Chaos and Control(44)
He shrugs and meets my eyes.
“I’d like to travel. It’s difficult for me. But someday…” he says, letting his eyes fall to his lap.
“And?”
“And I want to do what I’m doing now. I want to continue to build things and give old objects new life. As strange as it may seem, I enjoy using my hands.”
With this, Preston raises his head, and his intense gaze is haunting in the low candlelight. One suggestive eyebrow is raised, and I’m reading him loud and clear.
“I enjoy you using your hands, too.”
Our matching grins lift the heaviness, and it’s all I can do not to climb in his lap and kiss him silly.
By the time our plates are cleared and my dessert delivered, I am a combustible mass of sexual tension. My insides hum and flutter at every glance, and when he rests his hand on my bare knee, I want to burst.
Instead, I use my fork to cut into my tiramisu and take a bite.
“Mmm. This is amazing.” This time Preston watches me eat. I cut another piece and hold my fork out to him. “You should taste it.”
A look of panic washes over his features before he takes a deep breath and blows it out. The fork and dessert hover between us, and I want to take it back and tell him never mind when his lips part and he leans forward. Preston’s eyes stay on mine as I slide the bite into his mouth and watch as his lips close around it. The stubble on his face—which seems to be permanent since I requested it—creates a lovely movement of shadow and light as he chews. I pull the fork out and celebrate this small victory.
I place my lips on his and taste the sweetness that lingers there. What starts out chaste slowly morphs into ravenous. Soon our lips part, and we are consuming each other. We are rum and custard and pent-up desire. Preston’s hand slides up my thigh, pushing the hem of my dress up. His long fingers curl around my leg, and I whimper into his mouth.
“Let’s get out of here,” I breathe.
Preston nods and signals for the waiter to bring the check. He only removes his hand from me when he has to sign the receipt. As soon as that’s done, we are out the door and on our way back to Crowley. In the truck, I lean in to his side and vow not to distract him while he’s driving, though every minute that proves more and more difficult to do.
Another invasion of him in our space He lays his crooked smile on her Like a secret between the two A bubbling kind of rage simmers Beneath my cool surface
Irrational ownership carves
Tunnels through my resolve
I keep my distance
Until it is impossible to do so A casual gesture
To claim this girl and
It surprises us both
He retreats and knows
He has been beaten
Another meal with her in my space She lays her hand on my thigh Like a secret between lovers A simmering kind of need bubbles Beneath my cool surface
Irrational possession carves Holes through my resistance
I keep my distance
Until it is impossible to do so A casual conversation
To discuss baseball and It surprises us both
She retreats only when
She knows she has won
- Preston
Chapter Fourteen
Ready to Die
We are in the hall between Bennie’s door and Preston’s. He is looking at me like he wants to devour me. I’m looking at him like I want to let him.
“No one has ever been in my apartment,” he says.
“Do you want me to come in?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll go slow,” I promise.
Preston slides the key into the lock and turns it. He does the same with the deadbolt and pushes the door open. Before I can peek in, he grabs my hand and pulls me inside, slamming the door closed. I am pressed to the wall now, Preston holding me in place with his hard body while he secures the door. He slides the chain in place, then locks the doorknob. The deadbolt clicks and then unlocks. He turns it again and unlocks it once more. I can feel his frustration growing, his body tensing as he locks and re-locks the door. Sliding my hands around his waist, I lean forward and place a kiss at the base of his throat. The lock slides into place one final time, and Preston pulls away.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“Don’t be. Do you want to have a drink?”
“Just one,” he says.
“Okay.”
Preston walks to the kitchen. I watch him check the coffee pot twice, and then he pulls his whiskey from the cupboard. Now that I can look around, I’m amazed at what he’s done with my old apartment. It’s immaculate and minimalistic, a stark contrast from the hippie den next door. There are framed album covers in a grid pattern on one wall, while the others are bare. All his furniture looks new, and the floors shine like a wooden mirror.
“Do you want one?” he asks, waving the bottle at me.
“No, I’m good.”
His shoulders move and flex as he pours the drink and replaces the bottle in the cabinet. Preston turns and finds me still pressed against the wall.
“I’m a shitty host,” he says, gesturing to the sofa. “Come in.”
I walk over, slip out of my heels, and line them up neatly next to my clutch on the floor. I take a seat at the end of the sofa while Preston puts on a record. I laugh when the intro starts and am blessed with a lopsided smirk from Preston.