After she turned and started for the exit to leave for the night, I glared after her. “No, I’m not.” Then I drank the next shot.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Dreams come true. Without that possibility, nature would not incite us to have them. ” - John Updike
~ASPEN~
My cozy, two-bedroom, bungalow-style home sat in the middle of a street with trees in the front yards and kids’ toys in the back. Middle class’s version of the American dream. This was the first place I’d lived on my own, the first place I’d lived away from my parents.
I’d gained my freedom here. Within the first few weeks of moving in, I’d gone a little wild. Well, my version of wild, anyway. I’d painted my walls crazy colors like tangerine and robin’s egg blue. I bought towels and silverware that totally mismatched because they mismatched. I even went out and bought a bottle of wine to celebrate.
If only my parents had seen me then...
But that’s exactly why I’d done it, because I knew they’d disapprove. Well, that and because I’d loved those colors and I loved my mismatching menagerie of things, plus I really had wanted to do something commemorative to celebrate.
It was a small rebellion, but big enough in my book. Finally living for myself now¸ I cherished every little independent thing I got to do.
So, reading in the bathtub? Oh, you know I did that every chance I got. In the four months I’d resided in Ellamore, it had become my Saturday morning ritual. Besides, I really needed something this morning to get my spirits up. I’d felt depressed since Tuesday when I’d left Forbidden—and Noel—for good.
All my lavender-scented aromatherapy votive candles were set up around the rim of the tub and lit, casting a lazy splash of warmth across the walls of my bath, while mist from the heated water steamed up my mirrors and caused my pores to bead with perspiration. My feet rested by the drain while I propped my back against the other end, and the towel turban I’d used to wrap my wet hair also seconded as a nice cushion for the back of my head.
I’d kicked most of the bubbles to my feet because they’d been messing with my paperback—bad bubbles—but now that I was nearing a fairly intense and wildly physical part of the story, I was suddenly very aware of my breast floating just below the surface of the water. I slid my thighs past each other and shifted, wet warmth lapping my body as the hero’s tongue lapped over the heroine’s skin. Growing even more restless, I turned a page, anxious to find out what he was going to do to her next, because I had to say, the man was inventive with some of the things he liked to lick.
It reminded me of Noel Gamble’s tongue and how he’d glided it across my collarbone before he’d nipped at a freckle with his teeth. Swallowing when my nipples began to tingle, I shifted my legs again, rubbing them together to alleviate some of tension growing between them. But that only aggravated the situation more. In the novel, the hero’s hand wandered down a taut stomach and then between soft thighs, and I had to tighten my own together in response.
“You’re mine now, Isabelle,” he growled in her ear, his voice rough but his fingers tender.
Damn, why couldn’t some guy say cheesy crap like that to me?
But then an echo of Noel’s voice stirred my memory. “Want to hear a secret? I had a crazy-ass crush on you on the first day of class.”
A whimper left my lips and I slapped my book closed. The big m-word filled my head.
To help me recover from the trauma of my first sexual encounter, my therapist had suggested self-pleasure so I could learn that sex could also feel good, not just painful, scary, and debilitating. I’d been fifteen and utterly mortified by the entire conversation. Took me three months to look her in the eye again after that and then another three years to even consider the idea.
The few times I’d tried to get off by myself had been awkward and embarrassing. It hadn’t warmed me to the idea of sex in the least. The only thing that had worked had been time and romance novels. But right now, I wouldn’t be going at it cold turkey as I had before. My body was already receptive to the idea. Setting my paperback aside, I decided one more attempt couldn’t hurt anything. So I closed my lashes, and a face with blue eyes and dark windswept hair filled my head.
I’d only seen him once in class since I’d left the bar on Tuesday. And our gazes had clashed twice during that hour. Each time, we’d both glanced away as if even a single stare was too much temptation. It broke my heart not to even be able to look at him because Noel Gamble was art, like God’s apology for all the regular men in the world.