What He Left Behind(16)
“I kissed him. Didn’t go any further than that, though.”
Ian tenses a little, lips touching my skin but not moving. After a moment, he quietly says, “Oh.”
I turn my head slightly. “That’s okay, right? I mean, you’re—”
“It’s fine. It’s fine.” Ian turns me around and puts his hands on my hips. “I, uh… It might take some adjustment. Knowing you’re with someone else. Physically.”
“But you said—”
“I know, I know.” He shakes his head. “I’ll be fine with it. It’s, you know, going from ‘in theory’ to ‘in practice’.” Before I can ask for the millionth time if he’s sure about this, he says, “How was he with that? With kissing you?”
I swallow, my spine prickling at the memory. “It was harder for him than I thought it would be. He’s definitely got some ghosts hanging around in that department.”
Ian flinches. “God, what a travesty.”
“It really is.” I shudder. “I think this process is going to be slower than I thought. I think…” My brain is threatening to send me back to that place it went while I was in the car. Back to the better times that only make the present more painful to accept. “I need…” My eyes dart toward the bottle of vodka, which is starting to sweat on the counter. Then I release my breath and gently free myself from my husband’s embrace. “I think I need a shower. I feel like I’ve got”—I shudder—“Steve all over me.”
Ian nods. “Go. We’ll sit down and have a drink afterward, and maybe talk about this some more.”
“Good idea.”
I kiss him gently and then make my way upstairs, Ariel hot on my heels. She follows me to the bathroom, as she always does. I stop there and pet her, giving her some attention, and then send her into the bedroom to wait until I’m done with my shower. Closing the door is kind of a necessity with her in the house—otherwise it’s a good bet she’ll end up in the shower, as we’ve both found out the hard way a few times.
Alone in the bathroom, I turn on the water as hot as it’ll go and scrub until my skin is raw. I hope to God this doesn’t happen every time I’m with Michael. Hopefully it’s just my body reacting to the undeniable reality of how traumatized my best friend is and how much damage that cretin left behind. I’ve known all along that he hurt Michael, but I never realized Steve’s got a ghost like poison ivy.
The water is starting to get cool, and I’m as clean as I’m going to get, so I shut it off and get out.
After I’ve dried off, I wrap the towel around my waist. When I step out of the bathroom, Ariel isn’t there. The bedroom door is closed, and Ian’s lying in bed, in jeans and nothing else, but he’s not waiting for me so we can go to sleep or go downstairs for a drink. Not with that gleam in his eyes, and definitely not with the bottle of lube conveniently placed on the nightstand.
My shoulders droop. “Ian…”
“I know you don’t feel like it.” He swings his long legs over the edge of the bed and rolls to his feet. He takes off his glasses, sets them beside the bottle of lube and then crosses the room to where I’m standing. As he slides his hands over my bare waist, he adds, “I think it might be good for you to remember why you’re doing this.”
“Oh, believe me. I haven’t forgot—”
Ian’s lips stop mine. Whatever resistance I have is slipping away fast, and in spite of myself, I wrap my arms around him. How he’s in the mood is beyond me, but it’s contagious. I wasn’t thinking positively about sex when I came out of the shower, but even after all these years, Ian can still turn me on when he wants to, and he definitely wants to now. His mouth is taking over mine, and his palms are sliding all over my damp skin, and damn all these goose bumps for giving me away. And if they don’t give me away, the hard-on that’s swelling against his certainly does.
He guides me toward the bed, and with every step, his kiss gets more demanding. He wants me to remember why I’m doing this, what Michael’s been missing all this time and I’ve vowed to get back for him, but sex with Ian is on a whole different plane. Michael is—was—playful and leisurely, never in any rush. Ian doesn’t hurry either, but he’s rough and aggressive, the kind of man who leaves marks. Whenever he’s done with me, I’m satisfied beyond belief, and yet still begging for more.
Maybe he doesn’t want to remind me what I’m doing for Michael as much as he wants me to remember that he’s here too.
Oh, Ian. I hold him tighter, kiss him harder. You don’t ever have to worry that I’ll forget you.
Ian nudges me back another step, and though my eyes are closed and I’m moving backward, I take the step without hesitation. His arm is around me, and he can see past me—he won’t let me fall or hit something. My mind is reeling with anticipation but not fear. Because there’s never been a trace of fear between us in the bedroom. Maybe some first-time clumsiness when we met, but actual fear? None. Never. I can’t imagine ever being scared of Ian, or of him recoiling from my touch the way Michael did tonight. I can’t imagine us ever touching each other any way besides…this. Like two people who are, for the time being, living and breathing for nothing beyond the other’s pleasure.