach. He comes again and again, shaking through his release while helping mine to continue. And this time when our mouths meet, the gentleness is so heartbreaking tears fill my eyes and trail slowly down my face.
When our breathing begins to settle once more, Roman lifts his head to look at me, his voice ragged as he asks, “Why are you crying? Did I hurt you?”
Shaking my head, I whisper, “No, not at all. It was beautiful.”
“You’re beautiful.” With his free hand he glides his fingertips over my cheek, slowly caressing my lips with his thumb. “So damn beautiful.”
Releasing the hold I have on him, I grip his back with my messy hand and urge his weight down on top of me, closing my eyes. “We should fall asleep just like this.” My entire body is weary, boneless from the repeated orgasms, sweaty and sticky and fully satisfied.
Roman chuckles. “You say that now, but in an hour or so when you can’t breathe you’ll be singing a different tune.”
I lift my brow. “If I can’t breathe, how am I supposed to sing?”
Shaking his head, he starts to laugh then takes one nipple between his teeth and tugs playfully. “Better quit with the sass, my beauty.”
“Or what?”
He sobers and speaks against my lips. “Or I’m sliding those panties of yours down and making you come repeatedly on my tongue.”
My mouth drops open at his frankness, which secretly turns me on a lot. I’m flummoxed. What does one say to something like that … Yes please? How fast can you slide my panties off? Exactly how many times is repeatedly?
Grinning at me, he rakes his gaze down my bare body and whispers, “I take it that’s a yes.”
Nodding without hesitation, I smile. “Uh, correct. That is a yes.”
“Fuck, Sabrina, you’re killing me. Let an old man recover.”
Since I can already feel him hardening against my stomach, I give him an exaggerated eye roll. “Old man? Somehow I doubt it.”
The ringing of my cell shocks us both back to reality. He lifts up enough to give me room to reach for it then settles once again fully on my body. My stomach jumps when I see Emmy’s name. It’s late, which can only mean one thing: bad news.
“Hi, baby. Everything okay?”
“Mom, Mo is sick and her mom says we should probably leave.”
“All right, sweetie. I’ll be there soon.” The moment I end the call I lift my disappointed expression to his. “I’m sorry, but Emmy is coming home.”
“Don’t apologize. Can I go with you to pick her up?” Sitting back on his heels, he glances first at me and then himself. “After we clean up, that is.”
Glancing at the evidence of … well, him … all over both of us … my lips split into a wide grin. Weirdo that I am, I’m once again completely turned on just looking at our bodies and what we’ve done. “Good idea.”
He helps me to my feet, tucks himself in, then takes my hand and pulls me toward the bathroom. His idea of cleanup only serves to remind me that even after full-body and rather intense orgasms I’m completely on board for more. Gently, he swipes the warm wet rag over my torso, dropping a kiss or two and a swipe of his tongue over each nipple. I’m still floundering off in happyland, and I all can do is stand there and sigh.
When it’s my turn, he spends the entire time looking away, one hand gripping the bathroom counter, visibly hardening once again under my all too knowing eyes. “That is not helping.”
“And your little mouth inspection was?” Tossing the rag aside, I step into his embrace, smiling when I feel his kiss on the top of my head.
“I love the feel of your skin on mine,” he whispers into my hair.
“So do I.”
The hug is too short lived and five minutes later, we’re fully dressed and he’s leading me by the hand out to the truck. Sure, this may not be a typical romance, complete with hours upon hours of lovemaking and long, blissful post-coital conversations, but I’ll take whatever I can get. For now he seems just as content as I am to live minute by minute, precious hour by precious hour.