CHAPTER SIXTEEN
RORKE
Sterling’s in front of me, driving to her place. I’m surprised she’s letting me come over. I can tell she’s upset about the way I left this morning, and I can’t say I blame her after all the things we did the night before. I’m sure she didn’t plan on sucking my cock then having me run out the door the next morning.
Pulling my Jeep next to her car, I hurry out, trying to get her door for her, but she’s already heading around back. “Sterling?” I catch her by the waist. “I’m sorry I left so quick this morning.”
“Is it another woman?” she asks, her eyes hard and cold.
How the fuck could she even think that? Why do women’s minds always seem to go to the worst-case scenario? Men don’t work that way. I certainly wouldn’t mind her being a little jealous, but not like this. Her hurting, even a little bit, doesn’t fly with me. “Of course not.”
“Then who’s in Mobile?”
I take her hand, leading her down to the dock. We sit down, letting our feet dangle. “A doctor.” Her whole body tenses next to me. “I’m fine. I promise.”
“Then why the secrecy?”
“Every year since Levi was diagnosed, my mom insists I go see his oncologist for a check-up. It’s crazy and irrational. But when Levi first started showing symptoms, the doctors here missed it. So she insists I go. I do it because it seems to bring her some peace, knowing I’m healthy.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me that?” she asks.
“Because it’s no big deal.”
Her forehead wrinkles up a little. “It can’t be healthy for your mom to think like this. Has she ever talked to a counselor?”
“The thing is,” I say, swallowing hard, “because Levi and I were twins, my risk of cancer is a little higher.”
Immediately, her eyes fill with tears. This is the real reason I didn’t tell her this morning. I knew she’d get upset, and I wouldn’t be able to leave her. “How high?” she asks in a little sob.
“Sterling, remember I’m fine.” I place my arm around her waist, pulling her closer. “Because Levi and I were fraternal twins, it’s only a little higher. But that’s enough to freak my mom out.”
She nuzzles a little closer, her hand gripping my shirt. “I understand,” she says.
“Nothing is going to take you away from me,” I say, playing with the ring on her finger. “Nothing.”
“I still can’t get it off,” she whispers. “I know you heard the women at the book club asking about it. That must’ve bothered you.”
“Why would it bother me?”
“They thought we were engaged!”
“Then I’d be one lucky son of a bitch,” I say, nuzzling my nose with hers. “I want to take you out tonight. Dinner and a movie?”
“I like staying in,” she says, gently kissing me. “TV and takeout at home are the best dates.”
I’m not a man who’s going to argue with that, but my gut twists a little, wondering if she’s saying that because she knows money is an issue for me. But that’s exactly it; it’s my issue. I can’t project that onto her if this is going to work. “How about I make you dinner?”
“You cook?” she asks. “You don’t own a stove!”
*
There was a serious flaw in my plan when I suggested I make her dinner. I don’t know how to cook. I can grill anything. Give me a pound of meat and I’m good, but the grill at her house is broken, so I’m left to the kitchen.
Thank God for moms. She sent me what is supposed to be an easy recipe for some chicken dish, but then she started talking about a salad and sides and dessert. When I told her I couldn’t handle the salad, she actually laughed at me. And I picked up a carton of ice cream for dessert, which Sterling started in on as soon as I got back from the store. Pistachio almond is her favorite, has been since we were kids. I just have to get through the chicken and fried potatoes, and I’m golden.
Sterling’s offered to help a couple times. Apparently, she likes to cook and does it a lot back in New York. I shooed her away each time, not wanting her in the room to witness this disaster. I’ve used every pot in the kitchen and started over twice already. This is the last batch of chicken. I can’t mess it up again. And I’ve got my mom on FaceTime, whispering my way through it.
“Thanks, Mom,” I whisper back. “I’ve got it now.”
“Rorke, make sure to cut into the chicken to check if it’s done, otherwise you could get her sick.”
“Cut the chicken, got it.”
I hear Sterling coming down the hallway. “Got to go now, Mom. Bye.” Hitting the end call button, I flash Sterling a confident look over my shoulder.
“Smells good,” Sterling says, placing her empty bowl of ice cream in the sink. At least I know she’s got something edible in her stomach.
“I’ll set the table,” Sterling says as I plate the food.
“Already done,” I say, nodding towards the porch.
I know I got that part right. The setting sun will provide the lighting. And I put a couple daisies on the table for decoration.
Sterling plants a little kiss on my cheek, and I carry two plates outside. I pour us some wine and hold my breath as she takes her first bite. I can’t explain the relief that fills me when she doesn’t die right then and there. My cooking is actually not that bad.
She flashes me a smile, holding up her fork. “Make sure to thank your mom for me.”
“Ah hell, you heard that?”
She giggles. “It’s very sweet you did this.”
Sweet? Being sweet is not the reason most men cook for their new girlfriends. We want to get laid. The box of condoms I just happened to pick up while shopping for groceries for dinner pretty much confirms where my head is. Actually, I hated buying them. No man enjoys condoms. Sterling and I didn’t use them before, but I’ve got no idea if she’s on birth control, so it’s better to be prepared.
As a teacher in a Catholic school, I’ve sat through speaker after speaker talking about abstinence. It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. The health program does involve a chapter on safe sex and STDs, and the woman who teaches that class always makes a point that if you can’t talk to your partner about birth control and your past sexual partners, then you probably shouldn’t be having sex with them. Easier said than done, lady.
“Rorke?”
“Hmm?”
“You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?”
Oh shit, nothing worse than getting caught not listening. “You said how sweet I was.”
She smiles, her head shaking. “That was like five minutes ago. I was asking about our trip to New Orleans. What were you thinking about?” she asks.
Remember me saying that men can only think about their cocks when they’re sporting wood? This is a perfect example. “I was just wondering if you want more ice cream for dessert.”
She knows I’m lying, and if she didn’t, she knows when I stand up, my dick pushing against my shorts, filling up all the extra space. But she ignores it. I tell her to relax, and she moves over to the porch swing. As quick as I can with this rock in my pants, I start to clean up.
“Let’s do that later,” she says. “Come sit with me.”
She angles herself, indicating she wants me to sit behind her, and I pull her between my legs, wrapping my arms around her. Her ass pressing up against my dick is not helping my situation. She cuddles down into my chest, and I move her long brown hair to the side, gently kissing her neck.
She’s got to know that every time we’re together is an opportunity for me to get in her pants. I missed too many of those when we were younger. Her body trembles slightly, her back arching just enough for her ass to push into me. Moving her hair, I let my tongue caress the other side of her neck as a little moan falls from her lips.
I love that little sound she makes when she’s getting revved up. She makes the same one when she’s coming down. I can’t describe it other than it’s a sweet horniness. Maybe Sterling was right, I should be better at this since I’m an English teacher.
Letting my hands wander, I lift her shirt slightly, but she catches my hand, pushing it lower. I can’t help but chuckle. My woman wants to get right to the good part.
Slowly, I let my fingers graze her thigh, lifting her skirt as I go, watching the smooth skin of her inner thighs come into the light. “I need you to touch me,” she whispers.
Her warmth draws me in, a thankful smile covering my face when my fingers find her and not the silk of her panties. Why did I not discover this sooner? Little tease!
My fingers move over her with purpose. The purpose being to make her want me so bad she can’t resist anymore. I drive her to the edge then slow down. Make no mistake, everything I’m doing has a purpose. I’m not an amateur who doesn’t know how to read the clues of her body. I know exactly what I’m doing. To the brink again then pull back. This isn’t a game or punishment. I’m not toying with her.
Okay, technically, I’m toying with her, but only because I know it will bring her that much more pleasure. Only because I know it will make her orgasm that much longer and harder. Only because this is the only way I know how to love her—with every bit of myself.
Her nails dig into my thighs, her body starting to tremble. This time, I let her fly over the edge. It’s a beautiful sight to witness. Out here with the bay, the moonlight, the trees—none of it holds a candle to Sterling Jamison under my fingertips.
I hold her, waiting for her body to settle. Her head tilts up to me, and I whisper, “I love you.” She still hasn’t said it back, but I don’t care. In moments like this, I just have to tell her, for no other reason than I know she needs to hear it. Her face grimaces for a second, and she adjusts herself in my arms. “Sterling?”
She sits up, her hand over her stomach, her head shaking a little. “Um, I need to go inside.”
“Sterling, don’t run away.”
“I’m not,” she says, darting inside, her hand still over her stomach. I head after her, but she’s practically running at this point. The bathroom door slams hard. I can’t fucking believe this. I bang on the door. “Don’t come in,” she says.
I should’ve listened because I’m not prepared for what I find when I open the door. A horrible gagging sound echoes through the walls. She’s sitting on the floor leaning over the toilet, vomiting.
Tears running down her face, she yells, “Get out!”
But I’ve already seen it, heard it, and smelled it. There’s no going back now. Grabbing a rag off the counter, I run it under cold water, hold her hair back, and place the rag on the back of her neck while she continues to vomit.
“Please go,” she cries between heaves.
“Baby, I’m not going to leave you like this.”
“Rorke,” she pleads. “I need some privacy.”
“I’ll be right outside. Just call me . . .”
“Go!” she yells.
Sitting outside the bathroom door, I try not to listen. I want to be close enough if she needs me, so I try to block out anything but her voice calling for me. I rest my head in my hands. Did I poison her? I checked the chicken. It was fine. It wasn’t that. Plus, we both ate it, and I feel fine.
So it wasn’t the chicken, and the potatoes were fine. We drank the same wine. I have no idea what’s going on, and then it hits me.
Rushing to the kitchen, I open the freezer and pull out the ice cream. The damn stuff is expired.
I toss it then head back over and knock on the door, telling her what I found. When I don’t hear her respond, I open the door, finding her lying on the cold tile floor, her hairline covered in sweat. “Shit, Sterling!” I’m on my knees beside her in an instant. She looks up, her green eyes dull, but she manages a little smile. “Let’s get you to bed.”
“Think I’ll just stay here,” she groans.
“I’ll carry you.”
“Oh, God.” Quickly, she sits up and heaves into the toilet again.
Rubbing her back, I say, “Okay, we’ll stay here.”
She collapses back down, her head in my lap.