Finally Fell, page 10
“I’m not your servant.” She all but spat the words out at me when I was close enough. Her eyes had darkened; she was fired up, but I was pretty sure she wasn’t going to throw the drink at me. At least, I hoped not.
I stood directly in front of her, our mouths only inches apart. “No, you are most definitely not my servant.” I ran a finger down her cheek, my cock twitching to life when she closed her eyes and inhaled softly. “But you did promise to listen to me.”
Brittany’s eyes snapped open. “In the bedroom, not in—”
I silenced her with a kiss. The small moan that slipped from her mouth into mine told me everything I needed to know. When I pulled away, I kept my arm wrapped tightly around her waist, holding her close.
“You didn’t seem happy to see me.”
“I’m always happy to see you.”
The words shocked and thrilled me. They’d obviously surprised her, too. Brittany immediately pressed her lips together in a line.
“You are, are you?” I teased. I was certain she was going to deny it, but she didn’t.
“I actually am.”
Her face was full of sincerity and a vulnerability I’d never seen in her before.
She chuckled. “I probably shouldn’t have said that. But what the hell?”
What the hell indeed?
Something inside me warmed, and for the first time with Brittany, it wasn’t purely sexual. Okay, maybe it wasn’t the first time. But it was the first time I recognized it for what it was. I liked her. I genuinely liked her in a way I’d never liked any other woman.
I was also always happy to see her. It hadn’t been long since we’d started this whole…whatever it was we were doing. But did that matter? Was there supposed to be a timeline on how I was supposed to feel at certain times? Who gave a fuck if there was?
“Brittany, I—”
“Hey, you guys!” Shane’s voice interrupted our private moment. “Time to eat,” Shane called. “Grab a drink and get to the table.”
We did as we were told, taking our drinks with us as we joined the others. Before we’d even sat down, Brittany had downed her drink. In fact, as the evening progressed, Brittany, who hardly ever drank alcohol, always seemed to have a drink in her hand. She didn’t appear drunk, but if she kept going, it wouldn’t be long before she did or said something I knew she’d regret in the morning.
Dinner was barely over when I took Brittany’s hand, stood and announced we would be leaving early. It probably went against all kinds of social conventions, and no doubt I’d hear about it from Shane later, but I didn’t care. I knew Brittany well enough to know that something was going on with her. There was no other explanation for why she would be drinking so excessively in the situation.
She didn’t resist when I insisted on leaving her car behind and taking mine, and it wasn’t until we pulled up at the valet of her building that she said, “We probably shouldn’t have left so early.”
“Are you upset?”
She shook her head. “No. I…well…thanks for driving me home.”
Yes. Something was definitely going on. Her behavior had changed so quickly. Right after she’d admitted to being happy to see me. But why? I grabbed her hand. “I’ll walk you up.”
Her eyes flared with the promise of more, but for the first time ever, I wasn’t interested in fucking her. Not if she was drunk.
I’d never been up to Brittany’s top-floor condo. Immediately upon setting foot into the room, I was impressed. It was beautiful. Tastefully furnished in clean lines. Everything was white and light gray, with blue accents that matched her eyes. Professional, crisp and modern. It reminded me of Brittany, but it was missing something.
Britt came off as slick and cold. Ice Queen, I used to think of her as. And this living space matched that. But the more I got to know, the more I could see there was more to Brittany than initially met the eye. There was a warmth to her that this space didn’t convey at all.
She walked straight through into the living room, expecting me to follow. Which I did.
“What’s this?”
I stopped short at two paintings that were propped up in the hallway.
“Nothing,” she called from the kitchen. “Just some garbage I need to take out. Want a drink?”
“Not even a little,” I called before turning my attention back to the paintings. They were good. Really good. And they were portraits of Brittany. One as a young girl, and one where she was a bit older. A young woman. They were both stunning and…haunting.
In the living room was an easel with a painting of mountains propped up on it. On the floor next to the easel was a small stack of other paintings as well. I had no idea Brittany was an artist.
Always full of surprises.
“Britt?” I went in search of her and found her sitting on the white marble kitchen island, another drink in her hand. I stood in front of her and took the drink gently out of her hand. “Want to talk about it?”
She shook her head. “I think I did enough talking earlier, don’t you?”
Oh.
“Is that what this is all about?” I held her head still and forced her to look at me when I said what I should have said much earlier. “I’m always happy to see you, too.”
It wasn’t a lie. Or some sort of bullshit I was saying because I thought it was what she wanted to hear. Not even close.
“You’re just saying that so I don’t feel stupid.”
“Do I look like the type of man to say something I don’t mean?”
Reluctantly, she shook her head.
I kissed her softly. “Just like you’re not the type of woman to say what you don’t mean.”
She thought about it for a minute. “It still doesn’t mean anything. Four weeks. That’s it.”
“Whatever you say.” I kissed her again, purposely not mentioning the extension clause that I was thinking about more and more. “It’s early. How about some coffee?”
Chapter Twelve
There was a reason I never drank. And after two very strong black coffees, I remembered exactly what that reason was.
I lost control. A little bit of alcohol in my system, and I started saying things I didn’t mean, or worse—things I did mean and had no business saying.
I took a good long look at myself in the mirror, and my face burned at the memory of what I’d said to Trent.
I’m always happy to see you.
I mean, seriously? Who actually said things like that? I was mortified. All I really wanted to do was change into my pajamas and crawl into bed with Sheldon, who’d been in hiding ever since we’d come home. He didn’t usually like it when I brought strangers into my apartment. He wasn’t likely to make an appearance until Trent left.
Which didn’t seem to be anytime soon. In fact, he looked quite comfortable on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, his arms tucked behind his head when I returned from the bathroom. No. He didn’t look like he was going anywhere soon.
With a sigh, I sank down into the oversized chair across from him and picked up my glass of water that I’d switched to, having had enough of the coffee.
“Feeling better?”
“I wasn’t feeling bad,” I shot back.
He was clearly trying hard not to laugh. “Right.”
“Do you think it’s funny?”
“Yes.”
My spine stiffened, but as quickly as I was offended, it vanished.
“You did hear what I said to you, too, right?”
I had. And it almost made it worse, which was even more stupid. The whole thing was a mess. “Just because we enjoy each other’s company doesn’t mean anything.”
“Of course.”
Trent got up from his seat, crossed the room, and leaned down over me, caging me into the chair.
I shuddered involuntarily and worked hard to control my breathing, something that was getting harder and harder to do when Trent was around.
“Brittany.”
I exhaled.
“Stop overthinking this and kiss me.”
I reached up and pulled his head down so I could crush his lips against mine. Instantly, heat flooded through me, and that’s all it took for me to do exactly what he’d suggested. I stopped overthinking everything. The only thought on my mind involved his lips on mine. Exactly where I liked them.
Despite the alcohol that had dulled my senses not long ago, every single sense was on high alert now. That’s what Trent did to me. He made me come alive.
But that’s not all he did to me.
Even more startling than the things he did to my body were the things he did to my thoughts.
Trent made me think about things and even want things that I had never in my life even considered. I wanted to tell him things. I wanted to hear his input. I enjoyed being with him. And doing things. Things that weren’t only sexual.
But I liked that, too. Very much. And that’s what I needed to focus on at the moment because Trent’s hands were on my hips and were slipping up under my top to my breasts, and his touch on me felt amazing.
Yes.
That’s what I needed to focus on.
Not on how I’d seen a different side of him at the Pines with the seniors. A softer side, a human side.
No. I did not need to think of that.
Nor did I need to think of how it felt when he’d crossed the room earlier at Jessie and Shane’s and kissed me in front of my friends. Or the jealousy that flowed through me when he gave attention to Sandy. I didn’t get jealous. Ever. Not about work, or my friends, and definitely not about a man.
No.
Focus, Brittany.
With a renewed effort, I concentrated on the way Trent was touching me, not that it was hard because the way he was touching me was fucking incredible. Like he knew exactly what I needed. And when I needed it.
“You need to stop thinking,” Trent said as he kissed my neck in that tender spot that made me groan. “Clear your mind and don’t think about anything but…” Trent slipped a hand down the front of my pants and pressed one finger to my clit. “This,” he said as I groaned.
“Oh, you’re good.” My words were lost on my moan when he did it again. He was good.
“Only.” He pressed again. “Think.” Again. “About—Oh shit! What the—”
Trent pulled back, taking his talented fingers with him as Sheldon pounced up on the couch, directly between us.
I grabbed him up in my arms and fell back against the couch, laughing.
“What. The. Fuck…” Trent clambered backward as if Sheldon were a rabid raccoon instead of my fluffy black and white, slightly anti-social house cat. “Is that?”
I tried to stifle my laughter by burying my face in Sheldon’s fur, a move he didn’t take kindly to. Sheldon squirmed and mewled in protest. I held him tighter and scratched under his chin the way I knew calmed him down.
“This is Sheldon.” I kissed the top of his head. “My favorite guy.” He’d calmed down enough for me to let him go, and instead of jumping off the couch and running for cover under my bed, to my surprise, he padded across the cushions toward Trent, who had realized there was no significant threat from my four-legged friend and was once again sitting, albeit a little more tentatively, on the couch.
“Your cat?”
“Sheldon,” I repeated. “He’s been my number one for about ten years now. My longest relationship.”
Trent smiled. “Is that right?”
“Oh?” I scratched Sheldon’s head, making him purr and arch his back. “And you’ve had a longer one?”
“Would it surprise you if I had?”
“Um, yes.” I laughed as Sheldon continued to walk away from me. Toward Trent.
I watched as my cat, who did not like anyone, ever—besides me—moved steadily and slowly toward Trent, who was also watching Sheldon carefully.
“Don’t take it personally,” I said as Sheldon stopped in front of him, assessing Trent’s knee. “He doesn’t like anyone. He’s never actually—”
My train of thought broke off as Sheldon, without hesitation, climbed up onto Trent’s lap, where he immediately settled in and started to purr.
“What were you saying about how he doesn’t like anyone…”
“Traitor!”
Trent chuckled while he absentmindedly stroked Sheldon’s back.
Again, a feeling I wasn’t familiar with—jealousy—washed through me. I shook my head and sat back against the cushions. Getting jealous at the party earlier was one thing. But over my cat? That was just ridiculous.
“I see that look,” Trent teased.
“What look?”
“You’re jealous.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
His smile and the teasing tone he was using with me was making it hard to be serious. Or jealous. Which I was.
“In fact,” Trent continued, “I think you’re jealous that your longest relationship likes your current relationship.”
“My what?”
Trent froze, but only for a second before he repeated himself. “Your relationship.”
Yes. I said it. I didn’t mean to say it, but I did.
And now that I had…
“Does that scare you, Brittany?”
Because shockingly, it didn’t scare me the way I thought it would. Not now.
The presence of the furry, apparently anti-social cat in my lap gave me confidence that I had no right in feeling. At least not when it came to this.
“We agreed,” Brittany said. “Just sex. I wouldn’t really call that a—”
“Relationship?” I grinned. “That’s exactly what it is, Brittany. You and me, however screwed up it is, are in a relationship.”
She shook her head, looked down at her lap, and opened her mouth to object again. Before she could, I stopped her.
“Are you going to tell me about the paintings?”
Brittany’s head popped up, her hair falling in a wave down her back. If the drinks she’d had earlier had clouded her in any way, she was fully alert now. “The what?”
With my free hand, I reached out and rested it on her knee. “The paintings,” I said again. “The ones in the hallway, of course. But the others too. It definitely doesn’t look like your interior designer put it here.” They didn’t. But not because they weren’t worthy of hanging in Brittany’s posh apartment. They were. But they had color and life to them. Unlike almost everything else in her place.
“Plus,” I added, “I saw the easel. I didn’t know you painted.”
Her head spun around, her eyes landing on the easel that she clearly hadn’t intended for me to see. I wished I knew why she had such high, strong walls up around her. Who had hurt her? Why was she so hell-bent in keeping everyone out? And the question I really wanted an answer to: Could I be the one to break those walls down?
Fuck. I was in trouble, and I didn’t need a therapist or anyone else to tell me that. But it had finally happened. After so many years of guarding myself against this very thing, it was happening.
I was starting to care about someone other than myself.
No. Correction. I did care.
She still hadn’t responded, so with nothing else to do, I kept talking. “You’re very good.” I pointed to the picture of her as a small child looking out the window. “It’s incredible.”
“I didn’t paint that one.”
A question in my eyes, I turned back to look at her. To my surprise, she wasn’t trying to get up and run away. She’d settled back into the couch and although she didn’t look comfortable exactly, she didn’t look as if she were going to bolt. Or hit me. Both were good things.
“My father did.”
Certainly, the shock was apparent on my face. “Your father?”
Brittany nodded. “He did that one before he left.” She pointed to the other painting in the hall. “And that one sometime after. I never knew about it. I didn’t even know my father had any idea who I was. Or where I was, but…”
I remembered what she’d said the other day. That despite not seeing her dad for a long time, he’d obviously seen her. I nodded in understanding, although there was very little I understood about the situation.
“How did you get them?”
“My mother’s assistant sent them to me recently. He said he thought I should have them. My mother never even told me about them.” Brittany shook her head. “She never told me that, at least in some way, my father cared enough about me to seek me out. To paint me.”
I could see the tears pooling in her eyes. I squeezed her knee but gave her the space I felt she needed.
“She always told me that he chose art over us. That art was a useless pursuit that would only lead to ruin.”
My gaze took in the other paintings, and the easel.
“But you paint?”
She shook her head sadly. “No. At least, I didn’t. Not for a really long time. The day my mother took my paint set away, I did what I thought I was supposed to do. I focused on school. Getting good grades so I could get into a good school. That’s what was important. Because with an education, I didn’t have to depend on a man. I only needed myself. Art was a waste. It didn’t pay the bills. It only led to heartbreak.” She shook her head with a humorless chuckle. “I guess it was the same with relationships, too,” she said. “My mom didn’t have any friends. She never dated. Hell, she barely spoke to me. Relationships were a sign of weakness.”
“She told you that?”
“She didn’t have to.”
Fuck. My heart ached for the little girl version of Brittany whose father had left her and a mother who didn’t give her the love she deserved. The love she needed. Hell, my heart hurt for the adult version of Brittany, who obviously still felt the same way. Thankfully she’d seen through her mother’s bullshit long enough to build the friendships she had. But even then, how close were they really? Did the girls know about the painting? Without asking, I was pretty sure I already knew the answer. There was a reason Brittany was thought of as the Ice Queen. She was protecting herself.
“Britt, I—”
“Don’t feel sorry for me.”
“I don’t.”
