Eve
Here I go again. Or better yet, there he goes again. With my knees tucked up to my chest, arms wrapped around my shins, I watch him get dressed. The cool air washes over my naked body, making me shiver, but I refuse to cover up. Discomfort is the least I deserve for what I’m doing to my heart.
It’s dark, but I can make out the sleek lines of his powerful body as he slides on his pants one leg at a time. Buttoned and zipped, he grabs his shirt off the floor, gives it a firm shake, and pulls it over his massive torso decorated in tattoos on both ribs in a flurry of black ink. Waves like water and intricate patterns. I don’t have time to study exactly what they are. As soon as the condom came off¸ he said he had to go.
The hollow ache in my chest is a harsh reminder of how stupid this was. I knew what I was getting myself into, understood this was going to be a one-night stand, and I begged him for it anyway. But I’m not like other girls, and now that the butterflies and orgasms have faded, my heart rages at what I’ve done. I’m such an idiot.
He moves toward the bed where he left me sated and now completely sober. With a sigh that I don’t think he wanted me to hear, he sits at the very edge of the mattress, keeping his distance. Fuck. That burns. His eyes are narrow, and there’s a hint of a pity in his expression. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that’s the look of regret. The ache in my chest blooms in a suffocating rush.
“Eve, I—”
“You don’t have to say anything.” I use my voice to disguise the heaviness in my chest. “One-night-stand rules. No apologies. No expectations. Two satisfied participants.” I grin. It’s fake.
“Right. Well, um . . . thanks. That was fun.” He pats me on the arm. Fucking pats me as if I’m a kid he just bought ice cream for! There ya go, kiddo. Enjoy!
I resist the urge to groan and bury my face into my pillow. I got what I wanted: one night of ah-mazing sex with the hottest guy I’ve ever seen. Why do I feel so sorry for myself now that he’s leaving?
Because I want more. I always want more. That’s my problem. I want to be the girl that a man can’t live without.
He stands to leave, and rather than follow him out, I memorize the look of his back as he disappears through my bedroom doorway. I force myself not to look away and burn the image into my head with hope that it will penetrate this time.
How many do I have to throw against a wall before one sticks? The internal grind of guilt and humiliation is my own form of self-mutilation.
I pull my comforter over my body and close my eyes. Tomorrow is a new day: an opportunity to start over with improved determination.
Tonight I’ll lick my wounds as a reminder of why I need to stay away from men like Cameron. I’ll beat myself up for all the reasons I should’ve said no even with the knowledge that given the chance to do it again I’d have said yes.
~*~
Cameron
Re-energized.
A few hours with a good-looking woman will do that to a man. After leaving Eve’s, I was able to rack up a few solid hours sleep; then I was up at sunrise and out the door for a run. The best of Social Distortion playing in my ears and the bright desert horizon in the distance, it was as if I’d left thirty pounds of pent-up tension behind.
Sweat soaked and starving, I dig through my refrigerator for some eggs when the scent of warm sugar and cinnamon wafts up from my chest. The moisture and heat from my skin intensifies the trace of Eve I haven’t yet washed off. I breathe in deeply and groan; the smell of her lotion alone brings me back to being between her legs. Fuckin’ heaven.
“Dad?”
I peer around the open refrigerator door to find Ryder fresh out of bed but dressed for the day. His hair, the exact shade of blond as his mother’s, sticks up all over, making him look like a human firecracker. He studies me for a second, eyebrows pinched. “You lost?”
“No, I’m looking for the eggs.” It seems like a ridiculous conversation, but Ryder’s whole life has been a front row seat to the Fumbling Brain Damaged Dad Show. I resume my hunt in the fridge. “Hungry?”
“I’ll grab a protein bar on my way out.”
I give up on the eggs and grab two protein bars from the pantry, tossing one to Ryder. “It’s Sunday.”
He catches it on the fly. “Yeah, I know. But Theo got new skins on his kit, and we wanted to jam before he has to be at work.”
The older he gets, the more he’s been avoiding our Sunday routine. When he was a kid, he had no choice but to join me, but now that he’s older, he has the freedom decide what’s best. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.
I notice then that there’s a tiny smudge of black makeup below one eye, and his fingernails are painted black. “What did you do last night?” I motion to his arsenal of emo-punk dead giveaways.
He glares at me, his pale blue eyes bloodshot. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”
“After party.” I take a sip of my coffee, focusing on my son, but my mind goes back to Eve: her body, warm and welcoming, wrapped around mine. The sounds that fell from her lips ring through my skull, and I turn to hide my dick swelling at the memory.
“Some party.” Ryder motions to the side of my neck; his lips tick into a knowing smile. “Did you get assaulted by a vamp?”
I hold up my stainless steel coffee mug but can’t see shit in the reflection. My gut tightens at the memory of her mouth at my throat while I was thrusting inside her tight little body. Goose bumps break out on my skin and my neck gets warm. Had to have left a mark. Great.
The last thing I need in my already fucked-up head is the complication that a woman brings, especially a girl like Eve. She’s young, and if her dance moves and party skills are any indication, she’s not giving up her wild Vegas nights any time soon. I don’t have the energy to keep up with a girl like her. Not with everything else I have going on in my life or the fourteen years I’ve got on her.
But fuck, the sugary scent of her hair, sweet taste of her skin . . . What I wouldn’t do to taste her everywhere.
Last night is a perfect example of what happens when I lose focus and follow my dick rather than logic. Once she led me into her house, the need to be deep inside her took over, and foreplay was non-existent. Not that she seemed to care. If I’d had my way, I’d spend hours pleasuring every inch of that body: full hips, round ass, and gorgeous breasts that fill two hands. I groan and get Ryder’s questioning eyes.
“Vamp . . . ha-ha, smartass.” No use in throwing out some made-up story about falling down the stairs or wrestling with a vacuum cleaner. Ryder’s no idiot to the ways of bachelor life.
“Mom called last night,” he says through a cheek-full of protein bar.
Perfect buzz kill subject. I drop my chin and bite down on the string of curses that are pushing to be said. “Figured she might. Everything okay?”
He coughs out a humorless laugh. “Is anything ever okay when it comes to her?”
Fuck, I hate this. After D’lilah and I got divorced, she really took a turn for the worse. The drinking and partying were out of control, and I threatened to fight for full custody. She checked herself into rehab when Ryder was eight. Unfortunately, her sobriety only lasted until she checked out. I had no choice but to make good on my threat. I’d lost one child I couldn’t save. There was no way I’d risk losing another.
“She’s doing her best, Ry.”
“Her best is shit.”
“You know your mom.” I force back what’s really on my mind. Like the fact that she thinks she can pick and choose when to come and go from his life. His birthday’s around the corner, and she hasn’t given a shit about more than half of them. “Cut her some slack. She’s having a hard time dealing with . . .”
“I know. But she’s not the only one who lost Rosie. I don’t see you getting shit-housed every day.”
If it were possible to curl up and die, I would’ve done it the day I pulled my baby girl’s body out of that pool, but I knew I needed to make up for what I’d done. I didn’t take my brain damage seriously enough. If I’d worked harder in rehab rather than throw all my focus into getting back into the octagon, she’d still be here. I’ll never forgive myself for that.
My chest is heavy and my skin clammy. The urge to comfort Ryder pricks at my throat, but I know my limitations. Talking this out with him will only bring out the anger and shame: all of the crap that makes my legs threaten to give way beneath me. I can’t go there, won’t allow myself to feel anything even close to what I felt that day.
It’s survival. Necessity. I have to stay on my feet.