“Kitten,” he whispered sweetly in my ear. “You feel so fucking good.”
Gentle bites and sucking kisses at my neck brought back a rush of memories. Too many good memories to count. Tears formed in my eyes and I squeezed them tight to prevent any from leaking out. I couldn’t let him see me break down. I just needed to stay in the moment, to feel every bit of pleasure he was giving me. And I wanted to please him; he’d been through so much pain . . . maybe we could heal each other.
Braydon brought my knees together, closing my legs and kneeled in front of me, slowly pulling out and pushing in until he was fully sated. Feeling him like this was beautiful torture . . . he was deeper than ever before.
Arching my back, I lost myself in the rhythm, in the sensations his body elicited from mine. All too soon, I was moaning his name as I came apart. He followed me over the edge, burying his hands in my hair and exhaling a soft curse as he came.
18
Once we were back home, it was as if nothing had changed. We should have been nominated for Oscars for the amazing job we did acting like nothing had happened between us in LA. Braydon texted occasionally, asking me for coffee or for a walk in the park. Even though it was painful to see him, to be near him, I usually caved in and said yes. But we were still strictly friends and hadn’t slipped up with any physical contact again. It seemed we were more careful around each other than ever before—going out of our way to avoid touching at all costs. When he reached for the bill, I conveniently needed something from my purse, and when I grabbed a sugar packet for my coffee, his hands tucked themselves into his pockets.
I was still waiting for him to realize that he couldn’t live without me, just like Emmy kept saying he would. So far, it was a no-go. And I was more depressed than ever.
It hadn’t helped that I’d come down with the world’s worst case of the flu. For the past several days, I felt achy and exhausted and had been regularly puking my guts out. The first few days I’d called in sick to work, but now it seemed that my body was growing accustomed to living with the sickness, so I ventured into work but kept a plastic garbage bag under my desk for when the urge struck. Oh, joy.
A text from Braydon was a nice distraction later that afternoon.
Braydon: Hey you up for grabbing coffee or a drink tonight?
I stared down at my phone. Another half-hearted attempt. I didn’t want a coffee date out with a friend at this point. I wanted him, no holds barred. Even if I had wanted to say yes, the crappy way I felt prevented me. I hadn’t kept down coffee in nearly a week. I’d taken to drinking ginger ale in the morning. And though the relaxing buzz that came from a nice glass of wine sounded nice, I doubted I could stomach that either.
Me: No thanks, I’ll have to take a rain check. I have the flu.
Braydon: Shit. That sucks. Let me know if you need anything—I’m on it.
Me: Thanks, I will.
And that was that.
Until two days later.
I was home. Saturday, thank god.
Braydon: Hey, you feeling better?
I didn’t want him to worry, to insist on coming over with soup or something, and I wouldn’t put that past him. The truth was I just wanted to be alone. I felt like shit. I looked worse. I was in sweatpants with greasy, matted hair and I wanted to stay that way, warm under my covers for the rest of the day.
Me: I’m on the mend, but not there yet. Sorry to disappoint.
Braydon: You never disappoint. I just wish you were feeling better.
I released a heavy sigh. He was in his famous sweet, gentlemanly mode. He held my beating heart in the palm of his hand, little did he know. He had the ability to crush it or put me back together, make me whole. I feared what he’d choose. I knew he’d been through hell in his past relationships, losing his mom and watching what his dad went through afterward.
I needed to swallow my pride and move on. Maybe he’d never be ready—or maybe I wasn’t the girl to get him there. Something inside me told me I was, though. I was the girl for the job. He’d said himself that the chemistry we shared wasn’t something he’d ever experienced. Me neither. That had to count for something, right?
Every remembered whisper, every sweet thing he’d done, the way he’d owned my body, made me crave him. I shuddered, and not from the fever chills wracking my body.
Braydon: Can I do anything? I don’t like this.
He didn’t like it? Shit, I was the one who’d lost five pounds in the last week alone. Actually, I counted that as the one and only benefit of this flu.
Me: Nothing you can do, but thanks. I think it just needs to run its course.
Braydon: Well I’m checking on you tomorrow, no matter what.
I appreciated his concern, I truly did, but it wasn’t making it any easier on my heart. The one organ that hadn’t been affected by the flu from hell. What I’d done to deserve this, I had no clue.