Grin and Beard It(107)

I fished out the thermos and tequila, shut the doors, walked back to the tailgate, and poured her cup first. She’d crawled on her hands and knees to where I stood and I had to look away. Seeing her in that position inspired all kinds of frustrating thoughts. I set the mug just in front of her, pulled the cork from the bottle of Patron, and took a short drink.

I needed to clear my head, not get drunk. The burn helped, sobered and slowed my frenzied pulse.

“You’re drinking tequila?”

I nodded, then remembered she couldn’t see me. “Yes. I’m drinking tequila.”

She was quiet, like she was picking her words, then said, “You’re upset.”

I tried the words on and they didn’t quite fit. “I’m not upset. I’m frustrated.”

“Why are you frustrated?”

A humorless laugh burst from my lips. “Because I’ve been planning this evening for weeks, and instead of me making you feel good, I get a Moonlight Sonata of a blow job and then I’m not allowed to touch you.”

“And why do you want to touch me so badly?”

I glared at her, seeing she was trying to subtly tell me something, or bring me to a specific conclusion. “You’re trying to lead me someplace, to some conclusion? Instead, why don’t you just come out and say it?”

“Fine. I’ll just say it. You’re frustrated because you want to show me how much I mean to you, and I won’t allow it, correct?”

“That’s one way of putting it.” Another way might be, I’m obsessed with your body, with touching you and tasting you and bringing you pleasure, and yet you seem indifferent.

“I know how you feel, because that’s how I’ve been feeling for weeks.”

I stared at her, growing irritated all over again. But this was a new kind of irritated, like she was punishing me for not being a mind reader.

“You’ve been frustrated for weeks?”

“Yes.”

“You never said anything.”

“I know. I should have. I’m sorry.”

“Yes, you should have said something. If you’ve been feeling frustrated, you should have told me.”

“How could you not know?” she demanded, her words loud and irritable. “Did you really think I’d be happy with no physical intimacy?”

“So you’re punishing me? Because I’m not all-knowing? You think I haven’t been frustrated too?” I lifted my voice to match her volume.

“I’m not punishing you.” She reached for my hand and held it between both of hers, sending the now familiar spike of magic, of belonging and longing, racing up my arm. But now confusion and resentment muddied it.

“Then what are you doing?” I ground out between clenched teeth, because I didn’t want to holler at her.

“I want to talk about this before I lose my nerve, because I’ve been wanting to talk to you for weeks and I’ve been too afraid.”

I blinked at her new confession, most of my furious resentment morphing into concern. My mouth went dry with it. She’d again surprised me.

I choked out, “You’re afraid of me?”

“No, no. I’m saying this wrong.” She huffed like she was frustrated with herself and quickly added, “I promise, if you still want to savor my papaya after we finish talking, then I will gladly strip naked and sit on your face. But first, we have to talk.”

“Then talk. Tell me. And don’t be afraid of me.” I’m sure my request sounded like a plea because the thought of Sienna being scared of me settled like shards of glass in my stomach.

“Okay.” She nodded once, gathered a deep breath, then said on a rush, “I want to be able to show you how I want you without worrying who is going to overhear or see us. I’m not talking about being an exhibitionist, but I can’t go another two weeks until you arrange for complete privacy. I don’t like being afraid that I’m pushing you further than you’re willing to go. So before additional touching commences, I need you to know that I want you, all the time, but I don’t want to lose you. I guess I’m afraid of losing you.”

“You—” I took a moment to sort through her words, picking out the actionable items. “You want more, and you want it more often, and you don’t care about privacy.”

“I care about privacy, but not to the point where we do nothing because someone might overhear. And I don’t want to lose you.”

I shook my head at this last bit. But then remembered again she couldn’t see me.

“I wish we weren’t having this conversation in the dark,” I mumbled as I climbed back into the bed of the truck. I pulled my fingers from her grip, found her hot chocolate, and tossed it into the grass.