CHAPTER FIFTEEN
STERLING
Why is it you can feel dog tired, but as soon as your head hits the pillow, your mind won’t shut off? I hate it when that happens. I’ve been staring at the ceiling for a couple hours now. The minutes seem to stretch into hours. I try singing the lullaby my momma used to sing to me as a child in my head. But “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” isn’t cutting it.
I’m blaming Rorke for my inability to get any rest. The man is like a furnace, and he’s always draped over me. I’m used to sleeping alone. I’ve been waiting for him to move so I can sneak out of bed, having read that when you can’t sleep, you shouldn’t continue to just lay there and stress over not being able to sleep. But Rorke’s not budging. And I know I should let him sleep. He’s driving into Mobile in the morning.
Turning my head, his handsome face is sharing a pillow with me. Okay, so it’s not his fault I can’t fall asleep. He’s a hot man when he’s awake—muscles, tall, dark, thick hair, and that smile. But like this, he looks totally adorable. His face is relaxed, his full lips slightly opened, waiting for me to kiss him.
I hold my left hand up, the moonlight catching the ring. I’ve tried everything to get it off—soap, butter, baby oil. Nothing has worked. It refuses to come off. But my finger isn’t swollen or anything. It’s the weirdest thing.
Maybe that’s the reason why I can’t stop obsessing over it. If Rorke would just move, I could go do a reverse image computer search on the ring and see if any lost and found articles have been placed. “Move, Rorke,” I whisper.
He groans, rolling over. Oh, my God, is it possible the man will obey my every command in his sleep? I could be on to something here. Slowly slipping out of bed, I tiptoe across the wood floor of my bedroom, carefully avoiding all the squeaky places. I was a master at this as a teenager. I also know just how wide I can open the door before it creaks.
Managing to get to the den without waking him, I grab my laptop and throw my legs over the oversized chair. I upload the picture I took earlier and wait. A few things pop up, and I investigate each one. Each time, it’s a similar ring, but not this ring. Biting my lip, I search missing rings and Alabama. Nothing. Then I try rings lost in the Bay. Nada. Everything I try is a dead end.
“You okay?” Rorke asks, yawning from the doorway.
Closing the laptop, I say, “Yeah, couldn’t sleep, so thought I’d do a little work.” That came out of my mouth before I even decided to lie. But I know why I did. I certainly don’t want Rorke thinking I’m obsessed over a ring. No man wants that kind of pressure.
Rorke walks over, bending down in front of me. “Working on something new?” he asks.
“I am,” I say. “I’ve only got the one device. Unless you count the travel size, so we have something new in a prototype.”
“You gonna tell me what it is?”
My skin warms all over. I can stand in a room of people and discuss how many nerve endings are in a woman’s clit, but I can’t look Rorke in the eye. It’s eight thousand, by the way.
“Um, it’s a toy for women that mimics oral sex.”
His eyebrows rise. “Really?”
I nod. “It’s programmed to do everything from the alphabet thing to little teasing motions while also being designed for the woman to be on top.”
He moves the laptop off my lap, yanking my legs in front of him, wide open. “Need some inspiration?”
I don’t answer because he’s already kissing a path up my inner thighs. My muscles clench, and my panties become soaked just with the promise of his head between my thighs. Yanking my long shirt up, I can feel his breath over my panties. My head tosses back. I didn’t realize how bad I needed this until right now. I hope God forgives me for doing this in my momma’s favorite chair.
Letting his fingers toy with the edges of my panties, he nibbles at the flesh of my inner thighs. This is the part a toy can’t give you—the tease, the buildup, not knowing what he’ll do next. Will he kiss me or make me wait? Will he be slow or fast? Hard or soft? It’s the not knowing that gets a woman going, and that I’ve been missing.
“It’s been too long since I’ve tasted you.”
I think he’s about to devour me, but he does just the opposite, slowly reaching his hands up and sliding down my panties, the rush of the night air hitting me and making me moan a little. “Still sensitive,” he says, lightly blowing between my legs.
My legs clench together. “Rorke.”
A low, sexy chuckle vibrates off my skin. I push down, hoping for some contact, but he only lets his finger outline me. The ache is so deep, I stretch my legs wider. It’s not until the first caress of his tongue over me that my body relaxes, finally having what it’s craved for ten long years, finally having a man who knows what he’s doing between my legs.
I swear, the man was made just to please me. That’s a nice thought. That he exists solely for my pleasure, but from the look on his face, I know he’s loving this. Letting my head fall back, my body just enjoys—the feel of his tongue lining me, the warmth of his breath, his fingers, the feel of his stubble between my legs. I came home to remember what it was like to be loved. This wasn’t what I had in mind. But what a bonus it is.
Slowly, the tension in my body starts to build. The higher it gets, the harder and faster Rorke goes. This is where most men lose it. They don’t understand our bodies’ clues. They change what they are doing. Big mistake. Once you do something like that, it’s like starting all over for the woman. Back to square one.
His hands go to my thighs, forcing my legs farther apart. Another rush of heat washes over me as I cry out his name. Right as I start to come down, his finger slips inside me, hitting just the right spot. “Fuck,” I scream, my body trembling hard, my legs clenching together, like I have his head in a vice.
My legs fall back open, and he continues to softly kiss me, taking every last tremble.
Looking down at him, I see his head resting on my inner thigh, his fingers making little circles on my skin. I let slip a little yawn that he doesn’t see. After what he just did to me, all I want to do is go to sleep. The best part about using a toy is there’s no feeling of guilt about reciprocating. Damn, I should’ve gone last.
I stroke his cheek, and his eyes turn up to me. I’m not sure if it’s the moonlight, but his eyes look misty. “Sterling,” he chokes out my name, like it hurts. “I need to see you like that every day. I’d almost forgotten how beautiful you look when you come.”
His words, the moonlight, the orgasmic high, the band on my ring finger exorcise any sleepiness. I slide off the chair, wanting to see him the exact same way.
*
I stretch my arms over my head, waking up to Ariana Grande’s “Side to Side.” My subconscious really is working overtime. That song is pretty much about being sore after sex. And my legs are definitely feeling it today, not used to being spread, but I’m not complaining.
Humming, I get up, hearing the shower running. My parents’ house is charming and lovely, but they haven’t really updated it, and they haven’t touched my room since I moved out. So Rorke is presently showering in my fuchsia and white colored bathroom.
Maybe it’s just me, but I’m not ready to pee in front of him, so I walk down the hallway to my parents’ bathroom. The sun is shining in through the back windows, glistening off the Bay. I’ve seen it hundreds of times before, but it seems new today, different.
I’m so glad no one can see me right now, sitting on the toilet with a cheesy smile on my face. Who knew one orgasm could make waking up such a cheery experience? But I know it’s more than that. It’s the man.
Standing at the sink washing my hands, I catch my reflection, remembering looking at myself after our night in the barn long ago, wondering if I looked different, wondering if anyone would be able to tell I wasn’t a virgin anymore. Even though we did far less last night then we did back then, my smile this morning is just the same.
Starting back down the hallway, all I can think about is wanting more. It’s strange, but I’ve been without sex for a long time. I would’ve said I missed it, but never knew how much. But something has changed because now I want more. I hope Rorke’s ready.
My bedroom suddenly door flies open. He’s already dressed, keys in hand.
“You’re leaving already?” I ask.
He plants a little kiss on my cheek and wraps his arms around me, holding me tightly. “Of all the mornings,” he says. “I’m sorry, baby, but I do have to go. I have that appointment in Mobile.”
“Is something wrong?” I ask. I knew he had something to do today, but he’s off. “Where are you going exactly?”
“Just an appointment. Everything’s fine. I promise,” he says, rushing out the door.
His promise doesn’t do a dang thing to help me feel better. I’m left to wonder what’s going on, knowing people break their promises all the time.
*
A couple hours fretting around the house, and I’m about ready to smack myself. What the heck am I doing worrying over a man? He said he was going to Mobile; I need to trust him. Besides, I know he’s not the fuck and run type.
This is part of letting people back into my life. If I want to feel loved, be loved, I’ve got to open myself up to it. And that means letting other people into my life, too. I can’t continue to blame everyone else. Yes, there have been jerks and assholes, but then I just opted out. And I can’t spend all my time with Rorke and our parents. That’s just sad. Time to woman up!
Putting on my cutest maxi dress, I head over to the bookstore. Ms. Mirabelle invited me to the book club, and I’m going. Now, I’ve never heard of a book club meeting starting at ten in the morning. I thought this was usually the traditional story time for kids, but I’m going with the flow here.
Pushing the door to the bookstore open, I notice a closed sign on the door. It’s the middle of the week. Who closes in the middle of the week? “Ms. Mirabelle,” I call out, cautiously taking a step inside.
“Book club meets in the back,” a perky voice says from behind me. I turn around, finding a petite blonde woman carrying a bag designed for wine bottles. It’s barely ten in the morning, and her bag is full. “Come on, I’ll show you. I’m Tally.”
“Sterling,” I say as she pushes me towards the back.
“I know who you are,” she says. “My husband is a police officer. I think you know him.”
“Oh!” I say, wondering how fast I can get out of here.
“Don’t worry,” Tally says. “I can’t believe he took you and your momma in for questioning. When he told me what happened, I ripped him a new one. He hasn’t gotten any since.”
Fighting back a laugh, I say, “He didn’t arrest me.”
“Doesn’t matter. He’s cut off.”
This time I can’t hold back. “Well, since orgasms are my business, I say forgive him.”
“Look who I found,” she giggles as we enter the cave of the unknown.
Five women all scream “hey” at me. Ms. Mirabelle leads the charge, pulling me down to sit. The room is a bunch of oversized sofas and pillows. A small table is filled with only chocolate items, and there’s not a book in sight.
I take a seat as the wine starts being poured. Mimosas in the morning, I can handle. But even then, only on a special occasion. Holding my hand up to decline, the pourer of the wine says, “You probably don’t remember me, but . . .”
It’s the first time I’ve really looked any of them in the face, so over-stimulated by the early morning festivities. “Oh, my God, Melanie.”
She smiles brightly, and I get up to hug her. She was my freshman buddy my senior year. I look around the room, recognizing a few other faces, too, mostly girls I went to school with. They all start telling me what they’ve been up to. They are all married, all with kids. A couple stay at home and a couple work, but they all agree they never miss book club. “It keeps me sane,” Melanie says.
“It’s so early,” I say.
“We can’t meet at night because of homework and kids’ schedules. So we decided to meet during the day.”
“But why at ten?”
“So we can have a cocktail,” Melanie says. “We drink first, then no more past eleven. That gives us time to sober up before carpool.”
That has to be the craziest drinking habit I’ve ever heard of, but it makes me giggle just the same. Mostly, I spend the day listening to them, catching up on classmates from high school. I can’t help but like these women, who use a book club as a front for their cocktails and gossip. And not one of them has asked me for money, or shot a look of judgment at me. I’m just one of the girls again, and it feels great. Not that I’m totally letting my guard down.
“Who else can we tell her about?” one of the women asks. “Rorke Weston. The town’s hottest bachelor.”
“She already knows all about Rorke,” Tally says.
“No, I really don’t.”
“Oh, come on,” she says. “I heard he couldn’t take his eyes off you at your parents’ party.”
Suddenly, all their eyes are on me, the room as quiet as a church mouse. I’d forgotten how efficient a small-town rumor mill is. “Rorke and I are . . . Well, we just started seeing each other.”
“That ring on your finger says otherwise,” Melanie says.
“Oh, no, this isn’t from him. We aren’t engaged.”
“Rorke,” Ms. Mirabelle says, motioning with her hands for us all to quiet down.
My eyes dart up, finding him leaning in the doorway, grinning at me. “Sterling.”
Getting to my feet, I place my hands on his chest, forcing him out into the main store. “What are you doing here?”
“I saw your car out front on my way back into town. Thought I’d stop. What’s this?”
“It’s book club,” I say.
“Okay,” he says, a cute smile crossing his lips. He gives me a little kiss. “Well, get back to it. It sounded important.”
“You heard?”
“Every word.”
Feeling my face flush, I’m only rescued when the girls start to file out. “You’re coming next week, right?” Tally asks. “It’s our last meeting before we break for the summer.”
“I’ll be here.”
“Bye, Rorke,” they say, their voices in a girly sing-song tone.
His fingers lock with mine, and as soon as the doors close behind them, he leans in to kiss me, but I pull away. “Ms. Mirabelle is around here somewhere.”
“My place or yours?” he whispers.
Ignoring him, I ask, “How was Mobile?”