Page 168 of Fifty First Times (Sharing You 0.40)
The more words that came out, the more tears rolled down my cheek, silent and fat and unbidden. But Tal led me over to the couch and wiped every one away.
He knew me well enough not to try telling me how beautiful and perfect I was, how it was what was inside that counted. He knew me well enough to know that I hated platitudes.
When I finished talking, his hands moved to my shoulders and squeezed gently. I let my head fall back and made a small noise of pleasure. “Are you doing okay now?” he asked.
I nodded. “I’m okay.”
“Do you want to talk about it any more?” he asked, stopping to look into my eyes, to make sure I was telling the truth.
“I don’t, if you don’t.”
“I’ll talk about it whenever you want, but like I said—you are the same person to me that you were this morning. The girl who plays Old Blue in front of people without flinching and loves herself and has amazing career ambitions and is only occasionally morose.” I giggled and punched him on the shoulder.
His face turned serious and his eyes sparkled into mine. “That’s the girl I fell for.”
Suddenly, the air all around us felt heavy—like this moment was important, somehow. Maybe it would happen now. Maybe telling him about the attempt would push me over the cliff from almost-love to oh-my-God, head-over-heels, can’t-be-apart, crazy love.
He threaded his fingers through my hair, and I waited for my fluttering heart to explode into that all-consuming emotion. His lips pressed, warm and wonderful, against mine and . . . it didn’t.
Love didn’t burn through me, but an insatiable, desperate heat did. I definitely wanted to get in his pants, no matter how sore my arms and wrist were after an hour-long gig. After a few torturous moments of some serious making out, I inched my fingers under his shirt, then the back of his shorts, grabbing his ass. He laughed into our kiss, sending deep, luxurious vibrations through my mouth and the heat shooting through my core.
“Take me to bed” sounded especially sexy coming from my post-show raspy voice, and Tal obliged, hoisting me over his shoulder and tickling my ribs as he made a mad dash for bed.
And, at least for that night, everything was okay. Still not perfect, still up in the air, but okay.
TAL’S ALARM BLARED from across the room—he had to put it there, or he’d never get out of bed—and I had to push him out of bed with both hands to go turn it off. He made a grunting noise when his feet hit the floor. I’d been smart and stashed my camisole under my pillow after Tal tugged it off last night. I unballed it and shimmied into it beneath the sheets.
The sound of his bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor combined with the sight of his bitable ass made me want to drag him back into bed, but I was still sleepy. I could wait until he came back to me.
The alarm silenced, he dove back into bed, right on top of me. I squealed and wasted no time pinching and squeezing him where I wanted . . . until I realized that, at the edge of the light-blocking curtains, a sun that had risen hours ago was making a bright border.
“Oh, Lord,” I moaned, grazing my teeth against one of his pecs.
“Yes?” he said, grinning.
“I have an abnormal psych midterm today. I can’t stay in bed.”
“Are you absolutely sure about that?” he asked, kissing a trail under my jaw and down my throat, flicking his tongue against my skin every
few seconds.
“Unfortunately.” I moaned, returning the kisses to his forehead and rolling off my side of the bed.
“Okay, then I want you to make it up to me,” he said. He just had to lie there in bed, looking delicious, with his chin propped up on his hands.
I held the sheet around my bottom half while I felt around on the floor for my panties. Finally, I found the small lacy pile. “What are you looking at?” I asked as I stood up and realized he was staring at me.
“You’re just beautiful, that’s all.” He sounded so . . . happy. With me, first-thing-in-the-morning gross, awkwardly rummaging around in his room, with a sheet pulled around my bare ass.
I fumbled for my glasses on the nightstand and shoved them onto my face. “I’d better put these on, so I have something equally beautiful to look at while I get dressed,” I mumbled.
“Aw, this old mug? Beautiful?”
“Yes, I love your gorgeous face.” My face flushed at saying that word—“love”—that at the same time teased and scared me. I loved things about him—but did I love him? The feeling danced around my brain, eluding a permanent home there, waiting for me to grab it and wrestle it into place. But I didn’t know if I could . . . didn’t know if I wanted to.
To mask the weird things I was sure my face was doing, I turned to his dresser, opened a drawer, and threw a clean T-shirt at him. “Don’t put this on till I leave. That’s an order.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. He turned over and stepped into his pajama bottoms—a shame—before rolling out of bed, finding my jeans, and handing them to me.
