The After Dark Collection: Books 1-3 in The Gift Series Page 15

  “Good. Now watch me. Don’t close your eyes at all.”

  She wrapped her arms behind her back and didn’t look away.

  With my fist curled tight, I stroked hard, fast, rough. Long thrusts and jerks as all the pent-up pleasure tore through me like a tsunami, taking me to the edge in mere minutes.

  “Open your lips, sweet girl.”

  She took orders like she took pictures. With precision and focus and passion. Her lips parted, and she waited for me to come on her lips.

  My orgasm ripped through me, and I gave it all to her.

  My greedy girl lapped me up like I was dessert, like she was famished and she intended to finish every last drop on her lips.

  I shuddered, the aftershocks rocking through me in a blast of white-hot pleasure.

  When I settled, I pulled up my jeans and told her to stay put, my voice softer now. “I’ll be right back, baby. I’m going to clean those gorgeous lips of yours.”

  Shortly I returned from the guest room with a wet washcloth, wiped the come off her chin, then washed my hands. I set the cloth on the counter, making a mental note to toss it in the wash later. Obviously.

  I reached for her, and she rose, those eyes wide and curious as she asked, “Was that good for you?”

  I sighed happily, but sadly too. How could she think this night was anything but perfect?

  I clasped her cheeks, speaking the full truth. “Tonight was in another realm. And there’s more where that came from.”

  She shot me a small smile, still a little nervous, but a little eager too. “Good. I want more.”

  “I’ll give you everything you want,” I said, and then I took something I wanted.

  I wanted a good night kiss.

  A tender kiss.

  This time I was soft and gentle. She seemed to like it, trembling in my arms.

  Trouble was, I liked it too.

  I liked it beyond the boundaries of our deal.

  Outside the rules.

  I liked it because it was her. Her sweetness, her loveliness. Her soft kiss made my chest ache. It was full of everything that made this woman my close friend—trust and compatibility.

  And that was dangerous for the rules of our engagement.

  Time to shove all these unwarranted emotions out of my head.

  I scooped her up, took her to her room, and set her on the bed. I tucked a finger under her chin. “I’ll see you in the morning, and I’ll make your favorite breakfast,” I said, because that would reset us. That was what we did. I cooked for her, and we talked about anything and everything.

  That was us—our friendship.

  And I needed to recalibrate.

  She lifted her chin and looked at me sweetly, so damn sweetly. “Good night, Adam.”

  “Good night, Nina,” I said, fighting the wish to stay.

  I went to my bed, stripped to nothing, and slid under the covers. I rated this night an A, but even with top marks, sleep didn’t come easily. My brain whirred with too many thoughts. Thoughts and ideas I was wildly unprepared for.

  But I still had questions. Or rather, I had one. In the morning, though, I’d ask her.

  9

  Nina

  Even the shower felt new.

  The hot water streaming over my skin was a fresh sensation.

  Like I was feeling it for the first time.

  I raised my face to the spray, letting it cascade over my cheeks, my shoulders, my belly.

  The water traveled down my skin, like it was forging a new path over a new person.

  This was crazy.

  I was still me. Still irreverent, passionate, introspective me, the woman who loved watching the world go by through her lens, the person who craved facts and information, the friend who was there in a heartbeat when needed.

  I was still that woman, wasn’t I? I was still a businessperson, a neighbor, a friend.

  But I was someone else now too.

  Someone who knew.

  Someone who knew sensations, desires, firsthand, with another person.

  I didn’t know much. I barely knew a few things about the way bodies tangled together, and how touch could turn to more.

  But I’d started to explore that land. I’d pushed open the door to a secret club last night and sneaked inside. The club of mutual pleasure.

  I’d been giving myself orgasms for years. The landscape of my nightstand bureau was mapped with mountains of vibrators, hills of batteries, and valleys of late-night fantasies. My Amazon account was privy to my personal habits—how many toys I obtained every year, how frequently I replaced them. I had quite the impressive collection.

  But none of my toys had given me what Adam gave me.

  Freedom from my own hands.

  Freedom to let go. To surrender to another’s touch. To the things I’d craved most.

  Adam gave me the chance to give in to pleasure, to turn the keys over to another person. And it was wondrous.

  As I remembered his filthy words, his firm commands, and his adherence to my written wishes, a hot shiver raced through me, but it was chased by something else.

  By a quick burst of unexpected emotion. My throat tightened, and I was entirely unsure where this feeling was coming from. A feeling of something like . . . gratitude? Was that it? Was I simply grateful that Adam had administered my first non-solo O?

  As I spread cherry body wash over my legs, I shook my head, the answer to my question coming quickly.

  No, it wasn’t gratitude. It was something stronger.

  This kernel inside me felt closer to hope, too much like a wish for something beyond the bedroom.

  That was a problem.

  That wasn’t what last night was about.

  Hell, that wasn’t what my list was about.

  My list was a road map to and through pleasure, and only pleasure. It was a chance for me to learn a new language, one that had been impossible to speak when I was with clients, having private conversations. And it was my opportunity once and for all to move beyond my mind. To take all the desires in my head and explore them so they’d stop gnawing at me.

  I rinsed my body, turned off the shower, and dressed, listening to another episode of Ask Aphrodite. A listener had wanted to know the hostess’s best advice when it came to communicating with a lover. Turned out to be the perfect wisdom for me too.

  After drying my hair and applying blush and mascara, I turned off the podcast and took a deep breath, ready to face Adam in the bright light of morning.

  Adam, my friend.

  Adam, my neighbor.

  And Adam, my very temporary lover.

  That was all, although we weren’t done with that role. We had more erotic hills to climb, and I hoped we’d summit them without more of these pesky morning-after questions.

  Still, would everything be different for us in the light of day? Could we still be us?

  I wasn’t sure, but I had to try, and that required more honesty. We’d always been honest and open as friends, so nothing should change now that we were temporary lovers. We’d stay honest, and that meant the question of why would need to be answered sooner rather than later.

  Surely he was curious. I’d be curious too if I were him. Rather than waiting for him to ask, I chose to tackle it head-on, recalling Aphrodite’s most recent words.

  The key to communication is facing your fear. Why are you afraid of what your lover might say when you reveal yourself? Ask what scares you. Are you afraid he or she will judge you? Will look at you differently? These are normal worries, but facing them is brave, and moving past them can give you the keys to your future. So let me leave you with this: Don’t be afraid to speak your mind. Talking is sexy. Sharing is sensual. You don’t have to reveal everything, but intimacy comes from honesty, and when you can speak truthfully, you just might find yourself reaching new levels of connection.

  I wasn’t sure it was intimacy I sought so much as knowledge. But both went down the same path. The path of truth.

  With m
y shoulders squared, I left my bedroom, resolute that we’d be the same and I’d talk to him as I always had.

  Once I entered the living room, my nose lifted and I inhaled the most fantastic scents.

  Breakfast. Adam’s omelets. Fresh mushrooms and eggs and slices of avocado. And coffee. The rich aroma of a cup of morning joe.

  It was heaven.

  My mouth watered as I turned into the kitchen to find him at the stove. He wore only jeans as he cooked.

  I blinked.

  Why wasn’t this on my list? This was a fantasy I hadn’t known I had. This handsome man shirtless and making food for me.

  I stared at the lean muscles of his back, his toned biceps, and his sinewy forearms as he folded the eggs, singing under his breath.

  He flipped the omelet then brought the spatula to his mouth, crooning softly about being hooked on a feeling.

  A smile took over my face. That song.

  I loved that song.

  Loved even more that Adam was himself the next day. Singing in the kitchen.

  “I can’t believe . . .” I sang softly, offering the next line in the tune.

  He spun around, but his frown of confusion quickly turned into a grin as he handed me a second spatula. “Duet?”

  “But of course.”

  I joined in, singing in harmony about lips as sweet as candy. We cruised through the song, hitting some notes, missing others. And as we reached the lyrics about good love, I told myself it was just a song. They were just lines. We were having a blast.

  And it was everything I wanted as he finished making our breakfast while we rocked out karaoke-style in my kitchen.

  Talk about not weird.

  The sheer normalcy of it lubricated the path to my admission. As soon as we sat down to eat, I jumped off another cliff.

  10

  Nina

  “It’s because of my sister,” I said.

  He tilted his head, his eyes waiting for me to say more. “Ella?”

  “Yes. She’s a single mom. As you know.”

  “I do,” he said, then took a bite of the mushroom omelet.

  I took a bite too, chewed, then spoke again. “And don’t get me wrong. Her son is the coolest eleven-year-old I know, but . . .” I heaved a sigh. “She had him when she was seventeen.”

  He nodded. “Right. I sort of did the math the few times we’ve visited her,” he said, since he’d met my sister and her kid, and my parents too. They lived nearby.

  “She didn’t plan on getting pregnant in high school, but she wasn’t going to give up the baby. It wasn’t easy,” I said heavily, remembering the terror on Ella’s face when she’d learned she was having a baby. “I was only in eighth grade. We’d always been close, and I wanted desperately to help her, to fix the problem. But there was, of course, nothing to be done. My parents didn’t want her to have an abortion, and she didn’t either. She’d planned to give up the baby for adoption.”

  “That must have been tough for Ella.” His eyes filled with sadness.

  “But once she was further along, she couldn’t go through with the adoption,” I said, recalling Ella’s tears, her heartache. “I used to hear her crying at night, and in the morning, she’d talk to my mom about what to do.”

  “That’s so hard. I can’t even imagine how my sisters would have handled that,” he said sympathetically, his eyes soft as they locked with mine.

  “My parents supported her choice. They understood it too—why she’d had a change of heart. But once he was born, everything was upended for her, and for them too. They became grandparents, and, in a way, parents again.”

  “It’s the kind of life change that shocks everyone,” he said, taking a second to squeeze my arm, a friendly, caring squeeze.

  “And she also took it upon herself to make sure I wouldn’t follow in her footsteps. She urged me to be careful, to use protection. It was nonstop, her advice train. And, of course, it was and is good advice,” I said, and took a drink of the coffee, thinking of my overprotective sister. “Her advice worked. But in a different way.”

  He lifted a curious brow, as he took a bite of the omelet. “How so?”

  “I made a different decision then—to wait. I didn’t want to take a single chance, Adam. I didn’t want that type of soul-ripping, bone-crushing heartache. And I also knew from an early age what I wanted in life.”

  “Your photography,” he said, smiling, like he was delighted to know the answer.

  I smiled too. “I knew what I wanted when I was thirteen and my parents gave me my first camera. All I ever wanted was to be a photographer. To go to art school, to learn the craft. I didn’t want anything to derail my plans. And when Ella got pregnant, I learned exactly how one mistake, one stolen moment where you took a risk, could backfire. Could capsize your future. Even though my parents helped, Ella had to drop out of high school for the first six months after the baby was born. My mom cut back at her job to help with the baby. And when Ella finally went to college, it took her six years and so many sleepless nights to get her degree.”

  “That’s rough,” he said, shaking his head and reaching for my hand, clasping it. “I had no idea how hard it was for her.”

  “She’s on the other side now. An amazing nurse, with a great kid. Her own place too. But it took a long time, Adam,” I said, squeezing his hand in return. “And I wanted something different. I wanted my dreams first, and my dreams meant a bachelor’s degree. I promised myself I would remain a virgin all through college. But I wasn’t stupid. I took precautions just in case. I started on protection back then, because I didn’t want to ever worry about a broken condom. I knew I had to be in charge of my own fate and my own body. And I suppose I figured I’d meet someone after college, but I haven’t met anyone I liked enough,” I said with a what can you do shrug. “And honestly, it was easier to devote all my energy to work and photography.”

  He flashed a proud grin, gesturing around my home and to the studio at the far end of the hallway where I shot my pictures. “And it paid off. You’re so young and so far ahead in your career, and you own your own home at twenty-four. That’s amazing.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and I was proud too—I’d accomplished a lot already at my age, and I was relentless with my drive. I’d shut most things out of my life except for friends and photography for the last few years, dating only sparsely. “And I’m glad of that. Even when I dated, I never met anyone who thrilled me.”

  He scoffed. “Because you dated tools.” He took another bite of his breakfast.

  “Gee, thanks.”

  He set down his fork, leveling me with an honest stare. “Well, they kind of were, Nina. That guy Kenny? He was a professional poker player, and all he talked about were different combinations of cards. He nearly put me to sleep the night we all went to dinner. Wait, I think he did. If memory serves, I fell asleep at the table.”

  I didn’t want to laugh, to admit I’d had bad taste, but I couldn’t help myself. “So he wasn’t terribly scintillating.”

  “‘Scintillating’? He was tedious.”

  With a huff, I shrugged. My admission. “Okay, he was duller than Dullsville.”

  “Good. While we’re at it, how about Jared? Wasn’t he, like, a product manager of spreadsheets, or something equally mind-numbing? You’d need a microscope to find his sense of humor.”

  My lips quirked into a grin, as I tried to rein in a chuckle. “No. The requirement was actually the world’s strongest microscope to find it,” I said, then laughed. It was so good to be normal with him the next day. To poke fun at me, together. To be who we’d always been with each other. He’d seen me half-naked, he’d sent me soaring to the heavens, and he’d come on me, then watched me lick his release off my lips. And still, we were laughing and teasing the next morning. It was so easy to be with him. To be us, and this conversation tugged at the part of my brain that craved interesting facts. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking? What is the world’s most powerful microscope?”
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br />   Like twin gunslingers, we grabbed our phones from our pocket holsters, fingers swiping. I beat him to the punch.

  “Berkeley has a twenty-seven-million-dollar electron microscope,” I blurted out.

  “It lets you see to a resolution that’s half the freaking width of a hydrogen atom,” he said, jumping in.

  “That’s one ten-millionth of a millimeter,” I said, my jaw dropping with wonder. “It can see everything.”

  He smiled as he read more, devouring intel about microscopes, then he stopped and met my gaze. “Look at us,” he said, kind of amazed.

  My heart skittered knowing we were on the same wavelength. “Yeah, look at us.”

  “We’re doing this. Like we said we would last night. Breakfast, and lightning-fast searches to look stuff up, and talking.”

  “We’re us,” I said, seconding him, then I returned to the previous topic, because digging into my reasons, my choices, felt good. “Adam?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Maybe I wasn’t so great at picking men. Maybe I was drawn to guys I didn’t have a great connection with because I knew what I wanted in bed.”

  His brow knitted. “I’m not following, but keep going, because I want to.”

  I swallowed, drawing a deep breath of air. “I think I always knew what I wanted in bed, and that it would be hard to find it, and harder still to voice it. So I chose the other path—where I wouldn’t ever be faced with voicing my desires. I chose men who were unlikely to stimulate my mind, and so I kept my desires locked up.”

  His expression turned serious. “Why is it hard to speak about what you want?”

  My throat tightened, but I pushed past the fear, like Aphrodite urged me to do. “Because I might be a virgin, but I don’t want sweet and tender sex. And it’s hard to say that. Because society expects virgins to want sex a certain way.”

  He set down his fork, studied me intensely. “There is nothing wrong with what you want. There is nothing wrong with kinky desires. I think it’s sexy and smart and hot as hell to write down all those fantasies.”