Headfirst Falling Page 10

“Don’t laugh,” I warn, scooting to the other side of the bed to give him room.

  He holds up his hands. “I wouldn’t dare.”

  Without another word, he kicks off his shoes and joins me. His back is against the headboard, straight as a pin. It’s the same posture all men who spend time in the military carry.

  He glances at me from the corners of his eyes when I scoot a little closer. In the space between us, I trace circles on the comforter with my index finger. After a minute, I move even closer and trace my finger across the space that’s smaller now. I’m positive he knows exactly what I’m doing, but it still feels sneaky. And I kind of like it.

  By the time I settle down, we’re shoulder to shoulder and there is no more “space between.”

  He shakes his head, but I can see the grin on his profile. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

  I twine my hands together in my lap, because if I let them roam free, they’ll go straight to him. “Why?”

  “Because I can’t think straight,” he says, his voice slightly strangled. “Not when you get close to me like this.”

  “Then just don’t think,” I say, kind of like it’s no big deal.

  The muscles in his arm stiffen. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

  “That sounds like a warning.”

  “That’s because it is,” he counters.

  “What then?” I press. “What should we not be doing?”

  “This.” He motions to our pressed-together legs with his hand. “It’s a bad idea. Having this conversation here, together, in your bed.”

  “But I want you here, with me, in my bed.”

  He exhales through gritted teeth. “No, Charlie, you don’t.”

  Oh, yes I do.

  “You only think you do,” he continues. “I don’t have what you need.”

  I sit up and move. By the time he can process what’s happening, one of my legs is on his other side and I’m straddling him. I’m in his lap, and we’re literally face-to-face. He has nowhere to hide. This man is going to be the death of me.

  I duck my head and look him straight in the eye. “Why don’t you tell me what you think I need, then?”

  He tips his head back, resting it against the headboard. “Someone who can feel. You need emotion. I can’t give you that.”

  Hearing him say things like this sends my brain into an absolute clusterfuck of arguments I could make against him. He can give me emotion. He already has. He’s sweet and caring. He’s human. He loses his temper just like the rest of the world, and for valid reasons, like the situation with Dave. I want to scream all of this at him, to make him understand. But I don’t. Instead, I ask, “What can you give me?”

  His eyes drift to my lips and back to my eyes. Every inch of my body flickers to life. I’ll start begging if he doesn’t touch me soon. Judging from the way he’s looking at me, I won’t have to wait much longer.

  And I don’t.

  His hands glide to my waist and run up the length of my torso, skimming along the skin beneath my breasts. Then down over my ribs in a leisurely pace. I pull in a sharp breath, shocked at how responsive my skin is to his touch. His hands are still on the move, sliding around to the small of my back.

  When he runs his fingers up the line of my spine, my eyelids flutter shut and the room is suddenly spinning. I press one hand against his chest to steady myself and feel the leaping of his heart beneath my palm. He wraps the remains of my messy braid around his hand and tugs softly, lifting my chin and exposing my neck. Then he plants a soft kiss just below my jaw, and it takes every single ounce of my willpower not to whimper.

  “The physical stuff,” he finally answers.

  I lean in closer and push my palms up his T-shirt, taking in handfuls of the thin fabric. “Like what?”

  “Like this...” He kisses a trail along my skin, tracing the line of my jaw. My breath hitches, and he laughs. I would be offended if I weren’t on the verge of fainting from the warm, fuzzy feeling his low chuckle ignites in my core.

  I open my hooded eyes and look at him. “And what else?”

  I want to protest when he stops touching me and switches off the lamp. I can only make out the outline of his body. The dimming of my vision makes me hyperaware of his touch...and it’s hot. My skin tingles, every one of my nerve endings alert, waiting and wanting.

  His palm skirts up the length of my arm then over the curve of my shoulder, threading through the hair at the nape of my neck. He places his other hand on my lower back and applies a light pressure, coaxing me closer to his body.

  His face is close to mine, and I can feel his breath on my lips. I want to taste it.

  “And this...” he murmurs, tilting my face down until his mouth finds mine.

  His lips are soft and warm, perfect. I’m not ready for the kiss to end when he pulls away and runs his thumb along my jawline. The space between our lips is microscopic. Barely there, as if he’s testing me, asking permission to continue.

  “Do you want me to stop?” he asks.

  “No.” The grip I have on his T-shirt tightens as I lean forward and brush my lips to his. “I want this.”

  That’s all he needs to hear.

  He has no reservations when his mouth finds mine for the second time. There’s heat behind this kiss, and it lights me on fire with pure desire for more. He drags his teeth across my bottom lip, and I open my mouth, giving way for our tongues to meet. They intertwine in a tango that’s both frantic and tantalizing—and frightening. Because right now I’m ready to beg him to rip the clothes off my body and run his tongue over every inch of my skin.

  I have total control over my hands, which are planted firmly on his chest. Jackson does not. His rove down the length of my body and back up, stopping to touch all the spots that drive me wild and break down all my resolve. I lose myself in his scent, his touch, his kiss—in him. I let him consume me. I rock my hips against him, use my teeth to nip the line of his jaw, drag the tip of my tongue across his bottom lip, but I never move my damn hands. Because if I do they’ll slide down his chest and under the waistband of his shorts. Once I loosen my grip, it’s over. I’ll free-fall so fast and hard that hitting the ground might actually kill me.

  But then we break apart and I open my eyes. Bad idea.

  His lashes feather up, and his lips tilt into a lazy, sweet smile when our gazes lock.

  I tear his shirt over his head so fast it makes him chuckle. I drag him into another long kiss mid-laugh.

  I feel the tension leave his shoulders as I move my lips against his, teasing him with my tongue. I know he’s letting himself go, and I’ve almost got him. The fact that I can affect his body the way he affects mine thrills me. It makes me brave. Since his shirt is gone, I have nothing to hold on to. I slide my palms down his hard chest instead, stopping to linger at the deep V that disappears into his waistband.

  A low groan comes from deep in his throat and sends my brain into a complete frenzy. I don’t even realize what’s happening when his hands release me and he leans back.

  “We shouldn’t be doing this,” he says, and the fact that he’s unable to disguise the desire in his voice comforts me.

  I blink my heavy eyes a few times and try to concentrate, but I can’t stop staring at his lips. “We aren’t teenagers anymore,” I point out. “We can do whatever we want.”

  He lifts me by the waist and moves me to the bed beside him. I sink into the pillows like a heavy weight.

  “If we keep going at this pace, I won’t be able to control myself.”

  Another warning that I don’t want to hear. We’ve come this far, and I have no intention of stopping now.

  “Good,” I say, and his eyebrows shoot up. “I want you to be out of control.”

  He laughs softly and brushes a strand of hair from
my face. “What am I gonna do with you?” His eyes drop to my mouth, and I bite my lip.

  His eyes flare to life. That’s my only warning before he rolls on top of me in one smooth motion, holding up his weight with his hands.

  “Stop that,” he orders. “It makes me want to do dirty things to you.”

  His playful smirk drops from his lips when I drag my teeth across my bottom lip, gazing up at him from beneath my lashes. “Stop what?”

  He drops his weight to one arm and lowers his mouth to the side of my head. “You know what,” he whispers, his free hand traveling down the length of my body. His fingertips touch the inside of my thigh at the same moment he touches his lips to the sensitive spot just below my ear.

  I moan and his arm gives way beneath him. He presses against me. Everywhere. All of him. He rocks his hips into me once, shifts his weight then does it again. The satisfying rush the sensation gives me drags me completely under. I doubt I’ll ever be able to come up for air.

  I slide my hands down and wedge them between our bodies. I shock myself when I slip my fingers inside his waistband and run my fingers across the skin there. His chest vibrates with a groan.

  “Wait.” His hand covers mine, stopping me. “Do you have any condoms?”

  I blink once, then twice. “No.” I hadn’t thought of that.

  He leans back, and I watch his eyes lose their sexy glaze. And then, though he’s acting like it’s pure torture, he rolls off of me and sits up. “You don’t keep condoms here?” He’s staring down at me like I’m a newly discovered species, and it’s making me extremely uncomfortable.

  I flush and cover my eyes with my arm. “No!”

  He tugs it down and looks at me with a stern expression. “That’s not safe. Do you just assume your company will come prepared?”

  The heat in my cheeks intensifies, spreading to my neck and chest. “I’ve never...um, had ‘company’ over before.”

  “What?”

  I repeat myself, above and beyond embarrassed at this point.

  “I heard what you said, Charlie, I’m just... Are you saying that you’ve never... That you’re a...?” His words trail off as if he cannot fathom what I’m admitting.

  Is it really that unbelievable?

  I sit up and wrap my arms around my middle, hugging myself. “That’s what I’m saying.”

  He groans loudly.

  “You’re embarrassing me.”

  He collapses into the pillows, rubs his face with his hands and lets out another long, strangled moan. “Oh my God. Why didn’t you say something?”

  Could someone kill me already? Put me out of my misery. It would be appreciated. I pull a pillow into my lap to shield myself, suddenly self-conscious. “I didn’t realize what a huge turnoff it would be for you.”

  “It’s not that,” he rushes on. “It’s just that this isn’t the way your first time should be.” He’s using a low, gentle tone, but it’s pointless now. He’s already hurt my feelings in some weird way. I pull in a breath and hold it, because I know I’m about to cry and I want to prolong it for as long as possible. Even if it means suffocating.

  “You okay?” he asks, touching me on the shoulder.

  I nod. Then I change my mind and shake my head.

  He sits up and scoots across the bed until he’s next to me. “Should I go?”

  “No. Please don’t. Stay.” I lift my head, and it looks like his heart cracks as his eyes circle my face. “I need you to stay.”

  He nods and switches off the light once more. Then we get under the duvet, and he pulls me against his chest. I knew the tears were coming, so I don’t know why I’m so surprised when I feel the first few hit my cheeks. The ridiculous drops stream down my face, because I don’t have the strength to stop them.

  * * *

  I awake from the most god-awful dream, shivering and scared. The sinking feeling I’ve been left with only deepens when my hand reaches out for Jackson but finds nothing. He’s gone. My bed is empty and too big...and lonely.

  A headache is making my head throb, but it’s nothing compared to the ache in my chest. Why would he leave in the middle of the night? Unwelcome tears pool in my eyes.

  I feel for my cell phone on the bedside table, unplugging it when my hand finds it. Two forty-three a.m. This is going to be a dreadful, long night. Before I can rationalize my thoughts, I open a text message to Jackson. I send it off into cyberspace without giving it a second thought.

  You said you would stay.

  Chapter Seven

  It’s eight-fifteen and I should already be at work, but I haven’t even gotten out of bed. An hour ago I called my dad. He was quick to insist I stay home when I said I wasn’t feeling well. It’s not a complete lie, because I am a little hungover. I’m not sure if it’s from the alcohol or Jackson.

  My cell phone vibrates. Speak of the devil. A text message.

  Running late this morning?

  I brought you Starbucks.

  I don’t respond. The humiliation of last night still weighs too heavily on my mind. There are a lot of shitty things in this world, but I think rejection tops the list.

  I made a fool of myself at Devin’s. The more I think about it, the more conflicted I become. I can’t get the image of Jackson hitting Dave out of my head. He could’ve killed him, easily, and with his bare hands at that. He was so cold, like a machine even.

  And I practically delivered myself to him on a silver platter. I begged him to stay, which might have been okay if I hadn’t woken to a cold bed in the middle of the night. The memory makes me cringe. And I cried in front of him again. Ugh. I can’t stand to think about this anymore. I’ll end up driving myself crazy.

  As easy as it would be to spend the entire day sulking in the shadow of my embarrassment, I decide to be semi-productive instead. First on the list is a much-needed run, then a shower, and after that some yard work. Then housework. And maybe by that time Taylor will be up and she can take me to the office so I can fetch my car from the parking garage. Adam’s grave site could use some fresh flowers as well. That should be more than enough to keep my hands—and my mind—occupied.

  Once I’ve got a plan, I don’t waste any time. I pull my hair into a sloppy ponytail and slip into a ratty T-shirt and shorts. I brush my teeth and rinse my mouth. Then my running shoes are on and I’m out the door. Today I’m in need of a serious therapy session.

  After a quick stretch I’m off, and my feet find their steady rhythm pounding against the pavement. My breathing is more ragged than I would like it to be as I drag the morning air into my lungs, but it doesn’t slow my pace much.

  I run with no direction or intention of stopping. I’m miles from the house when my lungs tighten up in protest. Not soon after, my muscles join in and begin to ache. I run until I’m numb and everything falls away.

  The only thing that makes me decide to stop going is the sun as it begins to peek through the clouds, heating the morning air. My legs are jelly when I return home. But internally I’m feeling better.

  I strip off my workout clothes, throw them into the already-overflowing hamper and step into the shower. The water is cool and invigorating, exactly what I need. It pours over my face and down my skin, chasing the sweat and grit from the morning down the drain.

  I stand in the downpour, feeling too lazy to move. When I finally cave and reach for the shampoo, I wash my hair slowly, meticulously. Then I lather up with body wash and rinse it all away, feeling some of my stress go with it.

  My phone rings around noon. It’s my dad.

  “Hey, you geezer,” I answer.

  His low chuckle fills the line. “Hey-ya, cookie. How ya feeling?”

  “Better after resting,” I lie, feeling a tad guilty. But once again, only a lie in part. And I really do feel better.


  “Good. I’m happy to hear it,” he responds, his voice cheerful. “I’m in the area, just wanted to see if ya needed anything. I could bring by some soup?”

  “That’s really sweet, but I’ll manage. I’ve got soup here I can heat up.” I’m curious to know why he’s in the area, so I ask him, “What are your plans for the day?”

  “Oh, I’m taking the afternoon off from work. I’ve got a doctor’s appointment in an hour or so.”

  I frown. “For what?”

  “It’s nothin’ to concern you, cook—I’ve got to run,” he says abruptly. “Give me a call if you need anything, okay?”

  “Yeah, okay. Love you.”

  “Love you back.” And with that he hangs up the phone.

  I run my thumb across my now-blank screen. A doctor’s appointment? I wonder what on earth for. I can’t remember the last time he was in an actual doctor’s office. It certainly is odd.

  When Taylor wakes up she takes me to my car. She doesn’t give me the third degree as I was anticipating, and I’m more than thankful for that. That’s the last thing I want to talk about right now.

  Once I’ve got my car I stop off at the craft store and pick out a new bunch of flowers to take to Adam’s grave. I hate the dreadful waxy, plastic feel they have, and they smell awful. I wish I could replenish his vase with fresh flowers. But they would never last.

  I spend some time with him, sitting and talking and arranging his new flowers. I try to keep the visit pleasant...just in case he can hear me. I hate that I overload him with anguish every time I visit. I know that’s not what he would want.

  I talk about our childhood and tell him about Claire. I’m sure if he enjoys hearing about anything it’s Claire. His love for her was...reviving. Intense and real. The kind that makes you want something more for yourself.

  I decide to visit like this more often. Whether any part of him still exists in this world or not, visits like this help me.

  * * *

  I get another message from Jackson when I get back to the house.