Jenny
He took me to his house.
I had no idea where we were heading - possibly considering the idea of him dropping me off at a hotel or something - when we pulled away from the club, taking the turn in the opposite direction of my house.
Navesink Bank was a melting pot of every type of home available on the market - from the lush, palatial estates in the neighborhoods such as my own to the middle-class suburbs, townhouse communities, apartments in the less desirable areas. One turn of the main drag could make you sure you entered another town entirely. But it was all our one, big, mixed bag of a community.
Smith drove me through the main area of town, through the more inner city type area where young men hung out on street corners just a couple yards away from groups of scantily-clad women whose job was the oldest in the world. I'd never had anything against prostitutes. Not after living in my lifestyle for as long as I had. Because, quite frankly, the trophy wives were doing the exact same thing. The only difference was they demanded Chanel and Gucci for a chance to take a tour of the sheets.
"Wait," I said, something catching my eye right after we passed the men who were clearly handing off little baggies of drugs - making me wonder a bit fleetingly if Teddy had ever slummed it in this area, getting whatever he flooded his system with from these gang members. What might Bertram say about that?
"What's up?" Smith asked, turning to me at a red light.
"Did that building just say Quinton Baird & Associates on it?"
"It did," he agreed.
"But..."
"But?" he prompted as I tried to find a nice way to say what I was thinking.
"But why in this part of town?" I asked, shaking my head. "I mean, with your fees..."
"It was a huge chunk of real estate at a song," he told me, driving again. "When he first started, he didn't have a huge client list. He was being smart with the money. Besides, he thought setting up shop right next to the Third Street Gang would be smart. Even if the cops decided to get suspicious, they would be distracted by all their half-assed drug dealing over there."
"And pimping," I agreed, seeing the logic there.
"That too," he agreed. "He actually just bought the building to the left. The team is expanding more than he anticipated. We need to have more room for offices and a group conference area. Jules is gonna shit herself, having to share her job with someone else."
"She sounded very calm and reasonable."
"She can be. But she has been micromanaging that office since it first opened. If Quin fucked up and hired someone who kept a messy desk, she'd have a conniption."
"Is it a big team?" I found myself asking, wanting to keep up the conversation now that it didn't sound forced.
"It's pretty extensive already. And we just added one more member a little bit back."
"Lincoln referred to you as The General," I said, watching his profile. "Does everyone have a nickname? Do they mean anything?" He paused. Long enough for me to wonder if he wasn't going to answer. "If I am prying..."
"No, it's alright. Quin is known as The Fixer, obviously. He fixes things. Gunner is called The Ghost. He helps people disappear. Or find people who disappeared themselves. Kai is The Messenger."
"As in 'Don't shoot the?'"
"Exactly. Lincoln is The Middle Man. He deals with situations that require..."
"Charm," I supplied when he couldn't find the word.
"Yes. Miller is The Negotiator. Which is self-explanatory. She's got the charm like Lincoln, but mixed with this ball-busting, hardass streak. Finn is The Cleaner. He has some pretty severe OCD about cleaning things. So when there is a scene that needs to be cleaned, that is his job." Like they may have used if my late husband wasn't who he was. "And then there's Ranger. He doesn't come to the office often. He's The Babysitter. We send him clients when they need to be watched while we deal with their situation, people we can't trust to do as they are told."
"Like that guy you and Lincoln were discussing? Fenway."
"Exactly. Ranger is ready to ban that one we have sent him there so much. And then there is Bellamy, who is new."
"What's his title?"
"Don't think you want to know that one, sweetheart," he said, shaking his head.
"So, why do they call you The General? I mean, ex-military aside. What do you generally do that got you that title."
"I kick ass. Literally or figuratively. If Quin needs a strong arm in a situation, he calls me up. Head up covert type operations. Intel gathering. And I'm Quin's stand-in when he is out of town on a job or personal business."
"So if Quin had been in town when I called, you likely wouldn't have been on my case?" I asked, suddenly extremely thankful for timely vacations.
"It likely would have been Quin and Finn that showed up at your door. But had he also needed to insert us in your life in this personal protection guise, he could have assigned whoever didn't have a serious case going on. It may have still been me."
"Your job sounds exciting," I decided, knowing right off that I simply wouldn't have the countenance to handle it, but glad that there were people like him - and all his coworkers - who could handle it, who were around when people like me were in need.
"It can be. You get used to it, though. Your tolerance for stress and the unexpected gets higher each time until even high energy, crazy situations don't even raise your heartbeat anymore."
"I imagine having a military background helps with that too. Are your coworkers ex-military?"
"Some, yeah. That's how Quin met a few of us."
Smith flicked on his blinker, driving us down a road that I had thought to be nothing more than a walking path when I had passed it before, the property so wooded that you didn't see a structure on it at all.
Of course, as we drove and drove, I realized this was because the house was set deep on the land, a charming one-story actual log cabin with a long, low front porch with a deep overhand to keep rain - or the presently falling snow - off of you if you decided to stand out front to watch, have a cup of coffee, enjoy nature.
"This is your house?" I asked even as he pulled up to the side, revealing a shed a good half an acre from the back of the house.
Where he worked on his wood projects.
I could see him there with a little space heater on to ward off the chill, music humming from some old radio, the kind where you got to pick a.m. or f.m. and that was it. No USB connector or iPod port or Bluetooth. I didn't know much about what one found in a workshop, but I saw him there with his shirtsleeves bunched up, revealing his strong forearms, as he bent over a desk, sanding a piece of wood, maybe some of the shavings getting into his beard, the smell of the wood clinging to his skin.
"Jenny," Smith's voice called, snapping me out of my daydream.
"Sorry. I was just wondering what kind of project you are working on in your workshop," I told him. It was half true, at least.
"Right now? A new coffee table for the upstairs at work. We have a common area there and little rooms. For when clients need to stay. And we had two clients staying at once who we didn't realize knew each other. And were not on good terms. They got into a fight. It got physical. And they crashed through the coffee table we had up there. What?" he asked, making me catch my own bemused smile in the side mirror.
"I can't imagine getting used to those kinds of situations is all," I told him. "I almost kind of hope I never would. Takes the fun out of it in a way."
"Never thought of it that way, but I guess that's true. So, do you want to come in? I know you said you didn't want to go home. If you'd prefer a hotel, I could drive there instead. I just needed to check on things here real quick if that's the case. But you're welcome to stay if you need a break from your house for a bit."
"I think I'd like that," I told him, giving him a nod when my voice maybe didn't sound as certain as I felt.
It was just new.
Staying in a different home.
I'd stayed in hotels when Teddy deigned to bring me on vacation with him. Or when we had joined Bertram on his campaign trail. But hotels were different. Perfect. Streamlined. Cold. Impersonal. It was why people who lived on the road craved home so much.
This was different. This was stepping into someone's personal space, seeing what kind of furniture they liked, if they hung art on their walls, if they even painted them, if they had any little bits and bobs they liked to collect, if they were neat freaks or completely unconcerned with dust bunny colonies congregating in corners.
The only other homes I had even stepped foot in in fifteen years were the kinds belonging to people in my circle. The furniture and art were chosen by designers, the house cleaned meticulously by staff.
I missed the smell of other people's houses - that comforting mix of their own personal preferences for laundry detergent and room refreshers and what they cooked. That smell you knew whenever you came across it and could say, Oh, that is so-and-so's house.
My childhood home smelled like knock-off Tide, Newports, popcorn, and the mixed smell of TV dinners.
My home now had no discernible smell. Just a lemon clean for a few hours after Maritza got done. And nothing else.
"Come on, let's make a dash for it," he said, cutting the engine, going around to help me down. But he didn't release me. His giant hand gripped tighter, the callouses a delicious scrape over my soft skin as he picked up the pace, both of us nearly running toward the front door.
"Sorry. That was stupid," he said as he dug for his key. "You could have sprained an ankle in those things," he told me, nodding down at my heel-clad feet. "It might be a little chilly until I start a fire," he warned me as the door groaned open, something oddly charming. If the door even let out a tiny squeak at my house, someone in the staff was running for the WD-40 like it was a matter of utmost importance that everything was perfectly greased, like homes were supposed to be silent things. "I've tried to insulate it better than it was when I bought it, but there is usually a chill that won't go away unless I light some logs," he rambled on as he flicked on the light, and I silently wondered if maybe he was nervous. If maybe his house was not somewhere he brought random women.
He moved in ahead of me, making a beeline for the oversized stone fireplace that took up the entire wall to the right.
And with him busy, I got the chance to really look around, take it in without him feeling awkward for it while he stacked locks and papers.
There was nothing to paint. The inside of his home was exactly the same as the outside - logs and the off-white stuff wedged between the flat-edge logs. The floor was wooden too - wide-planked with giant nail heads and no shine, just weathered and welcoming. There were woven rugs around in places in burnt oranges and greens and creams. Masculine, but warm.
Directly in front of the fireplace was a giant dark brown material couch with a coffee table in front of it. No accent chairs. Like he never had occasion to need extra seating, keeping everything cozy and intimate.
No TV.
At least not in the open main space.
The kitchen was situated in the back left corner with cherry wood cabinets and cupboards. the appliances were new, stainless. The countertops looked like they may have been marble - brown and gold swirls. The oversized island cut it off from the dining space toward the front of the house at my left - a highly glossed table with four chairs and an intricate pattern carved into the center base as well as the legs of each chair.
He'd made them, I realized.
He'd likely made the coffee table too.
Possibly even the cabinetry in the kitchen.
His hands had touched everything inside his house.
I had maybe never been more envious of anything in my life as I was of his cozy, comfortable, lived-in home.
"I know the curtain thing is weird," Smith said, drawing my attention to where he was half looking over his shoulder at me as he poked the burgeoning fire. The curtain thing he was referring to was the absolute lack of them. Not on a single window that I could see. "It's so secluded back here," he went on. "There is really no need. And I like seeing nature."
He liked having it around too.
There were houseplants situated in various corners - a giant, big-leaf one over by the dining room, trailing ones hanging off the edges of the fireplace. Bringing the outside in, cleaning the air, giving you fresh stuff to breathe.
And breathe I did, taking a slow, deep pull of air in, letting it inflate my lungs, breathing in his scent.
Campfire and sawdust and pine cleaner.
That was the smell of his house.
I wanted it all over me. I prayed it would cling to me when I left, that I could smell the fire in my hair, the sawdust on my clothes, the pine on my skin.
"I like it without the curtains," I told him when I realized he was still looking over at me, anxiously needing some kind of response. "Do you want to trade places?" I asked, sending him a wobbly smile.
"My entire house could fit into your kitchen and dining room," he told me. Rightly so.
"Yeah but... not an inch of all that square footage feels like a home. That sounds silly," I added, shaking my head at myself.
"No, it doesn't. I get it. You didn't pick anything out. It's yours, but it isn't."
"Exactly," I agreed, nodding.
"Want a tour?" he asked, standing, satisfied with the crackling, dancing fire. Nothing like the superficial gas fireplace at my home.
"Yes," I said, the word rushing, tumbling out clumsily, making a warm smile light his eyes. More green than brown in his house, even with the suit still on.
"There's not a whole lot left to see," he admitted, moving in beside me, leading me down past the dining room to the small hallway with three doors. "This is the guest room. Or it would have been if I didn't take it over with boxes from both my parents and my grandparents after they passed, not ready to go through any of it, but not wanting to get rid of anything until I did," he said, pulling open a room full of - as he said - boxes. And trunks. And old luggage full almost to bursting.
"This is the bathroom," he went on, opening the door situated between the guest and what had to be the master. "Only room with Sheetrock and paint," he added as he flicked on the light.
And it was.
The space was maybe half the size of my bathroom with a shower/tub combo, a small wooden vanity with a bowl sink, the bottom lined with soft-looking river rocks, and an old, oversized, gilded mirror that must have belonged to an older relative since it was the stuff of antique shops, not modern stores. The color he'd chosen for his walls was a creamy tan - warm, comforting. Like everything else in his home.
"And this is the master," he said, leading me to the last room where I found another large fireplace, this one with red penny bricks. The bed he'd told me about his grandfather carving dominated the space, covered with brown sheets, a large tan comforter, and two spare blankets folded at the edge of the bed - one brown, one red and black plaid. The nightstands matched the bed in stain color, but looked more modern. Like maybe Smith had made them himself with glass tops and deep drawers. Lamps graced each one and across from the bed was the TV that was missing in the living room, situated under a dresser that Smith had likely made himself as well.
"You can take the bed," he offered me, shocking me out of my awe. "I will take the couch," he added when my uncomprehending eyes met his.
"Oh, no. I can take the couch. I'm the one imposing."
"You're not imposing. And guests do not sleep on the couch," he informed me, shaking his head like the concept was ridiculous, like every movie and TV show about a friend crashing didn't involve making up the couch for them. "It's non-negotiable," he added in a softer voice, his eyes still warm.
"If you insist," I agreed, looking down at my feet then back up at him. "Thank you for letting me stay. I can't explain how much I needed this. Without even realizing it."
At the words, tears stung at my eyes, getting fought back with some quick blinking, not sure why I was feeling emotional about something as basic as civility.
"Come on, let me get you something warm. You must be freezing still," he added, and I had to admit he was right about the house having a nip to it.
It was likely a nuisance sometimes, but it made me think thoughts like cuddling under covers, no one wanting to get out of bed to brave the cold, preferring to share each other's warmth instead.
"Do you have tea?" I asked, following him out, mildly worried my heels might leave ugly indents on his pretty floor, so I kicked out of them at the mouth of the hallway, setting them aside. "If not, I can do coffee if you have sugar."
"I actually do keep tea around. Wet tea bags stop bleeding," he told me, going up into his cupboard to pull out a small glass airtight container full of teabags. "Tea is antiseptic too. Learned that from a buddy growing up who was diabetic, so he bleeded like a stuck pig if he got even a tiny cut. And since no kid wants to carry around little bottles of antiseptic and some of that staunching powder, his mom used to toss teabags into his pockets and backpack. Always worked. It was a habit from then on. I always kept them around."
"That is actually really good to know," I said, nodding as he took out a pot, filling it with water, then setting it on the stove, pulling a French press out of the cabinet, filling it with his coffee, then waiting for the water to boil as well.
"You alright?" he asked when he turned back to me, his hands going to his sides to grip the edge of the cabinet, his head ducked to the side slightly. "I know today was rough."
"It wasn't too bad," I said, shaking my head. "Everyone wanted to cling to Bertram. I used to be their link to him. Today, they didn't need me. You were right about Maren," I told him. "I wish I had realized it sooner about her."
"Well, you know now. Having a friend - a real one - will be good for you, I think. Especially one who already knows... how things were with you and your husband. So you won't feel awkward, feeling like you have to drop this bomb on her."
"Do you have a lot of friends?" I asked, wondering what that might be like.
"Aside from my coworkers?"
"They count too, but, yes, aside from them."
"I have a lot of connections in this town. Hailstorm, The Henchmen, Sawyer and his team of investigators. All people I'd share a drink with if I saw them out at the bar or something, but not exactly close friendships. I think when work eats up as much of your life as it does mine and my coworkers', you learn to make them your friends and family. Though, now with them starting to fall like flies, things are shifting a bit."
"Fall like flies?" I asked, brows drawing together.
"Everyone was single for the first few years. Well, Lincoln always has a girl, but women have always been in and out of his life. But the rest of us never took on anything serious. Then Quin met Aven. And Gunner met Sloane. Then Kai and Jules finally shacked up. Almost half the crew have their own little lives outside of work now. So things are... transitioning," he told me, turning back to pour my tea water and his own in the French press.
"Do you miss the old way?"
He paused at that, thinking it over. "Nah. I mean, it was nice for everyone to just be able to hang around no matter the time, not worry about who was going out of town and when. But I like this for them. They deserved some happiness. Some roots."
"Them."
"Hm?" he asked, pushing the plunger down into his coffee slowly.
"Them. You said they deserve happiness. Just them? Not you?"
He waved my teacup at me, beckoning me closer and the air felt thicker standing near him in his kitchen, the cup burning the palms of my hands as I cradled it. "I have a nice, quiet little life."
"You do," I agreed. "But is this all you wanted? No women? Kids?"
"Always wanted a woman and kids. Then I got my head a little fucked in the military, was sure it was never in the cards for me. Then work became everything."
"Your head isn't fucked," I told him, watching as a smile positively split his face, making the edges of his eyes crinkle. "What?" I asked, feeling my cheeks heat even though I didn't know what I had said that was so amusing to him.
"That's the first time you said Fucked in front of me," he told me. "I didn't think it was in your vocabulary."
"In general, it isn't," I told him. "Appearances and all that. I was allowed a hell or damn every now and again, but anything worse was simply unbecoming." That was the word Bertram liked to use about me. Whenever he found something about me that he didn't like, he brought my attention to it and told me how unbecoming it was for a woman in my position in life.
The list of unbecoming things included cursing, braids in my hair, any jewelry that cost less than five-hundred-dollars, short hemlines, low-cut bodices, a tan, any heels that weren't black or nude, my old accent, my tendency to call things great or cool or interesting, eyeliner, red lipstick, nails that were anything other than neutral, cutting my food with the knife in my right hand, the way I used to cross my legs at the knee.
Oh, the list was endless.
I could hardly even remember them all.
"Well, fuck appearances," he said, still grinning, his brow raising. Like he was daring me to say it again.
Now that my attention was on it, I felt awkward, unpracticed at the word. When it came out it was high-pitched and squeaky, but I managed. I accepted the dare.
"Fuck appearances," I told him, feeling my lips twitch up as well.
"That'a girl," he said, clinking his mug to mine. "So, are you hungry?" he asked. And I was. I so, so was. Especially if he was cooking.
"So long as whatever you make is half as good as that oatmeal."
"The oatmeal?" he asked, snorting. "That hardly even counts as cooking. I'll pull some meat out of the freezer and see if anything fresh is still workable. The potatoes and carrots at least should be. It won't be fine dining, but you hate fine dining anyway."
"I don't hate..."
"Sweetheart, you claimed a fast food chicken sandwich was one of the best meals you've had in years. You hate fine dining," he told me, but his eyes were dancing. Like he found that quality endearing.
"Can I help?" I asked, taking a sip of the tea.
"Do you want to help?"
"Yes."
"Then yes."
And, with Smith, it really was that simple. If I wanted to do something, he was fine with that. If I didn't want to, that was just as fine. It was such a strange, foreign, but wholly welcome realization. That no matter what I liked or didn't, no matter what I desired, or didn't, he was okay with it.
Acceptance.
It was something I had hardly ever gotten to know in my life. Not even from the people who were supposed to be closest to me. And here was this man, this man who - for all intents and purposes - I didn't know that well. And he was okay with me. Just as I was. Newfound belly pudge and unrefined palate and all.
There was no shaking the light, floaty feeling in my heart as I shaved carrots, as I chopped them into pieces. He didn't even balk at me when they came out uneven, just scooped them into a waiting pan he had already filled with potatoes, onions, garlic, and oil.
"It's gonna be a carby dinner," he told me after tossing out the greens that had wilted in the fridge in his absence.
"I like carbs."
"Good."
With that, he took the pork chops out of the bowl of warm water where they'd been defrosting, mixed about half a dozen spices onto them, threw them in the broiler, and set to making a second side of macaroni and cheese. From the box. Like I had grown up on. Not even with those packets of liquid cheese. Oh, no. It was the powdered kind. With the milk and butter. Guaranteed to make my pants just a bit tighter.
But as we sat down to eat, I couldn't have cared less.
Everything was perfect and I didn't even hesitate in saying yes when he offered me seconds.
"So, can I fire Lydia and have you come cook for me?" I asked, immediately worried I said something wrong when his eyes went a bit dark for a moment.
But he shook it off, gave me a small hint of a smile. "Anytime you want me to cook for you, Jenny, you let me know."
There almost felt like there was something heavy in the words, and the meaning behind them sent an odd shiver through my insides, a sensation I couldn't call anything other than delicious. Addictive. Something I wanted more of. Though I had no idea how to bring that about.
"Can I wash up?"
"That would be a no," he told me when I tried to take his plate. "Guests don't wash dishes."
"But you cooked. I thought cooks don't wash dishes."
"That is just some The Fast & The Furious bullshit. In my experience, the cook always cleans," he told me with a smile. "But if you want to go wash up - as in wash the day away - go ahead. Grab some shit out of my dresser if anything will fit."
Not willing to pass up on a hot shower when I still had a chill in my bones from being out in the snow, I went into his dresser, finding an old, soft army green tee and a pair of green plaid boxer shorts, taking them into the bath with me, realizing I would be forgoing panties for the first time in, well, ever, since I had pretty strong feelings about underthings.
The water took about forty-five minutes to get warm, but once it did, it was of the perfectly scalding variety, making my skin bright pink by the time I climbed out smelling like his spicy body wash and clean shampoo and conditioner.
I wiped the wet off the mirror, watching my reflection as I finger-combed my hair since all Smith owned was a comb and any woman with a thick mane of long hair knew that combs were one of life's jokes.
I looked different.
And it wasn't the makeup I had swiped off, the lack of bruises you'd so often find beneath.
There were no worry lines across my forehead, no downturn tip of my lips, no deer-in-the-headlights look to my eyes.
I looked calm.
Calm, that was such an odd concept.
I didn't think I was even capable of it. Not after a life of walking on eggshells, of overthinking my words, my actions, my own desires.
But that was what I was. Calm.
And contented.
That one was even more bizarre.
It wasn't even something I could have hoped for in my life. It wasn't even an option. My life had been about enduring. About trying to reduce the blowback of whatever ticked off Teddy outside of the house. The best I could ever dream of was not being in pain. As sad as that was. It was something a woman who was always favoring a side because of a bruised rib, icing a nose or eye from a punch, cringing when she went down from a literal ass-whipping could desire for herself. A full day, week, maybe - in the biggest of pipe dreams - a whole month of no pain.
But pain was over.
Pain in my future would be unexpected, not a daily reality.
And without having to worry about every little thing I said, did, wore, ate, watched, read, thought... I felt a deep contentedness starting to take root, become my new normal.
It was all over, that old life.
I had the chance to be the woman I never got to be before, the one I really was inside. I could start again. I could do, wear, eat, watch, read, think, and feel whatever I wanted to.
I was free.
On that thought - and the swelling inside accompanying it - I made my way back out of the bathroom, hearing Smith move around in the kitchen. "Go on and head to bed. I'm gonna bring you in some tea and get the fire started for you."
Standing in the hall where he couldn't see me, my hand rose, pressed into my heart where an odd fluttering had started.
Why?
I wasn't sure per se.
Because he made me tea? Was going to make sure I was warm?
I guess... yes.
It was that.
He was taking care of me.
And that was another first for me.
I turned, making my way back to the chilly bedroom, climbing under the sheets that smelled like him, and I had to actively hold myself back from lowering down, rolling onto my belly, and taking a deep breath of his pillow, reminding myself that he could walk in on me doing it.
Not a minute later, he was in the doorway, pausing, his gaze moving over me, something in his ever-changing eyes I couldn't quite read.
"Sorry about the chill," he said, seeming like he needed to distract himself as he put the mug down on the nightstand on a little coaster that looked like a sliver of a log with the bark still intact, all shiny with some kind of epoxy. "The fire will warm it up fast," he added.
"It's okay. It's warm under the blankets," I told him because it was true. But I was getting the odd idea that I was warm not because of the hot shower or the thick bedclothes, but because of something in the air right then, something sparking and flickering much like the fire he was starting.
But before I could really analyze it, see if he was feeling it too, he was turning and walking back to the door, his gaze averted.
"Goodnight, Jenny," he said, gently closing the door that let out another of those groans I found myself smiling at.
Alone, I let myself take a deep breath of the sheets before turning on my side to watch the fire dance around happily, feeling something similar inside, finding myself trying to make sense of it until my eyes reminded me of the sleeplessness of the night before, pulling me into a deep unconsciousness.
It was the groaning.
Foreign to my sleepy brain, the unfamiliar groaning sound woke me out of the deadest of sleeps, making my heart jolt a little wildly until I remembered where I was.
At Smith's.
In his bed.
And the doors groaned.
The doors groaned... when someone opened them.
I threw myself over in bed, finding the door indeed open, a little bit of light flickering in from the living room down the short hall, casting Smith's wide figure mostly in shadow.
"Sorry, sweetheart," he said, his voice low, sleepy-sounding. Like he'd just woken up as well. "I just wanted to check on your fire," he added, waving a hand to the fire that was just twinkling embers. "I'll just build it back up and get back out. Go back to sleep," he said, voice soft, like he was trying to lull me.
But I didn't sleep.
I was suddenly more awake, more aware than I had perhaps ever been.
Like of the way Smith slept only in thin pajama pants, meaning I got a fantastic view of the outlines of thick, deep muscles of his chest, abdomen, shoulders, back.
Like how his biceps contracted when he reached to put another couple logs on the fire, steepled like a church ceiling.
Like how the wood cracked as the fire started to leap.
Like the immediate warmth it provided.
Like the way the smell of campfire - one of Smith's smells - filled the room.
Like the way I was suddenly acutely aware of the way the sheets rubbed against my smooth legs, the way my chest felt tight, my nipples peaked, my belly fluttered, my core tightened.
"Wait," I heard my voice call. Plead, even, as he turned to walk back toward the door.
At the sound, he turned, gaze landing on me. "Do you need something?" he asked, voice deeper than usual.
I don't know where it came from, the word, the implication behind it, so foreign to me.
I guess it was simple.
It came from a place of need, something primal and unstoppable, something so long denied.
"You," my voice whispered, going up and down a bit more than was normal, but loud enough to be heard.
I knew it because he stiffened, his head turning over his shoulder like he was sure his self-control was just right behind him and if he eyed it, it might take over him once again.
"Jenny..." he said, his breath exhaling.
This time, I recognized the roughness.
Need.
Like mine.
Like how mine made my voice airy, breathless.
Emboldened a bit by that realization, I sat up, then got to my knees, reaching out, closing my hand around his giant wrist, pulling just the tiniest bit.
"Sweetheart," he said, gaze still not quite meeting mine. Like he was afraid to. "You've been through a rollercoaster the past week or so. I don't think..."
"Don't," I cut him off, making his gaze jump up, likely surprised by the sharpness in my tone, something I didn't even know I was capable of until I heard it myself. "Everyone is always telling me what to think, what to feel. Please, don't tell me what to think. Don't tell me that what I am feeling right now is not really what I am feeling."
"I didn't mean it that way," he said, his wrist turning, his hand sliding down to hold mine, giving a squeeze. "You know I didn't mean it like that." He paused, shaking his head a little. "I just... I don't want you to regret me," he admitted, his gaze meeting mine again. And the depth of vulnerability in his words settled into me, gave me the confidence I needed to move a bit closer to the edge of the bed, my hand raising, pausing in the air for a second, then landing on his shoulder, sliding across the warm skin, up the side of his neck, settling at his jaw, thick with his prickly beard, pulling him closer.
"I could never regret you," I told him, words certain.
And I was.
Certain.
There were a dozen reasons I shouldn't have been. Not the least of them being that I had never known the touch of anyone other than Teddy, that he had plucked me from the tree, the ripest of fruits for his enjoyment. And despite his endless dalliances, I had been faithful, had never reached for a hand that might give me pleasure that wasn't laced with pain.
Not that I knew much of pleasure. I had at the beginning, the sweet, warm friction, the promise of oblivion, the happy little tremblings inside.
But years made Teddy even more selfish than he had been when I was young. He didn't even try to make it work for me. Hadn't in many years. Not that I was sure I even could. Not when his hands only made me see bruises and blood, when his mouth did nothing but spill insults, stoke my insecurity.
No.
Even if he had tried, I couldn't have felt pleasure.
But there was no denying that pleasure was exactly what was flooding my system as my body swayed closer to his, my breasts pressing into his firm chest, my gaze holding his for a moment before my head angled and my lips sealed over his.
There was no more restraint in Smith as his hand squeezed mine once more before dropping it, his arm curling around my lower back, anchoring me to him as his lips pressed the kiss deeper, hungrier, as his teeth nipped, his tongue moved inside to claim mine.
My hands became greedy, moving away from his beard to explore his lines. The way his bicep dipped in the center, then swelled, then dipped back down into the crook of his elbow,the way his forearms felt etched of stone, his back sported raised, smooth spots I knew as scars, the way the muscles at the sides of his abdomen contracted as my finger danced over them.
A low, feral growl moved through him as my hands slipped from his sides to his lower back, down, sinking into his ass, dragging him flush to me, feeling his hardness press into my belly, as demanding as the pulsating need deep within me.
Smith's body bent forward, pushing me back, settling me back against the pillows.
I expected him to come over me, but he sat up, kneeling between my feet, his gaze holding mine in the flickering fireplace light. His hand lifted, finding the outside of my ankle, whispering ever-so-softly upward, making the skin prickle with anticipation.
Meeting my knee, his fingers splayed, sought the soft, sensitive skin behind the bend, an unexpectedly sensitive spot, making a shiver course through me, something that made Smith's eyes light up like he was looking for them - my spots. Like he was going to catalogue them for later. Like they mattered as much as his own did.
Selflessness.
Another first for me.
And I was going to let myself be selfish, feel every new sensation as his fingers shifted inward, teasing over the soft skin of my upper thighs, but pulled away when they were closing in on where I needed them most, choosing instead to trace the space where his tee had lifted above the line of his boxers, moving over my belly, tickling over my ribs, making my body instinctively curl upward as my muscles tensed.
"I'm gonna remember that," he promised with a teasing little smirk before moving his fingers away, seeking new heights.
When his finger traced the underside of my breast, any thoughts of future tickle torture faded away as my nipples tweaked harder, the brush of the material over them nearly making me come off the bed.
My air left me in a wave that made my chest shake, making his gaze lift to find mine even as his hand opened, closed over the swell of my breast, the roughness of his palm inflaming the hardened point. His thumb and forefinger closed around it, rolling deliciously, making my legs slam up to his sides, curling around his back, holding him like I was afraid I might lose him, like he was going to take this newfound sensation away from me.
His body shifted, one hand bracing on the mattress as he lowered down, leaning forward to close his lips over my nipple, sucking it deep.
And I damn near came right then, my sex clenching tight as his tongue moved outward, tracing lazy, explorative circles around the sensitive bud until my hands were raking down his back, then going across my chest to repeat the same torment.
My legs were vice grips around him, but he had no intentions of leaving me as his beard brushed over my breast as his lips shifted toward the center of my chest, blazing a slow trail downward.
Loving.
That was what this was.
Something I had never been given before, something that explained all the endless songs they used to create about making love.
Now it was all about fucking.
They had no idea what they were missing.
I sure hadn't.
His lips met the waistband of the boxers, making him press up to sit back on his knees again, pressing my legs into my chest so he could shimmy the material off my hips, sliding it down my thighs, over my knees, off my ankles.
But that wasn't good enough.
He leaned forward, coaxing my sweatshirt off my body as well, leaving me completely bare before him, his hands sliding down the sides of my thighs, moving in at the knees to press my legs apart, baring me to him.
His body dropped back down, his arms curling around my legs, preventing them from moving so much as an inch as he buried deep in my heat, his tongue working my throbbing clit in slow, relentless circles, driving me up faster than I could have ever anticipated, teetering me at the edge before throwing me over, sending me crashing into myself, the orgasm overtaking me completely, making every muscle tense and release at once, making my body shudder even as the waves of pleasure kept moving through me, a liquid, endless tide that left me crying out, and deeply aware of something.
If this was how sex was supposed to feel, I was as virgin as the fresh fallen snow. Because nothing had ever felt like this before.
As I came to grips with this reality, Smith's teeth nipped teasingly at my inner thigh before moving back upward, beard scratching, tongue tracing, lips pressing sweet kisses into my hipbone hollows, the sides of my ribs that didn't feel so ticklish anymore, under my breasts, over them, up the side of my neck, until - at long last - he finally claimed my mouth again.
Everything was harder, greedier, needier.
Even as that thought moved through me, I could feel his cock, insistently pressing against me, promising more hidden, unknown delights, more of this sensation that only he had given to me, this little blanket of desire that blocked out everything else.
The world could have been ending right then, the earth opening up to be dragged down into hell, and I would not have noticed as his teeth nipped my earlobe as his hips ground down into me, his cock pressing against my cleft, making another shudder move through me.
In a movement so fast my eyes could barely catch it, his pants were off, his arm curling under me, and he was suddenly on his back, and I was straddling him, feeling nothing between us, his cock sliding against my wetness, making my sex clench hard, needing fulfillment, friction, needing him inside me like I needed my next breath.
But Smith seemed content to lie there, his hand settled at my hip, his eyes moving over me, taking me in, committing every subtle curve to memory.
It wasn't until my hips shimmied on their own, the feel of his cock pressing into my clit making a strangled whimper escape me that his eyes found my face again, heavy-lidded, and his hand moved out to the nightstand, pulling out a foil, pressing my hips back up, and making short work of protecting us before holding himself at the base, waiting for me.
No pressure.
Just patience, a willingness to let me go at my pace.
He just didn't imagine that my pace was bold and frenetic as I shifted my hips just right, and slid down, taking him in on one deep, delicious thrust, feeling him settle almost uncomfortably deep, making my head fall back at the perfect fullness, the exquisite rightness of the sensation of him inside me.
A low, rolling rumbling noise was what pulled me out of my musings, making my head move forward once again, looking down at the tightly controlled need on Smith's face, the way his jaw was ticking, all his muscles contracted.
And knowing that his pleasure was mine, I owned it, I was in control, something inside me - something unsure and fearful - fell away, and into the vacant space moved a confidence I didn't know I could have, a complete and utter lack of embarrassment that had me moving , my pace frantic, uncontrolled, maybe even a bit sloppy. But it didn't matter. It only mattered that the desire stoked high, making my walls tighten, making my whimpers turn into unashamed moans, echoing back through the room to me, making Smith's breathing get ragged, his fingertips gripping my hips hard, guiding me into a more steady pace that pushed me up higher, faster, kept me at that edge for the barest of seconds before tossing me over.
And then I was fall, fall, falling.
Both into and out of my body somehow at the same time, the intensity of it sapping all the control from my muscles, making me fall forward, resting on Smith's chest, my face buried in his neck, his beard muffling the cries of my release as Smith's hips took over, pistoned up into me, milking the orgasm for all it was worth until I was wrung out, a boneless, thoughtless mass above him as he slammed deep, cursing out my name, coming hard enough to make his entire body jolt hard as his arms crushed me to him.
I was aware of his voice as I came back down, whispering something to me.
"What?" I asked, my voice breathless.
"Noah," he told me. "My name," he added. "Don't get me wrong," he said, his hands moving down to cup my ass. "I like the sound of you coming no matter what, but it would sound better if you said Noah, not Smith."
"Noah," I said, testing the sound out on my tongue, deciding I like how it sounded. But I liked it more that a little tremble moved through him at hearing me say it by his ear, something he tried to mask by turning us both onto our sides. But I felt it. And it made something happen in my chest.
There was a crackling, like breaking, like crumbling of the barricades I had built up around my heart.
And I realized that I could, just maybe, be falling for him.