"I'm sorry for all of this, but I'm not ready to go back there."
"To Jemma's?"
He nods. "Casey was right. I don't belong there."
I'm not sure what he means by that, but I'm also not sure how to ask for clarification.
He laughs bitterly to himself. "You must think I'm a nut job."
I watch him closely before I respond, trying to understand the expression on his face. It's a mix between wry humor and self-hatred.
"It wasn't an insurance settlement," I blurt suddenly.
He looks at me. Most people would ask a question then. "What wasn't?" "What do you mean?" but Luke doesn't. He knows what I'm talking about. He has secrets so he remembers mine.
I study the dark liquid in my glass. I surprise myself by taking a giant swallow. It burns as it goes down, and I almost gasp and cough. I force it away, not wanting Luke to think I'm not like him, because I am in more ways than he can imagine.
I bite my lip and let the alcohol settle, rumbling in my empty stomach, still burning. I suddenly realize that we have hard liquor in our hands at ten in the morning. He still hasn't said a word, and when I glance at his face, I see that he doesn't intend to. I have the floor if I want it. Only if.
I stare back at my drink. "The reason I'm here, my money, it wasn't insurance. It was a different kind of settlement."
I meet his eyes. They're deep again, probing into me this time. "I was one of three employees assaulted by the owner of the grocery store where I worked." I look away. I'm still not sure it's ok to admit this part. "We didn't have enough evidence to prove it beyond a reasonable doubt, but we had enough to make his life miserable with a lawsuit, so he settled."
I feel the burn of tears somewhere deep inside of me, rising up into the open wound that I thought had scabbed over.
"My father was the one who pushed for me to take the money. He said it's the best girls like me can hope for." I laugh bitterly. "Of course, his daughter the 'victim' became his daughter the 'slut' when he realized I was of legal age so the money would go to me, not him." I glance at Luke. "So here I am. Living off a rich guy's money like a prostitute."
It was supposed to be a joke, but he doesn't think it's funny. I don't either; I just don't know how else to tell this story. He still doesn't speak. In fact, I'm starting to get concerned. I see his mind working, his eyes telling the story of his complex thoughts, but I can't interpret them. I wait, barely breathing, until he suddenly closes the distance between us and removes the glass from my hand.
My pulse pounds as the war rages in my head, conscience screaming, body pleading, but my brain already lost the second I'd decided to enter his room. I remember Casey's plea, echoing in my head like an alarm I'm too tired to acknowledge.
Luke takes my hand and traces the lines in my palm, igniting a longing that swells up and fills me with an addictive ache that's turning my willpower into a joke. I don't care anymore. If I don't touch him back, I will probably explode. I shift and lean into him. His arms tighten around me, and I suddenly feel safe, calm even. It's a strange contrast to the burning tension a moment ago. I wonder what it would be like to sit here forever, perfectly tucked in his arms, listening to the rhythm of his heart. Its rapid pace begins to accelerate which sends my own blood racing again.
"I really did miss talking you," he says quietly. "I wasn't sure you'd come."
"There was no way I wouldn't," I reply. He knows what I mean, and pulls me tighter.
"I know. I'm glad you did."
I want to say I am, too. I know he's waiting to hear it, but the words don't come out. I'm still not sure I am. I know my heart hadn't really given me a choice, but that doesn't mean my brain isn't going to torture me for giving in. What if Casey is right? What if I'm just filling the female role of the daily escape that includes drinking and sex? He certainly hasn't made any promises otherwise. Am I right where dozens, hundreds, of other women have been before me?
I settle into him, suddenly afraid to pull away. A hug is safe and buys us time, but we both know this encounter is not going to end in a hug. If I pull away … It doesn't matter. He does.
He doesn't fully let go, and his hands remain around my waist. Our faces are inches from each other, close enough that the next step isn't optional. Our eyes meet and my body ignites. I stare at him, knowing he's going to kiss me. Knowing once we start there's no way I will stop him. I've wanted it for a while now, dreamt about it, maybe even fantasized those long hours alone in my room, wondering where he was, wondering about that chair. There'd be no stopping it. I'm still not ready, but I don't know how to deny myself at this point. No one is that strong.
He moves toward me and draws me in. Gentle at first, testing my reaction, and I immediately sense his comfort with this situation. He's done this before. Many times. There's a huge gap in experience and now a new fear sets in.
"What's wrong?" he asks, concern all over his face.
I look away, slightly flustered. This isn't the first time the thought of his accomplished past has crossed my mind, but I hadn't realized it would be so obvious that I was out of my league.
"Nothing, it's just … " I'm not sure how to say something like that. I don't want to insult him, but suddenly I'm terrified of embarrassing myself more than anything else. I have no clue what he's expecting, but I doubt it's what he's about to get. "Look, I'm not good at this. I mean … "
"Not good at what?"
I lean back and wave my hands. "This. All of this."
"Kissing? Meeting up in hotel rooms? What?"
I shake my head. This is going terribly. Maybe that's good. Maybe he'll change his mind about the whole thing and I won't have to be the strong one anymore. His grin isn't promising.
"You worry way too much," he laughs.
I bite my lip. "I just thought you should know. I don't want you to be disappointed."
"Disappointed?"
"It's just … "
I don't get to complete my sentence. This time the kiss isn't gentle. It's the one I've wanted. The one I've been waiting for, dreaming about. The kind that takes your breath away, explodes brain cells. His hands are in my hair, guiding me, preventing any kind of instinctive hesitation. Not that I would have been able to stop myself at this point, anyway. I'm not entirely sure what to do with my own hands, and find myself gripping his t-shirt. I want it off him, to feel the heat of his body against mine, but I'm not confident enough for that. I'm still not sure about any of this. It doesn't feel right. I'm here with him, but I'm not entirely sure he's here with me.
We move to the couch, and I start to get more comfortable once I stop thinking. It's my head, that sprinting brain that revels in its ability to shoot itself in ten directions at once, considering every fear, consequence, and insecurity, paralyzing me in a constant daze of anxious numbness. It's that brain I finally manage to turn off, and I suspect Luke has had that effect on a lot of women in his life. The thought should sober me, but instead I find the ache returning, inciting an urgency that suddenly makes his t-shirt a barrier I can't stand anymore. I grab the hem, and he helps me pull it over his head.
Without his shirt, I can now feel his body against me. Firm, solid, he's stronger than I'd thought. I'm not sure why I'm surprised. The tattoos run along his shoulders and down his chest as well. If there had been any doubt about his past, there was none now. He is beautiful. A tragic work-of-art.
I like this even more and reciprocate by grasping the edge of my own sweater. He pauses, and I can feel his eyes, sense his anticipation. He's been waiting, too. Imagining what I look like under the layers that have always separated us. I'm nervous again but know I've invited this.
His fingers slide along the contours of my waist, leaving a searing trail of heat under my skin. I wait, not wanting to rush him, but nervous that the longer he waits, the longer he'll have to remember I'm not the supermodels he's accustomed to. It's not fair, petty even, but my brain stopped playing fair a long time ago. After another moment, I finally take his hands and lock them behind my back, closing the gap between us. My lips find his again, and this time there's no hesitation. I want every inch of him, mind, body, and soul. He understands, and I fall back on the cushions, pulling him with me.
His lips are on my neck now, and I close my eyes, gasping as the fire ripping through me tears apart the little that's left of any hesitation. He locks his fingers with mine and pushes my hands along the fabric, anchoring them above my head. This time it's his lips tracing my body, taking my breath away with each perfectly executed kiss. He lets go to focus his grip elsewhere, and I run my hands along his back, loving the way his muscles tense at every movement, and hint at the explosive power that will be mine in a minute.
Our contact is desperate now. A fervent magnetism that drives us into each other, connecting us in a uniform motion, a single resolution. We aren't able to get close enough.
"Are you ok? You're sure?" he asks. It's a silly question, but I love that he asks. The way his eyes search mine as he waits for the answer he already knows. I respond by kissing him again, reaching for his jeans.