Mended (Connections, #3)(29)

“Right,” I reply with a smirk. “My cousin’s movie.”

She nods. “Just give me a minute to change and I’ll meet you in the back lounge.”

I make a skeptical noise over her choice of movie and she flashes me a grin before leaving the room.

“Okay, Mr. Push-ups, let’s hear your story,” she mock demands as she enters the dimly lit lounge I’m already sitting in watching the all-time classic movie Stripes.

I swivel around in my chair and glance up. “Chicks dig me, because I rarely wear underwear and when I do it’s usually something unusual.” I grin, quoting John Winger’s most awesome line from the movie.

She giggles and flops into the chair next to mine. “God, I haven’t watched this movie in years.”

“Me either.” I almost say Not since the last time I watched it with you, but I don’t.

“Can we watch this instead?”

I give her a charming smile. “Sure, if you insist.” Like she has to ask me twice about skipping what I can only imagine to be a chick flick.

She has no makeup on, but she doesn’t need it. And when her face is a blank canvas, her eyes seem to always sparkle. Her hair is piled loosely on top of her head, and as she swivels to hoist her feet up on the table, the oversized neckline of her sweatshirt exposes a hint of lace. Fuck, we haven’t been alone like this until now, and I want nothing more than to pull her off that chair and onto my lap.

We sit next to each other for the rest of the movie and even talk over it at times. But the closest our bodies come to touching is when I kick my boots up on the coffee table next to her bare feet.

“Don’t put your shoes on the furniture,” she comments and taps her toes against my boots, shoving my feet down.

I make an amused face. “Yes, ma’am. We don’t want to mark up the fine furnishings.”

She giggles and I toe my boots off, then kick my sock-clad feet back up, where her toes remain very close to mine. Friends, I keep reminding myself. I can do this—establish what we had through friendship first. But no matter how many times I say it in my head, that doesn’t stop me from feeling the way I feel toward her.

The credits roll. Her feet graze mine for a few long moments—on purpose or by accident, I don’t know, but my body reacts instantly to her touch. She looks at me, biting her lip, and the sight sets me on fire. I rise from my chair, ready to pounce, but she stands at the same time and yawns. “It’s late. I’m going to call it a night. Thank you for watching that with me.”

“Good night, Ivy. I really enjoyed the movie and the company.”

She scurries out of the room without turning back, and for a minute I consider chasing after her, but I head to bed instead.

? ? ?

I awake from a deep sleep. Some nights I sleep like a baby, others I find myself tossing and turning most of the night. Tonight is one of those in-between nights. I open my eyes and find myself spinning the gun on his desk as someone taunts me: “Pull the trigger. I dare you. You’re such a sorry excuse of a son. Just do it.” The shadow hovers over me, a face I can’t make out. My heart is pounding and adrenaline pumps through my veins as he urges me to just do it.

“Xander, man, wake up,” Garrett says, touching my shoulders, shaking me.

I look up to see him, not my father, standing over me. Fuck, I haven’t had a dream like that in a long time.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

“I’m fine. Thanks. Sorry if I woke you. Just a bad dream.” He lets the curtain fall back and I shift restlessly for the next few hours.

After a breakdown on the road, we’re headed to Cleveland, and can finally get off this bus. I’ll be glad to stay in my own room and get some decent rest. I’m too tired to get any work done today. My head is drowning with the same regrets I always have after dreams of my father—mainly one regret—why didn’t I keep my mouth shut? Of course, in my dreams it’s always my father tempting me with death in some way—but three therapists later, the dreams mean the same thing. I have to let my guilt go or the dreams will continue to haunt me. I have no f*cking idea how to do that, and seeing a shrink was not my thing—talking about feelings and evaluating everything in my life since I was born is something I ultimately passed on.

Unable to sleep, I hop out of bed and check my e-mails, but find nothing of concern and no fires to put out, so I decide to go back to bed. Around noon I finally haul my sorry ass up. I skip any kind of workout today—I’m just too drained. The galley is quiet as I walk through it and into the small bathroom. Turning the hot water on in the shower as high as I can, I try to erase the nightmare from my mind and for once just let thoughts of Ivy consume me. The mirror starts to fog up and I think about last night. Shit, all I want to do is make her mine.

Stripping off my clothes, I’m already half hard just thinking about her, her perfect body, and how much I want to be with her again. I step into the pint-sized shower with my cock in my hand. I want her hand to curl around me so she’ll feel how hard she makes me. I close my eyes and gently rub, first around my cock, then my balls. Fuck, that feels good. I picture her doing this—in the shower, with us exploring our bodies in any way we want. I want to feel her hands gripping me. I think of her, her face, her body . . . the ways I want to touch her, where I want to touch her. I imagine driving my cock into her sweet *, and it makes me want to come hard and fast.