Your Fierce Love (The Bennett Family)(9)

Blake straightens up, training his eyes on me. "Hadn't thought about it  like that. Makes sense. Dreamed of going to Hogwarts and all that?"

I nod enthusiastically.

I discovered the series shortly after arriving at the group home. I  devoured it, feeling a deep kinship with the orphan boy. I desperately  wished for something or someone who would take me out of that place  where I was surrounded by loneliness and bullies. No such luck.  Sometimes I wished I'd ended up in foster care as a baby because then I  wouldn't have experienced the warmth and love of a family, wouldn't have  known what I was missing. But then I chastised myself because I  cherished those years I had with Mom and Dad.

"Where did you go just now?" Blake asks, and I snap out of my thoughts.  He closes the distance to me, leaning against the shelf a mere foot away  from me.

"Old memories."

"Want to share them?" His voice is unusually soft, but I don't detect any pity. I never can take pity.

"Nah! There's nothing quite like enjoying the present day."

"I can help with that. I'm all about enjoying life."

"That's right. I don't think I've ever seen anyone eat with quite so much gusto."

"All your doing. That dinner was delicious. Your arrabbiata sauce is even better than Mom's, but don't tell her I said that."

"Don't worry. Your secret is safe with me."

Turning around to face the bookshelf, I rearrange the copies of the  Harry Potter series because they're out of order. I barely register  Blake is moving until I feel him right behind me.

"Now I'm considering other ways to help you so you can thank me often.  I'm really good at maintenance: changing lightbulbs, the batteries for  your battery-operated buddy, that sort of things."

I freeze in the act of pulling out the sixth volume. Blake brings one  hand to my waist, and the contact stirs something deep inside me. Ever  so slowly, he skims his hand upward, sliding it along my ribs to my  back, then inching up on my spine. It's all I can do not to lean into  his touch. What is he doing to me? And why am I enjoying this so much?

Warmth radiates through me everywhere he touches, but when the fabric of  my sweater ends and his fingers touch the bare skin at the back of my  neck, a small gasp tumbles past my lips. Blake presses his fingertips  slightly into me. Then he inches closer until the tip of his nose is in  my hair, his breath landing on my scalp. One deep inhale and his hand  travels from the back of my neck down my arm. He moves with exquisite  slowness, stopping for a breath after nearly every inch downward. It's  almost as if he's waiting for my reaction, testing how far he can push.  Well, if he is testing me, I'm failing spectacularly. By the time he  reaches down past my elbow, I'm positive I will combust. But then he  cinches up the sleeve, running his thumb along my forearm right down to  my wrist, cuffing it.                       
       
           


///
       

"Your pulse is wild," he murmurs.

"You think?" I ask in a strangled voice. He knows what he's doing to me.  He knows it exactly. This man turned me into a ball of need without  touching me intimately, or even kissing me. When he moves his thumb in a  little circle over my pulse point, I press my lips tightly together.  This is too much. How we went from zero to one hundred in the span of  seconds, I don't know, but I need fresh air to clear my thoughts.

I inhale deeply, gathering my wits. It's no small task, considering  Blake has me under his spell again. When I pull away, turning around,  his molten gaze holds mine stubbornly, and I can't look away, hard as I  want to.

"Want to watch the sunset on the balcony?" I manage eventually, stepping  back, putting some much-needed distance between us. "I have a bottle of  wine too, and some sweets: Turkish Delight."

"Sure."

While I get out the wine and the sweet treat, Blake hovers in front of the bookshelf again.

"What's with all these albums? Can I look?"

"Yeah."

Those albums contain my illustrations. I like to print them out and look  at them in albums. I feel like I can track my progress over the years  better that way.

"Are these illustrations for children's books?" he asks.

"Yeah." I put the wine, glasses, and candy on a platter but leave it on the counter, heading to Blake instead.

"Wow. All these albums are full of them? There must be hundreds."

"Lost count over the years." While I was traveling with Nate on the job,  I kept the albums in storage, but since I relocated to San Francisco  I've kept them in my living room.

"When did you start?"

"At eighteen. Took a class at the community college, and since then I  buy random kids' books that are text only, and I make up illustrations."

He looks up from one of the albums. "I know a children's book publisher.  I'd have to double-check, but I'm sure they do illustrated books too.  Do you want me to set up a meeting?"

"Oh no, no, it's just a hobby."

"That's a lot of work for a hobby. I'm no expert, but I think you're  really creative. I collected comic books growing up-not the same as  children's books obviously, but you're good. He could at least give you  feedback."

"No, it's really fine. I'm part of several online communities, and we  give each other feedback. That's all I need." Also, the prospect of a  publisher looking over it and saying "No, thanks" is terrifying. Yikes.

"Let me know if you change your mind."

Taking the platter, we head outside, settling on the two neon-green  beanbags. I showed Blake a swing online, and he ordered it, but it  hasn't been delivered yet. For now, we have the beanbags, and they are  plenty comfortable. We also have two thick blankets because May in San  Francisco isn't exactly balcony weather, not even in the second half.  Blake pours us wine. The sky is cloudy but the sun shines through,  casting a beautiful glow-a color I can't name, something between pink  and orange.

"Where did you see the best sunset?" Blake asks.

"London Eye," I answer without a doubt. "You know, the Ferris wheel? I  went on it once at sunset, and it was a spectacle. It made me fall in  love with that city even more."

"How come you didn't move with Nate to London, then?"

"I grew up here. I always wanted to return. I have many nice memories  with my parents. Walks in Golden Gate Park, lunches in Fisherman's  Wharf. The occasional trip to Alcatraz. Even though I moved a lot, this  has always been my anchor point, my home."

"Makes sense. I didn't know you grew up here."

Afterward, we fall into a comfortable silence, watching the sun  disappear from the sky. We chitchat about his family. I'm not sure how  long we stay out on the balcony, but it's pitch-dark by the time the  wind starts blowing so powerfully, it chills me to the bone. The empty  glasses and wine bottle are on the floor between the two beanbag chairs.

"I'm cold," I declare when I can't ignore the fact anymore.

"Me too. Up we go."

Blake rises to his feet and holds out his hand for me. I gladly accept  the help because climbing out of a beanbag is serious business,  especially after half a bottle of wine. I'm as unsteady on my feet as a  toddler. But the moment my hand touches Blake's, a bolt of heat singes  me. It travels through my limbs, making my toes curl and my nipples  tighten. In the span of a few seconds, my body has gone from relaxed to  wound up. Blake hauls me up so close our chests touch. Our noses are  dangerously close too.                       
       
           


///
       

The proximity makes me light-headed. The wine isn't helping either. I  pull my head back a notch so I can see Blake better. I make the mistake  of looking him directly in the eyes. The intensity in them is  overwhelming. I've been on the receiving end of his hot looks before,  but this is different. There isn't just lust here, but downright hunger.  A little too late, I realize it's probably because he can feel the  tight peaks of my breasts pressing against him. He drops one hand to my  waist, and his fingers are pressing against my flesh possessively. I  become aware of every single point of contact-there are far too many.

We're close enough that I can sniff the scent of his shower gel. Crisp.  Masculine. My mind immediately supplies images of Blake in the shower,  rubbing gel on himself. I imagine he does that job thoroughly, not  leaving out even one morsel of skin. I wonder how he looks with only a  towel wrapped around himself. Now that we're neighbors, there's a  distinct possibility I might see him in that scenario, especially with  the shared balcony and everything. Shit, my Peeping Tom tendencies are  getting out of hand.