Don’t tell him. He’ll judge you. He’ll think you’re a slut. You can’t build a relationship on that. Is that what I want? A relationship?
I don’t know the man enough, but he saved me, he showed up back in my life—that must be a sign—and now he’s returned again after I agonized over our last encounter for a week. I don’t know if there is anything even possible between us. He’s so out of my league, but I don’t want to regret not giving it a chance. Giving us a chance.
The flowers, the ease of the conversation, his attention. It all adds up to a wonderful promise. Oh, that’s even before I take into consideration that kiss. The kiss that scared him away.
I have a confession to make? He got the bouquet from the back seat and now he’s staring at me with concern and something I can’t identify on his face and I can’t just pretend I didn’t say it. I wish my heart would stop deafening me.
“Confession?” he croaks and I think the something on his face is fear. Okay, good on you, Sasha, you scare a man who is built like an MMA champion. Twice at least. Good job.
“I-I, God, I’m going to make you run away again.” I try to laugh but it turns into some sort of choking sound.
“I really, really would like to spend more time with you, so maybe I won’t run unless you’re telling me you’re married or…a man?” He smiles and it’s all the encouragement I need.
“No one has ever kissed me like you did.” It’s true. “Like I matter. Like you want to give as much as take.”
He puffs out a long breath from between his cheeks, his eyebrows raised. “I’m sorry.”
What? Jesus. “I don’t want you to feel sorry for me.” This is going the wrong way. The last thing I want from him is a pity hookup. “Forget it. I mean, you ran away the last time and now I’m making you uncomfortable again and—”
“Sasha, I haven’t stopped thinking about that kiss. Pity is the last thing I feel toward you.” He cups my cheek with one of his hands and runs his thumb across my bottom lip. The gentle, yet decadent, touch coupled with his intense gaze spread heat down to every fiber of my body.
I swallow hard through the growing lump in my throat. Pity is the last thing I feel toward you. “What do you feel toward me?” My voice is just a whisper, but he shudders visibly at the sound.
“Right now, I really want to kiss you again.”
“Please do—”
I think I wanted to say something else, but his mouth crashes against mine and oh my God, this kiss is even better than the first one. We both moan and I’m thrilled and relieved he feels the same about this dance of lips and tongues.
He drops the beautiful bouquet and fists his hand in my hair to angle me better. He pivots me and pushes me against the hood of his car.
We make out like teenagers for what seems like hours, but still not enough.
Finally, James breaks the kiss and lowers his forehead to mine. “You’re so beautiful, Sasha.”
It’s not so much the meaning, but the conviction behind his words that buckles my knees and I sigh with a sob.
“So fucking beautiful,” he repeats, but this time there is something dark, painful on his face.
“James.” I sigh because I’m in awe, but I also want him to know whatever he sees as a complication is okay. I don’t care. It might be stupid and reckless of me, but this is the first time I’ve ever experienced adoration from someone, and I’m going to hold it as long as possible.
Selfishly. Unapologetically. Shamelessly.
“Can I give you a ride home tomorrow again?”
He pulls me in tighter and I swear I’ve never felt this safe in my life.
“That would be great.”
***
James waits for me the following day and several days after. Every night, he walks me or drives me home and we make out in front of my building. He comes with a different car every time and shares with me why he bought that particular make and model.
I know little about cars, but hearing him talking about them is fascinating. It’s not the topic itself, but the passion behind it I admire.
The cars make me uncomfortable, though. I still can’t get over the fact he is rich. He’s so down to earth.
Spending time with him has been exhilarating and so natural it almost scares me. How did I get this lucky? I have only experienced men like Bruce, or my father. I believed men like James existed outside of movies.
No one ever asked me about my opinion. James not only asks, he listens with attention. When he looks at me, I feel like the only person in the world. Like I matter. Like I’m someone.
Every day he showers me with small, but thoughtful, deeds. He bought me a new key chain because he noticed mine was always splitting, my keys scattered all over my purse. I told him about my leaking shower head and the next day a plumber knocked on the door.
I even told him that Tara’s teeth hurt and the following day he came with a number for a ridiculously affordable dentist. He waits for me with an iced tea or a donut and I feel spoiled. He holds the door for me and makes sure I step over every puddle.
I feel safe with him. Such a novel concept. It might be just his bodyguard skills, but I know he wouldn’t hurt me like others have, he would protect me.
Tonight, we kind of had our first actual date. I have two days off and we decided to see a movie. I don’t even know what we saw because my focus was captured by his hand on my thigh. His arm wrapped around my shoulder. His lips feathering my temple casually and absentmindedly. Or maybe on purpose. I don’t know, but I love every moment.
When we get into his car—the yellow Porsche again—and spend the ride back to my apartment in silence. I don’t know what he’s thinking, but I’m ridden with anxiety. I want him to come upstairs with me tonight. I love our sometimes tender and sometimes wild make-out sessions outside or in his car, but the man makes me feel so good, I want more. I need more.
After the fiasco when I initiated our first kiss, I’m worried about inviting him up. But the gentleman he’s been, he won’t ask, I’m sure of that. That leaves us at an impossible impasse. I’m bracing myself to take the leap.
James gets out, rounds the car and opens the passenger door for me. When he did that the first time, I was breathless at the wave of emotions the gesture stirred inside me. It was the first time it happened in my pathetic life.
I stumble and land in his arms. I know he’s just supporting me so I don’t fall on my face, but what his actions do to me and my poor heart. This man dazzles me.
“Would you like to come upstairs?” I mumble against his chest, unable to meet his eyes. I don’t want to see the fear or panic I’ve seen there before.
He stays silent for several beats, our chests heaving in a strangely chaotic, yet synchronized, rhythm. When I’m about to bolt, wrapped in mortification, James nudges my chin up with his finger. Our eyes lock and there it is—that pain and fear or whatever it is I always drive him to.
“I have to tell you something first, Sasha.” His eyes plead. But here’s the thing, I don’t want him to say whatever he has to say because I need him more.
More than truth. More than honesty. More than the fear of regret.
“No, I don’t want to talk. I want to feel, James.” If his kiss is any indication of how sex with him will be, I can’t miss out on that. Is the good sex I’ve read about real too, just like this man that I thought was a unicorn?
He groans.
I’m so wound up, I don’t mind begging. “Please, James, make me feel.”
Don’t forget to check your email on Wednesday for the next chapter.