“What changed your mind?”
He tapped the armrest between us. “I went on a trip. Out east, to interview for college. And when I was gone, I realized I missed her something awful. If you miss ’em, it’s something worth naming.”
“If you miss them,” I repeat. “It’s something worth naming.”
“You missed him?”
“Yeah. A lot.”
“Putting a label on it, putting it in a so-called ‘box’—he puts air quotes around it—“doesn’t really change anything. Just changes your perception. I think it just means you’re scared of committing to it. If there’s no label of relationship, of boyfriend and girlfriend or what have you, then you’re not committed to it. It’s less real.” A shrug. “That’s just you lying to yourself. You can be all the way committed to something—to someone—and not realize it, and not have it in a nice neatly labeled little box. It’s still what it is, you just haven’t named it yet.” He glances at the ceiling as the pilot announces that we’re making our approach for landing and to fasten seatbelts; we both put ours on, and then he continues. “Naming things gives them power. That’s where the fear comes from. If you name it, it feels more real. But then, the flip side is, when you name it, you take away the unknown, to a degree. And that should, once you accept it, make you less afraid.”
I nod. “That makes a lot of sense, actually.”
He pats my hand. “And most of the time, there’s nothing to be afraid of anyway. If he’s worth missing, then he’s worth naming the relationship for.”
“Thank you for the advice.”
He waves a hand. “It’s not really advice, it’s just some things I’ve learned in my life.”
“Well, it’s appreciated, whatever you call it.”
He just nods, and the conversation ends there.
But I’m left thinking, as we land and taxi to the jetway. When we disembark, I wave and smile at my seatmate, and head to collect my luggage. Back to my car.
The drive home is a little over an hour, and I spend it thinking about Thai, about what we are, what we have. What it is.
He’s my boyfriend.
I feel a little giddy, at that. But it’s true. And I like it.
I’ve never been so glad to put my car into park. I sit for a moment, and just breathe. I’m not at home—I’m at Thai’s condo.
I’m going to use the key he gave me, let myself into his house—where I’ve never even been—and I’m going to climb into his bed with him.
I stomp my feet and shake my hands and my head and let out a little scream of…well, everythingness. Nerves, fear, excitement, eagerness. Pure, raw, somewhat unstable horniness.
I’m not tired, all of a sudden. I’m wired. I mean, yeah, behind the adrenaline of excitement is the fact of exhaustion, but…it’s faint, right now.
I shut off the motor, collect my purse from the passenger seat and then my suitcase and carry-on from the trunk. Lock my Bronco, and head for the entrance. I already have his key in my hand.
Top floor, last one on the left.
The building is newer—McKenna was in the running to build these but lost out at the last second. They’re nice, though—Tyler lives in a different building of this same complex. God, I’m glad that’s over, honestly. He was so boring.
Strangely, it’s only since meeting Thai all over again that I’ve realized exactly how boring Tyler really is.
The elevator is thankfully quick, and I’m dragging my suitcase at a power walk toward his door. There it is. My heart thumps loudly in my chest.
My hand is shaking.
Unlock the deadbolt, then the knob, and push it open.
I’m so tired, wired, and nervous that I almost trip over it: a box on the floor in front of his door. I figure it’s a delivery for him or something, so I pick it up and tuck it under my arm—or, at least, that’s the intention. It’s heavy, though, so I have to use both hands to carry it inside with me.
I expect it to be dark, or maybe a light in the kitchen left on for me to see by.
I let the door close behind me and absently toss the key into my purse.
There are no lights on at all, but it’s not dark.
Because he’s lit candles.
Dozens of them, little tea lights in a parallel line, leading across the open-plan main area to his room. My heart, already in my throat, now threatens to completely clog my airway. Leaving my bags by the door, I float, weightless, along the candle-lit path. I hear music—low, percussive jazz, a bass, a piano, a trumpet. I hear water running—and then shut off.
His room is lit with candles as well, more tea lights. This is some Bachelor kind of thing he’s got going on, and my heart is melting even as it hammers in my throat like a tribal drum.
Wide king-size bed, neatly made, gray comforter, navy pillows. I honestly don’t register the rest, other than the usual dresser, TV mounted on the wall opposite the bed. Balcony.
The path leads to the bathroom.
The door is open, more tea lights flickering.
Barely able to breathe, even less able to contain my tumultuous admixture of feelings, I hurry the last few steps into the bathroom.
He’s standing in the center, wreathed in candle-lit steam. A huge claw-foot soaking tub is filled with steaming water and bubbles. Candles ring the tub, line every surface.
I told him to be sleeping naked, but he’s done me one better—way better.
He’s wrapped in a towel.
His golden hair is loose around his jawline, brushed and clean and beautiful. The towel is white, hangs to his knees. Tucked tight at the waist, low. His abs ripple, glisten in the moonlight. His body, god…this man’s body is sculpted by Heaven for my viewing pleasure.
He’s holding a single red rose.
And he’s on the other side of a massage table.
I stop on this side of the table, blinking hard. “Thai?”
“You didn’t really think I’d be asleep, did you?”
I laugh, sniffle. “A little, yeah. It’s after one.”
He snorts. “I’d wait up all night for you, Delia.”
I glance at the table. “What’s…what’s this?”
“A massage table.”
“You have a massage table?”
“I do now.”
I lick my lips. “Um, why?”
He rounds the end of the table and wraps his hands around my waist, tugs me to him—the box is between us, awkward and poky. “It’s comfy to sleep on?”
I laugh. “Smartass.”
“Because I told you I’d give you a massage.”
“Yeah, a butt massage.”
He touches my chin with a fingertip. “I can include a butt massage.”
“Thai—” I don’t even know which way is up. “The candles, the bath, the massage table…” I swallow hard. “You did all this…for me?”
I’m still holding the heavy box in my hands, but I’ve all but forgotten about it.
He nods. “I’ve been keeping the water hot and the bubbles fresh for about an hour. I’m going to rub you down, and then you’re going to take a bath and relax. And then you’re going to bed.”
I nod. “I see, I see.” I smirk. “One suggestion, however, if I may?”
He lifts an eyebrow. “What’s that?”
“Bath first, and then massage?”
“I figured the bath would wash the oils off.”
I shrug. “True, but three things—one, baths are not for getting clean, they’re for relaxing. I mean, you can’t really get clean in me-soup, you know? Two, the bath is hot and bubbly now. Third, once I’m done being bathed and massaged, I’m going to be a puddle of so much useless jelly, and it’ll be easier to get me from the table to bed than from the tub to bed, all wet and soapy.”
He nodded, rubbing his chin. “Points taken.” He gestures at the box. “You haven’t opened it, yet.”
I frown. “Oh. I was so surprised by the candles and everything that I—” I cut off abruptly. “Wait? It’s for me?”
/>
He laughs. “Yeah, didn’t you look at it?”
I do so: The shipping label reads To Delia McKenna, c/o Thai Bristow, with the address to this condo. The return address is Los Angeles, a name I don’t recognize.
“What is it?” I ask.
He snorts. “Open it and find out?”
I set it down on the massage table pick at the edge of the packing tape until I can peel it off. Within, a long, crumpled wad of thick construction paper used as packing material. I pull it out—underneath, stacks of books.
Transparent archival-quality protective sleeves sheathe hardcover books. I pick up the top one: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. Hands shaking, I gingerly withdraw the book.
I glance up at Thai, but his face is impassive.
I open the cover, and there, on the blank page, is J.K. Rowling’s signature. The copyright page indicates this is a British first edition, first printing.
“Thai…” I breathe.
“Keep going,” he murmurs.
I slip the book back into the sleeve and set it aside on the table. The next book is the same. An autographed first edition, first printing copy of the next Harry Potter book. All eight. All signed. But wait, there’s more—signed first edition hardcover editions of the entire Twilight series, as well.
My eyes water. “Thai, are you for real?”
He nods, shrugs. “I mean, yeah.” He smiles, but it’s uneven, uncertain. “In this case, I am trying to make up for the past. I destroyed at least one book that I remember. I saw the missing book in your house, and I just…it stung, you know? Like, you still have all your favorite books, you know? You clearly treasure them. And I know it doesn’t make up for what I did then, but hopefully those will go at least a little way toward…” A shrug, as he trails off. “I don’t know. Showing you I’m serious.” A hard swallow. “About you. About us.”
“It does,” I whisper. “It goes a long way. All of this does.”
He sets the rose on the table with the books; it has one of those water vial things on the cut end keeping it watered, so I don’t bother with taking the time to put it in a vase. There are other more pressing concerns, at the moment.
Such as his hands trailing over the buttons of my blouse. One button, two, three buttons, four…and then the blouse is on the floor and I’m in a skirt, plain white utilitarian bra, and a pair of flats. I swallow hard, because I’ve been naked with him twice now, but it’s still nerve-wracking at first, to let him see me. To let anyone see me naked, fully lit, flaws and all. And he’s in no rush. Once he has the shirt off, he just runs his hands over my shoulders, down my arms. Catches my waist, holds there, hands wrapped around me just above my hips. His eyes take me in, travel slowly from eyes to throat to breast. I lick my lips and meet his gaze, letting my own hunger for him, my own appreciation for his body fuel my confidence in myself. But the thing that shifts me from self-conscious in my half-dressed state to confident? Him. His eyes, on me. His expression.
Has any man ever been able to so clearly tell me how beautiful he finds me with no more than a look? No more than an expression on his face? Thai hasn’t said a word since peeling off my blouse, but his eyes say all that needs to be said.
He wants me naked for him, but he’s dragging this out on purpose, savoring each moment of the journey from clothed to nude.
I rest my hands on his shoulders and wait for him.
Instead of going for the bra next, his fingers travel around the waist of my skirt and seek the zipper. Find it. Slowly lower it, inch by inch, until the garment is loose, and then with a flick of his wrists, the skirt floats to pool around my feet. Kick off my shoes, toe them aside.
With each garment I lose, I feel more confident. More in need of his touch. His eyes on all of me. I want to be naked with him. I want that stupid towel off, but I make myself wait. Delay my own gratification.
He bites his lip, and I somehow know he’s trying to decide what to take off me next—bra or underwear.
I guide his hands to my waist. “You handle these,” I say, and then reach up behind my back. “I’ll handle this.”
He grins, shoving my underwear down. “I like this plan. Gets you naked faster.”
“I thought you’d like that.” I unhook the clasps and shrug the bra forward and off, stepping out of the underwear at the same time. “Your turn.”
“I figured—okay.” His protest was cut short as I yanked the towel off him.
I slide my fingernails down his abs, over his navel, to his burgeoning erection. “Hey, I missed you too, you know. You’re not the only one with needs, here, buster.”
He hisses as I wrap my hands around him. “But I had plans for you. You’re gonna derail them, if you keep that up.”
“You had plans, huh?” I feel need swelling inside me, expanding in my chest, blossoming in my belly, soaking my core. Making my hands greedy for him. “What if I had plans of my own, Thai? Did you ever think of that? Huh? What if I’ve spent the entire weekend dreaming about this?” I squeeze him, not bothering to stifle my groan of pleasure at the feel of his thick hard flesh in my fist. “What if I spent the entire flight and the whole drive here trying to decide what I wanted more…”
I ply him with both hands, now.
“Doing this…” I say, with a squeeze and a twist. “Or…this?”
I drop to my knees, crumpling my skirt under my knees for padding against the tile. Pull him away from his belly and kiss the tip, a brush of my lips, as if I was taking the first bite of an ice cream cone.
“Ohhh fuck, Dee.” His hands bury in my hair, knotting convulsively. “Jesus, your mouth.”
I stroke him, both hands, twisting. Lick the tip. “Want to know something about me, Thai?”
He hisses, then groans, and his eyes flutter into the back of his head. “Whazz’at?” God, he’s gone adorably stupid.
“I don’t…do this, a lot.” I pause, plunge my fists down to his root, and then pull him toward my face and take a mouthful of him, bobbing down on him until I’m swallowing around him. “But not for the reasons you may think.”
“What reasons…uhh…what reasons do think I would assume?”
“That I don’t like doing it. That I’m too prudish for it.”
He gathers my hair in his hands, two fistfuls of my black tresses, piling it on my head. His head tips back as I pull my mouth off him, lick the tip, then up the side facing me from midway to the tip, and then take a mouthful of him and bob down around him again.
“You…you wouldn’t be wrong. Clearly, those assumptions are—are incorrect, however.”
“Very much so.”
“Enlighten me?”
I kiss the head, then suction my lips around the head and suckle while swirling my tongue against him. “It’s a kind of contrariness, you might say.” Another kiss, another lick. I watch his face, enjoying the expression of his-brain-is-a-puddle-of-goo intensifying with each movement of my mouth on him, each touch of my tongue.
I caress him with my hands while I answer him. “Most of the time, I get an impression like it’s expected of me. Which is like a light switch for me—immediate turn-off. No chance.”
“I don’t…I don’t expect anything.”
I rub my thumb over the tip, my other hand slowly pumping at his base. “I know, Thai. And that’s why I’m doing this. You were all set to do all this amazing stuff for me. You never even hinted at what I might want to do for you, or what you want me to do to you.”
“Because I’m more concerned with what we can do together.” He meets my eyes. “I’m more concerned with how I can make you feel good.” He attempts to pull me to my feet. “You had a long weekend. I want to pamper you. Relax you.” He swallows hard, brows furrowing when I resist his attempts to pull me away from him. “Make you feel good. Show you that I—show you how much you mean to me.”
“What you’ve planned for me is not lost on me, Thai—trust me. And you will do everything you’ve got planned and more.” I palm his ba
lls with one hand and massage them gently, smirking and biting my lip around an amused huff as his eyes literally cross. “After I’ve gotten what I want. Because when I tell you that I had wet dreams and daydreams about doing this to you, all weekend long, I am in no way exaggerating.”
I plunge my other hand around him, a little faster now. Smile up at him as he swallows as if doing it requires active concentration. As if he has to remind himself to breathe.
“Why?”
“Why?” I laugh. Put my lips around him and swirl my tongue against him and then plunge him to the back of my throat, as far as I feel comfortable. Swallow around him. Back away. “Same reason you’re going to enjoy going down on me, once you’ve got me on that table. It makes me feel good. And you get off on my pleasure almost as much as you get off on your own.”
“More,” he whispers. “Your pleasure is more important to me than my own.”
“I know,” I answer, in a whisper of my own. I stroke him, one-handed, still cupping his sack with the other. “Now. Stop asking questions and let me focus on making you feel good.”
He groans a ragged sigh as I continue the gentle massaging cradle of his heavy balls and begin a slow rhythm with my mouth, up and down, licking at the apex and swallow at the bottom of the movement.
Faster.
He hisses through gritted teeth. His eyes wrench open and his brow furrows, watching as his cock disappears into my mouth, my jaw stretched wide to accommodate his immensity. “Fucking hell, Dee,” he growls.
I smile around him, or try to communicate a smile without being able to actually move my mouth—it’s otherwise fully occupied.
He’s tensed, now, and I know he’s close. I’m learning him. He doesn’t want it to end and doesn’t want to forget himself and start thrusting and risk hurting me, so he freezes and goes tense all over, muscles isometrically clenched.
I want his orgasm. Now.
It’s all I’m focused on. The taste of him, salt and skin and musk of pre-cum. The feel of him sliding through my lips. Against my throat. Filling my mouth until I have to swallow around him. The way he groans continuously. The way his hands snarl in my hair as if only just barely holding himself back from pulling me onto him harder, faster.