All the Waters of the Earth (Giving You... #3)(10)

A little scared of letting him see me without makeup, I nonetheless allowed him to follow me into the bathroom and watch me take it off. This felt very intimate, letting him see me as I washed my face. He leaned against the counter, and chatted with me. After I toweled off, he lifted my chin with a finger. "I didn't think you could be more beautiful, but here it is. The evidence." And he leaned in and kissed my bare lips, running his finger along my cheek. "I love the way you look, Lucy, but without makeup? You are stunning. You are truly a natural beauty."

Praise was difficult to take, because like many of us, I was conditioned by society to be modest, to deflect, to not celebrate myself. I'd fought those thoughts before-to accept my curvy body, my short stature, my skin color, my hair. But I'd always had to try, too. I mean that's why I was so high maintenance, with makeup, hair, and clothes just right. To some degree I'd beaten the bad thoughts that said that because I didn't look like the girls in the magazines I didn't have value. I did have value. But still, I'd had a layer of defense-dressing up to show off so you couldn't see what was under. Now I was letting him in, and I tried to allow in the compliment, to let myself accept that he thought I looked good, even without makeup, fancy clothes, or hair done just right. It made me glow from the inside.

Without talking about it, we'd decided that he was spending the night. There was no reason for him to go back next door. I'd ache for him. Now that I knew what he was like in bed, how generous and how honest, I didn't want to get more than a few inches away from him at any given time. I wanted to touch him constantly.

But for now, curled up with him in my bed, warm and comfortable, I answered his question.

"I don't remember when it started because I always wanted to be a writer. Stories touched me when I was a kid. It's funny. By reading, I felt listened to. I realize that doesn't sound quite right, but I mean it. I felt like by reading and understanding the people in the story and the author, I was understood, especially when they reflected something that I was thinking. There was someone who got me, who thought things that I thought, and who wasn't scared to put them down for other people to read. So it was like the author heard me and put my thoughts down for me. Or gave me new thoughts to think about. 

"I love losing myself in books. I love connecting with the characters or the situations in the stories. And I love telling the stories, coming up with a different, but honest, way of saying something that I think or feel and hoping that it resonates with a reader.

"And I think the creative process is amazing. Something from nothing. Without me, my fifteen novels would not exist. And there is something to be said about allowing the creation to come into existence. Kind of like having a kid."

I didn't know if I should talk about kids with Jake or not. I'd no idea what he thought about them. I was scared to ask him if he wanted any. Two reasons. I didn't want him to reject my son, for one. But also, deep down, I wanted more. I loved being a mom. I did it the tough way the first time around, but I'd be willing to do it again. For love this time.

A lawyer once told me that you should never ask a question that you don't want to know the answer to. I didn't want to know the answer to that one, not yet, not while things were so new, so I stayed quiet.

"What do you write about?" He nudged his nose in the space between my ear and my shoulder blade and kissed my back.

"Romance." He pulled his face away and turned me to look at him.

"Real life isn't romantic."

I flopped over all the way, fully facing him, and looked at him, perplexed, upset, and concerned. "How can you say that? We just had the most romantic date. There's plenty of romance in our lives."

He smiled his sad smile and kissed my nose. "I have to go back to work tomorrow."

"Tomorrow's Sunday."

"I know. Taking today off means tomorrow is gonna be painful. And it means I have to work and won't see you."

God, why? He didn't seem to hurt for money. "Why do you do that?" I asked, burrowing under his chin.

"What are your parents like?" he asked against the top of my head, not answering my question, running his finger up and down my arm.

Why didn't he want to talk about it?

Still, I answered. "They're great. My mom's a clerk at Ralph's grocery. My dad's a mechanic. I have a sister, Celia who lives in Los Angeles and a brother, Gabriel, who lives in Dallas. What about you? Your parents? Any siblings?"

Jake stiffened and stopped the travel of his finger. Then he let out a breath. "My little brother Ethan died when I was fifteen."

"Oh no," I breathed.

"He was in a car accident. He was twelve." Rob's age. "My mom left my dad because of it. After that, I never saw my dad because he worked all the time. So I became a latchkey kid. My teenage years sucked. I went to school and got out of the house as fast as I could. And I learned to work. I learned to spend all of my time doing what it was I went to school to do. Because it can all be taken away and you have to work hard to keep it."

What? No. Was I lucky because my work was my passion and it came easily? I put my hand on my hip. "That's not true. The things that you are supposed to do come easy."

"That's not been my experience. I have never been allowed to do the easy things. I've had to do the hard things."

Oh, Jake. "Who took care of you after your brother died? After your mom abandoned you?"

"Don't say abandoned." He didn't seemed pissed, but he was defensive.

"Well, she did, didn't she? And your dad escaped by working his ass off?"

Jake didn't answer. Finally, after a pause, he said, "We do what we have to do to get by."

I didn't know what he meant by that, but I couldn't imagine not having the support of my family and friends. They were my community. "What did you do when you were in high school? Who was there for you?"



       
         
       
        

"No one."

I wanted to keep asking, to keep pushing him on this. But something made me pull back. I believed that I got more out of him than he gave anyone else and I wanted to tread cautiously. Here was this dreamboat guy who was so artistic and romantic. And he seemed so unhappy with what he was doing every day. He went about it automatically, like he was forced to do it. Like he didn't know that he had a choice in life. That he could do whatever he wanted.

And why hadn't someone hooked up with him yet? He seemed so giving. He took time for me. What were his other relationships like? But I didn't want to ask him about them right now, so instead, I just asked, "You sleepy?"

"Yeah." He pulled me close. "Goodnight." And he kissed me, warmly, and it got carried away. I kissed him back, he ran his hand down my side, and then he rolled so that he was nestled between my legs again.

"Are we going to-" I started, breathless again.

"In the morning," he muttered against my neck. Then he rolled off of me, tucked me into him, and I drifted off to sleep.

I awoke the next morning, in Jake's arms, him sleeping peacefully behind me. Wiggling around, I took advantage of this unprecedented chance to study him up close like an artist would.

His dark, ebony hair was the sexiest bed head I'd ever seen. He had tiny wrinkles around his eyes that made him look distinguished. His full lips were a little pouty, the softness counteracting the angles of his cheekbones and his jaw, which was now covered in stubble.

God, even his neck was erotic, angled so that I could kiss it, with his Adam's apple going up and down as he breathed. I started tracing his shirtless torso very lightly with my finger, feeling his light hair, his soft skin.

My fingers started exploring, and I couldn't help myself. I found my fingers tracing the edge of his boxer shorts, tentatively, playing with the elastic, teasing him, even though he wasn't awake.

Then I decided to really explore and my hand went lower, feeling for his cock, starting to rub it under the thin cotton material, taking advantage of his morning wood. This play was arousing me. I wanted him awake.

I rubbed his cock, at first gently, very gently, then a little bit more firmly, and he groaned, opened his eyes, and looked at me.

A happy look grew across his face. "I thought I was dreaming, but it's better than a dream." And faster than I would have thought he could move for having just woken up, he tugged at the hem of my cami and whoosh, it was off. And then he pulled off my pajama pants. And before I knew it, his hand, flat and broad, rubbed my pussy, spreading the wetness, gently, but rapidly. I could come from that alone, my feet burning up, my hands warm, and my ears pounding. He kept going and going, until I came, hard. 

Looking at me with a naughty look on his face, he took one of his fingers and stuck it in his mouth, sucking on it. "You taste mighty fine for breakfast."

I giggled, then I reached over to him, tugging at his boxers. He raised his hips to help me take them off and his cock sprang free.

Last night, I'd just felt it but I hadn't really made its acquaintance yet. Now, on my knees, straddling him naked, I started to shimmy down his body, kissing my way between his nipples, down his belly, down, down, down, until I was looking at his cock.

It was really pretty.