Deja Who (Insighter #1)(41)
“—or my colleagues or the mayor of Boston!” She had to raise her voice to be heard over her machinations. “I never speak of you. Ever. I never panic when Mother’s Day approaches because I don’t know what to get you and I never fret about the holidays because I know I won’t have to see you. I never feel any of those things daughters feel about difficult mothers. Absent contempt is the kindest emotion I can summon for you. The very kindest.”
“But—”
“Lose this number, or I will lose this phone. Do not call me again, ever, under any circumstances. If you want to give me a kidney, I don’t want you to call. If you want to apologize for the abortion of my childhood, I don’t want you to call. If you’re bleeding out, I don’t want you to call. Fuck your fashion advice. Fuck your career. Fuck your comeback. Fuck my comeback. Fuck you. Good-bye.”
Leah hung up, waiting to feel devastated and bereft. She supposed she’d burst into undignified tears again, as she had in the driveway. Archer seemed to think so, too; he was already moving to her, his arms out in a pre-hug. He had a “there, there” expression on his face; he was fully ready to kick into Comfort Mode.
She held up her hands like a traffic cop and he stopped. “No, I’m fine.” She managed a smile. “I’m fine.”
“Okay?”
“Yes. Okay. That’s . . .” She paused and considered. “That’s been stuck in my head for a while. It feels good to get it out.”
“The way you’d feel good after a family therapy session!” he insisted.
“Ah . . . no. Not at all like that.” Her smile felt a little more real this time. “You charming idiot.”
TWENTY-SIX
Leah drove him home and to his astonished delight, she wouldn’t let him out of the car until they were both panting and his erection hurt. A good hurt, though, the best hurt. The if you don’t let me out of these jeans I’m gonna throw up in your underwear hurt.
He hadn’t been expecting snuggling of any sort. Not after the final-final blow-off with her mother. He’d been a little surprised, and impressed, at how Leah held it together that time. Now he realized that she wasn’t so much holding it together as she was celebrating her freedom.
Her hands were everywhere and her mouth was full of kisses, and best of all, most wonderful of all, she wasn’t at all stingy with them. Where her fingers went her lips followed, and he felt like he was being marked in the loveliest possible way. Her breath kept hitching and would occasionally suspend entirely which made him feel like he was having a heart attack, if heart attacks were intensely erotic. And ah, God, her mouth. Lips and tongue busy against his and he was again reminded his earlobe had a nerve connection straight to his cock.
Oh, sure, he’d read things and done some late-night one-handed Internet research, but nowhere in any of that did someone ever come out and say, “In case you missed that day in anatomy, your earlobe connects to your cock when a lovely dark-eyed brunette has her tongue on it.”
Even better, she was letting him put his hands in places his hands had only dreamed of
(hands dream?)
as he skimmed his fingers beneath her shirt and over the curve of her bra, mindful, always fucking mindful, of the balisong knives. If she had flinched back or even stilled, he would have immediately withdrawn
(my hands and I are terribly sorry, ma’am; it would be terrific if you didn’t stab me again also please don’t cut them off thank you and good night)
but she pressed forward into his fingers and he groaned into her mouth. “Feel like . . . teenager . . .” was all he was able to mumble against her lips, which curved into a smile.
“I wouldn’t know.” Her fingers had gone to the button on his jeans. Ohhhh little fly button, how I envy thee. “I spent most of my teen years in auditions, or studios, or on various hunger strikes to punish Nellie. Once she even noticed.”
“Here’s a plan: let’s not talk about your mom right this minute.”
“Agreed.” Her fingers had undone the button, he was enchanted to note. “I didn’t have a boyfriend until I was twenty.” Her fingers had moved to his zipper and he couldn’t stand it any longer, he brought his hand up to the nape of her neck and pressed his mouth back to hers, caught her deft fingers with his bigger, clumsier ones
(“what are you DOING?” his libido shrieked, betrayed, “have you gone MAD?”)
and pressed them to his heart.
“Shy,” she purred into his mouth.
“Yes, that’s exactly what it is. Shush now. More kissing. This is the stuff you missed.”
So he showed her and she delighted him with her questions and low giggles, and yeah, it was a little like high school but also a little not, because the girls in school didn’t whisper wonderful filthy things in his ear, didn’t press and rub through his jeans and ask things like, “There? More? And how about there? Yes?” The girls in school never made the earlobe-to-cock connection. They never made his brain melt.
And incredibly, he could hear “No wire hangers, ever!” somewhere in his head, which was a bit of a mood dampener, but not entirely, since his need for Leah was a great scary throbbing thing. Maybe she heard it, too, because they finally fell apart, broke apart, and then he was stumbling out of her car and up the walk to his house, and she was waving at him from the driver’s seat. The dome light shone on her dark hair, which was lovely, but the rest of her face was in shadow, and that bothered him, though he was too dazed with lust to put his finger on why.