Tempest (Seattle Blades Book 3), page 8
“No, but I think I just caught her when she was hungry.”
“Doesn’t matter, she let you stay,” Cillian says. “That’s something. If she hated you, she’d have at least made you leave.”
“Or called the cops on you. That’s what I’d have done if it was me,” Blom adds with a wink.
“Ah, thanks, buddy. Love you, too.”
“I could give you the same advice these meatheads gave me when Isla was consuming me. Grand fucking gestures.”
“Is that what worked with Isla?”
“Nah, that’s not really her thing. I chipped away at her by constantly putting myself in her way and making sure she could see I wasn’t the same dumbfuck she’d dumped all those years before,” Cillian says. “If you broke her heart, she’s scared you’ll do it again.”
We played a great game. The fans will be more excited for the rest of the season because of it. It felt great to be back on the ice in competition.
So why am I at home alone, acting like a sad sack of shit?
Because I sent two tickets for the game to Odette’s house, only for her to give them to her friends, Vanessa and George. They told Tori that Odette was on a date and didn’t want the tickets to go to waste.
A date.
A motherfucking date.
With another guy.
I showered at the arena, but I strip down again anyway, stepping into the steam and letting the hot water work at the internal tension. She’s fucking with me. Not intentionally, but she is all the same.
It’s not different than when we were young, and I’d steal looks at her every chance I got. There were so many days when I thought I should be with her instead of Caroline. High school pressure and expectations from our families got in the way. Everyone saw us as the “it couple” and we went with it. But it was Odette I fantasized about.
My mind plays back that night at her house, her standing at her sink in that flowy short dress. I tried not to be obvious in my ogling then, but now, I can appreciate her long legs. Toned with just a hint of sun-kissed glow. She was barefoot, toes painted a shade that matched her dress. Her hair pulled up in some intricate knot.
If things had been different, I’d have tangled my fingers in it and pulled it loose to flow down her back. Then I’d have slowly pulled her dress up and panties down with a soft touch that would drive her crazy, to keep her on the edge between titillating and tickling.
She’d have leaned in with her ass, bowing her back as she gripped the sink and widened her legs to give me the access I’d need to bury my face in her cunt and lay out every apology there.
I’d have made her come the first time like that. The same way I made her come for the first time when we were younger.
Fuck, I remember everything about her then. I remember more about her than I do most parts of my own life. How she tasted, how she sighed in pleasure, and groaned in release. How I always left her trembling and out of breath. So bold and unashamed with sex, even then.
I would have turned her around then, lifted her onto the counter to fuck her face-to-face. Eye to eye, equals in our need for each other. I’d have ripped that flowery dress right off her, had her bare before me when I thrust in the first time. She’d have pulled at my hair to keep my face close, her heels digging in to my ass as she wrapped them tightly around me.
My hand tries to imitate the pressure of her pussy, but it can’t, so I dive deeper into my made-up vision. Odette’s head thrown back, her neck there for me to nibble and suck. Fuck, I’d sink my teeth in as deep as my cock, pinning her to me.
We’d have come together, her name on my lips and only mine on hers.
I come in my hand at the thought of her stuffy, professor boyfriend watching as I make her come harder than he ever fucking could.
9
Odette
Mundane.
That’s how I’d describe sex with Preston. Dull somehow feels more insulting. Mundane has a more romantic flare to it.
Either way, that’s what it was. He’s a nice man. Too nice, too sweet and gentle. We could be great friends; he’d be an exceptional one, I think. He’s interesting, intelligent, curious about the world.
“So, it’s not a love match?” Vanessa asks. We’re having brunch together, along with George, since he leaves tomorrow for another business trip.
“What is love, darling?”
“By definition,” George answers, “an intense feeling of deep affection, or great pleasure in something.”
“Then, no. It’s not a love match,” I confirm. “The pleasure was good, at best.”
George laughs, while Vanessa only looks concerned.
“He can learn to be a better lover,” she says.
“He’s forty-two, and not my student.”
She laughs. “I’m aware. But he’s been married since he was twenty. Perhaps he didn’t have the opportunity to learn. His wife is very reserved.”
“You’ve met her?”
“A few times, she’s quiet. Timid, even.”
“My exact opposite.”
“Sounds like it,” George says. “If he couldn’t let loose with you, he might be a lost cause.”
“Whose side are you on?” Vanessa asks him.
“Odette’s,” he answers. “I want her to find her match just as much as you do, my love. We only disagree on who that may be.”
“Who would you suggest?” I ask him, curious as to why either of them puts any thought into my lack of love life. They weren’t always like this, but they see the changes I’m trying to make, and I think they believe that means I must be ready for love. I’m not as convinced as they are.
“Well, Vanessa would line up an endless array of scholars and intellectuals. I, on the other hand, would lean toward a more rugged type. Someone good with their hands, not just their mind. Someone who would challenge you, make you brave.”
“I am brave,” I challenge, pointing my fork at him as if to threaten him to say it again.
“In so many ways, yes,” he agrees. “But you aren’t brave enough to be vulnerable again. Preston doesn’t strike me as the man who can encourage that out of you. He’s more mouse to your cat, a plaything. A game.”
“Aren’t they all,” I tease. I do treat the men in my life like toys. And like a toddler, I get bored with them so easily. None get to know me, none break through my shell.
Not since him.
“Someone more like that hockey player friend of yours,” George suggests like he’s reading my thoughts.
“Gavin isn’t a friend.”
“What is he then,” Vanessa asks. “Besides the boy who once broke your heart.”
Vanessa knows my history, thanks to our first drunken night together in college. I spilled it all and swore her to never speak of it again.
“A memory.”
“A bad one?” George asks.
“A bittersweet one,” I clarify. “A beautiful one, followed by a sorrowful one.” I could never regret those days with Gavin. I’ve tried, but I can’t. New love…no, first love is an amazing thing.
“You loved him,” George states.
“I thought so at the time. But I didn’t know anything more about love then than I do now.”
“Because you don’t let yourself,” Vanessa says. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to push. If I didn’t see the things you don’t, I wouldn’t.”
“What does that mean? What do you see?”
“We both see you desperately searching for changes,” George answers. “But I also saw the way you looked at him when you thought no one was looking. And I saw him doing the same.”
“Curiosity is what you saw. It means nothing. We don’t know each other anymore.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t waste the opportunity to get to know him then. What’s the harm?” Vanessa asks with that same concerned look.
Another broken heart, I answer her in my head.
“This is good, Drake. But be mindful of adding too much here,” I say, gesturing to the floral applique at the hip of the dress. “You don’t want it to distract from the silhouette.”
Drake steps back to analyze his design, I stand next to him, waiting for his conclusion. I’ve made it clear that while I make suggestions, they are in no way obligated to take them. My opinions are to provoke thought, nothing more. These students have loud voices, they need support, not influence.
“It’s adding too much bulk,” he finally says. “It will make her hips wider. If I move it up and turn it…” He unpins the applique and adjusts it to a position farther up. “Here, it will accentuate the waist.”
“Well done,” I tell him and move on through the workroom. Mostly, the students in their first year aren’t designing for class. Their coursework is more on learning sewing skills or patterning, along with fashion history and the like. But the workroom is a free space for them to come and work out their creative needs in between or after class. My office is just down the hall, so I spend a lot of time here. Even if there is only one student here. Today, there are four, including Tori, who just walked in with a big bag.
“What do you have there?” I ask.
“A new haul from the thrift store,” she says, excitedly dumping the items onto her station.
“I hope you don’t mind me watching the process?”
“Not at all,” she says.
“Glad I don’t make you nervous.”
“Well, I didn’t say that.” She laughs. “I’m here to learn, though, and you have the best eye.”
“You flatter me, Ms. Vaughn. Talk me through the process?”
“Sure.”
She lays each piece out, pointing out what attracted her to every one. One is the color, one is the quality of the denim, one is the art deco-style print. There are a dozen different pieces as she starts to rip stitches and make cuts. She doesn’t discard anything, just sets the scraps aside for “future projects” she says.
Two hours pass like minutes, and she has three new garments laid out and patterned. I’m not the only spectator anymore, either. Benji and Drake have both pulled up stools next to me.
“That was fucking impressive,” Benji says.
“Agree,” Drake chimes in.
“Did you envision these pieces while you were shopping or while you were laying out the garments here?” I ask her.
“I usually get an idea when I see something at the store. Half the time, it morphs into something else when I start to rip everything apart,” she says, surveying her work. She picks up one of the discarded scraps, holding it up for us. “I already have several ideas for this.”
The guys make more remarks, further boosting her confidence, before they leave the workroom.
“You know, that one is my size,” I tell her, pointing to a mini dress she has laid out with the denim and two different prints, hinting that I’d wear it. It’s not a lie, I would wear it proudly.
“Dad says you’re too thin,” she blurts. She immediately regrets it, looking appalled at herself. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine.” I laugh. “He said the same thing to me.”
It’s been a couple of weeks since Gavin showed up at my door with dinner. That hasn’t stopped him from reminding me he’s around, though. Like clockwork, every three days, a new floral arrangement is delivered to my house. Each one accompanied by a note signed with his name and his phone number.
Each one asks a question, too. They aren’t to ask me out, instead, he’s trying to provoke conversation. He’s trying to get me to answer. So, he asks silly things like what animal I would choose to be if I could shapeshift. It’s all quite ridiculous and I haven’t answered any of them yet, but he still tries.
“I think he misses you,” she says. “I hope it’s okay for me to say that, and that I’m not crossing some line. But I think he misses you as a friend. He says you’re the most interesting person he’s ever known.”
What do I say to that? I don’t know how much Tori knows of the situation with me and her father.
“That’s sweet of him,” I tell her, going for a neutral response.
“I get why you’d be reluctant. He does, too. But he’s determined. Just so you know,” she says. “He’s really going to try to…I don’t know, be a better person to you this time.”
“He doesn’t have to,” I start to say.
“I know, but he thinks he does,” she insists. “How things happened with you? That’s his biggest regret. Maybe he just wants to know the woman you’ve become despite it all. I can tell him to stop, if you want me to. He’ll respect that.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I say. “You’ve got enough on your plate here making these fantastic garments. Stay focused.”
“Will do,” she says, easily dropping the subject. I get the feeling she wants to encourage me without pressuring me. Much like Vanessa and George.
I don’t know how my love life has become such a hot topic. They all come from a place of well meaning, so I’m not holding it against anyone, but I’d be happy enough if it would simmer down.
There’s only one thing to do in moments like this.
Shop.
That’s exactly what I do. I forgo all the big designer names and scour the internet for the best boutiques in Seattle. All my spare time here has been shopping for home goods and furnishings. I haven’t bought any new clothes in far too long. My friends in New York would hardly recognize me.
The first shop is owned by a woman in her sixties. She’s had the store since 1988. She curates its eclectic collection herself, bringing items in from all over the world. The next is a lingerie store owned by a couple that hand makes all the products in the back of their store. They show me around, and I end up buying way more underwear than a single woman could need.
After that is a jewelry store, then a local handbag designer, before a few more clothing stores. I don’t leave a single shop without purchasing something beautiful. Like everything I’ve been buying for the house, these items all inspire something in me.
Tori did that for me today, too. Watching her work makes me miss the days when I created in a similar way. She’s better at it than me, much better. So much more talented. She’ll go far, and I’ll be proud to have played a small part in her success.
The conversation with her plays in my mind throughout my shopping spree, and at some point, I decide to send a text. Maybe what Vanessa says is true. I’m here in Seattle making big changes with my career and for my health. Why stop there? Why not make some changes with the way I treat men and sex?
Sometimes a lady wants to be fucked without putting a lot of work into finding a guy.
A new arrangement might be exactly what I need. I won’t know until I try, anyway.
I arrive home to another bouquet. It’s large, like they’ve all been. Unlike the rest, this one is made up of dark florals. Blacks and purples with soft dark greenery. There’s a card attached, of course, but I don’t open it. Tonight, it doesn’t matter what question Gavin has for me.
Noting the time, I take my bags to my room, dropping them in my closet and pulling out some of the new lingerie. I take a quick shower before donning it and covering it with a dressing gown that was gifted to me by one of the men that once proposed.
Stephen was the type of man who always got what he wanted. He thought he wanted me, but I suspect it was only because I didn’t want to keep him. He was an excellent gift giver, though, and it would have been rude to send back such beautiful things like this.
The knock on the door comes just as I walk down the stairs. I open it to his smiling face.
“I was surprised you texted,” he says.
“I should have sooner. I’ve just been busy.”
“Understandable. Honestly, I didn’t think you were going to give me a second chance,” he says. “What made you change your mind?”
“Memories,” I say. He looks confused but doesn’t ask. “Come on in, Preston.”
10
Gavin
Then
I’ve been spoiled in my life. My family, while not wealthy, has always been comfortable. My parents are kind, caring, and always treat me with the same respect they expect in return. Every dream I’ve ever had has been met by nothing but support from them. I was born with a talent I can only take so much credit for. Sure, I’ve put the work into hockey, but so much of it has come naturally.
School has never been hard. I’m not a genius, but I’m smart enough that nothing has been particularly challenging. I’m surrounded by friends and never lack for something to do or people to do it with.
All that aside, I feel like I’ve won some kind of lottery by dating Odette.
We’ve been together for weeks now. There haven’t been any labels or declarations made, but I think of her as my girlfriend. She’s mine. Just as I’m hers.
Everything about us is different than the relationship I had with Caroline. It’s exciting instead of comfortable. She makes me think differently because we’re so different and our circles have never really collided.
Each morning, I wake up eager to talk to her and antsy to see her. It’s not how I’ve ever felt about Caroline. My adoration for my ex-girlfriend slash best friend is different on every level. We grew up together, there isn’t anything we don’t know about each other.
Odette is like getting a present every day and being continually surprised by what is inside the box.
While I love that for her and I, it also makes me feel some kind of remorse for all three of us. Caroline could have had this with someone else, and Odette and I could have had this earlier.
But it is what it is, and I’m not trying to look at the past. We have big futures ahead to focus on. I want Odette to be a part of that. Besides hockey, I’ve never been so confident in anything. That’s probably stupid, we’re both so young and this has just started. But I know how I feel. Even if I’m not sure she feels the same.
We’ve gone out a lot these past weeks. I’ve taken her to dinner more nights than not, we’ve been to movies, we’ve picnicked. I can’t get her to ice-skate or hike with me; her refusal always makes me laugh because she says she’s “not that kind of girl”, as if I’m asking her to let me bang her in public or something.
