Page 80 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
I can see the flash of panic in his eyes right afterward. Feel it in the sudden tensing of his hands.
And I’m not sure what prompts me, but right when he begins to pull out and break our connection, I wrap my arms around him, bury my face under the curve of his neck, and hold on. Understandably, his body jerks in response.
“Just . . . I just need a minute,” I murmur against the warmth of his skin.
Being the great guy he is, he pulls me tighter against him and kisses the crown of my head without a single word.
And when I realize that I just crossed another probable boundary of some sort, a part of me is brutally embarrassed at my sudden neediness. So much that I don’t want to let go so I have to actually meet his eyes. But the other part of me breathes him in and realizes it’s his warmth I’m craving now. My life has been so filled with coldness and cruelty, Zander’s basic show of warmth and compassion is something I cling to.
“Sorry,” I sniff after a bit as I pull back from him, gaze angled down, and teeth biting my bottom lip as awkwardness sets in. “Just a lot to handle today. I needed a minute.” I try to save face, not feeling very certain that I did.
“I understand,” he says as he slips out of me, both of us unsure what to do.
Yes, our lust is undeniable, considering we just screwed like rabid rabbits against the kitchen counter, but it’s that something else—that almost palpable shift between us—that’s causing this sudden uneasiness.
“I’m . . . I’m gonna go clean up.”
I nod my head, not trusting myself to speak, since the urge to cry returns, tears stinging like a bitch as I try to hold them back. The problem is I’m not sure why I feel like crying. Is it everything with my father? Is it the fact that Zander stood up for me? Or is it Zander in general? I know I can’t have him and yet increasingly I want him in my life regardless.
I’m left sitting on the counter, pajama pants hanging off one foot, to ponder the answer as the pipes creak when Zander turns on the shower.
And I still haven’t figured out the answer over an hour later as I lie in the darkness of my bedroom, surrounded solely by the warmth of my comforter. Too chickenshit to face Zander after his shower because I’m overwhelmed by this feeling that I need to explain myself, apologize—I don’t know what—about my sudden moment where I needed more from him than just friends with benefits.
Maybe I just needed the friend part.
Ha. But the benefits part was pretty damn good too.
And therein lies the crux of the problem. I want more already when I know that’s not an option with him.
His movements around the house carry through the two inches of space where my bedroom door is cracked open. I purposely left it ajar, not wanting to feel cut off from him after everything that happened between us today. My ears trace his footsteps down the hall and into his bedroom. More footsteps, then they hesitate this time, and I swear he stops right outside my bedroom door. But just as I convince myself I’m right, the steps retreat down the hall toward the kitchen. There’s the rattle of the rest of the dishes being loaded into the dishwasher. The telltale sound of his MacBook turning on. His exhalation that’s loud enough to travel into my bedroom.
There’s a comfort to the sounds, to not being alone, and I hate that as much as I don’t want to face him, I also want to go out into the family room, sink down on the couch, and just watch him do whatever he does on his laptop.
It’s only ten o’clock. I’m tired but can’t sleep. There’s some laundry to fold. I’m still hungry. I run the list of reasons through my mind over any excuse why I should get up, but when I hear his voice, I freeze.
“Hey, man, I know. . . . I know. . . . I’ve missed you too.” There’s so much affection in his tone I can hear it all the way down the hall. There’s a pause while the other person speaks. “I’m glad to hear that. I’m proud of you. Is Mom there?”
I sit up in bed in reflex. Surprised. Intrigued. Curious. He’s calling home. To his mother. To his real life.
The one without me in it.
The notion stings, but I’m so transfixed by the fact that he’s calling home for the first time that it overrides the hurt.
“Rylee.” His voice is cautious and solemn. “It’s good to hear your voice too. . . . I just wanted to call to let you know that I’m all right. I’m doing well actually.” He laughs in a way that sounds like it’s hard for him to believe his own words. “I know you deserve answers, apologies, a whole shitload of things. . . . I’m still working through some stuff, trying to find my way, but I am finding it. . . .” He murmurs in agreement to something she says. “I called because—I know, I know.” His voice is sympathetic and the simple mix of sounds proves to me that whatever happened, whatever crappy things he says he did, he at least feels sorry over his actions. And that says a lot to me about the measure of the man.
“I’m sorry I can’t give you a time frame. . . . I know the season is almost— Yes, I know, but I screwed so much up that I—” His answering sigh is audible as she cuts him off. I hate that as much as I want him to go put things right with his family, I’m also selfishly happy that he didn’t put a finite limit on his time left in PineRidge. “I know you’re not pushing, Ry, I . . . yeah, I get it. . . . I wasn’t going to call. Not until I had my head straight, but something happened tonight that put things in perspective. Made me realize how much you two have always stood behind me, and so I wanted you to hear my voice, because I know how much you worry.” His laugh again. A little more relaxed this time.
And with the sound of it, a picture starts to emerge for me. The angry hammering. His need for the physical release—in the work on the deck and in the unapologetic, no-holds-barred sex in the kitchen.
I smile softly to myself, thinking about the differences between last night and tonight. How last night I was seduced, pleasured, placed on a pedestal that left me feeling swoony compared with tonight’s bruising pace that left me feeling recklessly desired and utterly exhilarated.
The thoughts circle in my mind as I focus back on the silence in the kitchen, waiting for him to speak again.
“No. I can’t.” The distress is back in his voice. “I have . . . shit, I don’t have a reason why, other than I made promises I need to keep before I talk to him. . . . Yep. Uh-huh. I’ve gotta go, but . . . I just needed to call.” He says something else I can’t hear, but it’s obvious to me by his sudden backpedaling and defensive tone she asked if he wanted to speak with Colton. “I love you too. Bye.”
Silence descends on the house once again until I hear the creak of the floor in a pattern that sounds like he’s pacing.
As I sink back into my bed, guilt over eavesdropping on his private conversation ties my hands from comforting him. My mind replays his comments, homing in on the notion that his meeting with my father tonight triggered something in him. Did he see how callous and cruel my father was and realize that his family isn’t half as bad as he thought when he left?
