The Other Man

“What are you doing?” I asked him.  He’d shown no sign of letting up, like he was just going to go down on me indefinitely, with no signs of stopping for the foreseeable future.

He smiled.  Yes, it was a cold smile, but I was starting to like that just fine.  “Showing manners.”

Dammit.  He was really starting to grow on me.

I liked him way too much for someone I had no clue if I’d ever see again.

He climbed onto the bed, pinned me down.  He held my wrists with one hand, the other gripping into my hair.  He pushed his hips between my thighs and started fucking me.

He started talking while he did it.  A lot.  And not just dirty talk.  Random talk.

“What the fuck?” I asked, after he slipped some inane comment about the weather in.

“Small talk,” he explained.

Dammit.

He was a weirdo, for sure, but I definitely liked him.

He pulled out of me suddenly, cursing.

I squirmed a bit and tried not to curse myself.  Why had he stopped?

“I forgot to put on a condom,” he growled, going for his pants.

Shit.  We both forgot.  How the hell had that happened?

At least he hadn’t come inside of me bare.

Still, I couldn’t believe I’d missed that.  It was a bit sobering.

He wrapped up and mounted me again.

He stayed for hours, but not for the night.

At least he said goodbye this time, though perversely, I wished he hadn’t.

Big hands shaking my hip and shoulder woke me up.

I blinked groggily awake to an intimidating Heath looming over me.

“I have to go,” he said gruffly.

I sighed out a breath, shifting restlessly under his hands.  “Okay.”

“You said I should say goodbye when I leave.  This is goodbye.”

I just shut my eyes and nodded.  He was apparently a literal guy.

Still, he didn’t move, just staring down at me for a long time.

“I wasn’t even supposed to come here,” he finally said, each word sounding like it was fighting to come out of his throat.  “I’m in the middle of a job, something . . . something I can’t be distracted from.”

Whatever the hell that meant.

“You’re distracting me,” he continued.

Unaccountably, I liked that.  A lot.

“I’m not leaving because I want to.  I need to go.  Legitimately.  I hate having to explain myself.  To anyone.  But believe this: If I could stick around longer, I would.  Okay?”

He’d told me almost nothing, given me no answers, not that he owed me any, all things considered, but what little he’d said, I appreciated.  Whether it was bullshit or not, I liked how he’d taken the time to reassure me, to let me know that he’d have spent more time with me if he could have.

“Okay,” I whispered to him in the dark.

He started to pull away.  I stopped him with a hand on his retreating wrist.  “Will I see you again?” I asked, the words torn out of me.

He cursed and bent down, taking my mouth roughly, his hands pulling my soft sheets up, wrapping them around my body.  Tucking me in.  I wasn’t sure what to make of the tender action, but I liked it.  A lot.

Loved it.

“You will if I have anything to say about it,” he said cryptically and was gone faster than he’d come.

God, he was rough around the edges.

Why the hell did I like him so much?

He was uncivilized.

Churlish.

Uncouth.

And strangely, kind of sweet.

CHAPTER TEN

I was soaking in the bath, glass of red wine cupped loosely in my hand and balanced haphazardly on the rim of the tub.

It was eight p.m., and I’d gotten back from a work trip in L.A. about thirty minutes prior.

I couldn’t even have said why, but the trip had been stressful to me, and it was sort of a belated shock to realize how relieved I was to be home.  I mean, it’s not like I wasn’t accustomed to traveling, and I’d only been gone a few days.  I almost always went to L.A. multiple times a month for work.  It was typical for me.

I’d gone for an editorial spread for a fashion magazine that had involved dealing with a temperamental supermodel.  Maybe that was where all of my pent up tension was coming from?

I didn’t think so.  I’d dealt with many a prima donna.

That sort of thing never fazed me.

What was it then?

My body was coiled so tight, jaw held hard, lips pursed, shoulders drawn up too stiffly.  Before the wine today, I’d looked down at my hands several times, always surprised when I found them made into nervous little fists.

The fists were gone, and the rest I was working on decompressing the best way I knew how.

I was reading on my phone, since it was easier to hold in one hand, the perfect arrangement for doing two of my favorite things simultaneously.

Drinking wine and devouring a book.

I was an avid, lifelong reader.  I didn’t stick to any one genre.  In fact, I read everything, though not all mixed together.  I went through phases.  My last phase, which had lasted maybe four months, had been a True Crime phase.  That one had started when I read my friend Dair’s novels and turned into me finding and reading every non-fiction book that covered the crimes his novels were loosely based on.

That phase had ended a few weeks prior, and I was back to my favorite genre of all.  Old faithful, guaranteed to get me out of a funk.