Maybe Someday
Page 47

“Hi,” he says simply.
I laugh. “Hi.”
He looks around the room nervously before his eyes fall back to mine. “Is that good enough?” he asks.
I cock my head, because I don’t really understand his question. “Is what good enough?”
He grins. “I was hoping that was enough talk for tonight.”
Oh.
I get his question now.
I nod slowly, and he smiles, then steps forward and kisses me. He bends slightly and lifts me by the waist, wrapping my legs around him. He secures his arms around my back and begins walking me toward my bedroom.
As many times as I’ve seen this happen in movies and read about it in books, I’ve never actually been picked up and carried by a man before. I think I’m in love with it. Being carried into a bedroom by Ridge is quite possibly my new favorite thing out of any and all things.
That is, until he kicks my bedroom door shut behind him. Maybe Ridge kicking doors shut is my new favorite thing.
He gently lowers me to the bed, and even though I’m sad that he’s not carrying me anymore, I’m a little bit happier to find myself beneath him. Every single move he makes is better and sexier than the last one. He pauses for a moment as he hovers over me, and his eyes roam sensually over my entire body, until they come to a pause on the hem of my dress. He reaches down and pushes it up, and I lift myself up off the bed just enough for him to pull it over my head.
He sucks in a breath when he looks down at me and sees that the only thing coming between him and a completely naked me is a very thin layer of panty. He begins to lower himself on top of me, but I push on his chest and shake my head, tugging on his shirt to let him know it’s his turn. He grins and quickly pulls his shirt over his head, then leans in toward me again. I push against him once more, and he reluctantly lifts himself up, shooting me a look of amused annoyance. I point to his jeans, and he backs away from the bed, and in two swift movements, the rest of his clothes are somewhere on my bedroom floor. I don’t quite catch where he tossed them, because my eyes are sort of preoccupied.
He makes his way on top of me again, and I don’t stop him this time. I welcome him by wrapping my legs around his waist and my arms around his back and guiding his mouth back to mine.
We mold and fit together so perfectly it’s as if we were made for this sole purpose. His left hand fits perfectly into mine as he brings my arm above my head and presses it into the mattress. His tongue melds perfectly with mine as he continues to tease my entire mouth as if it were made for this very purpose. His right hand seamlessly conforms to my outer thigh as he digs his fingers into my skin and shifts his weight perfectly against me.
His mouth leaves mine long enough to taste my jaw . . . my neck . . . my shoulder.
I don’t know how being consumed by him could lend clarity to my purpose in life, but it absolutely feels that way. Everything about me and him and life makes so much more sense when we’re together like this. He makes me feel more beautiful. More important. More loved. More needed. I feel more everything, and with every second that passes, I become more and more greedy, wanting all of every single part of him.
I push against his chest, needing space between us so I can sign to him. He looks down at my hands when he realizes what I’m doing. I hope I get it right, because I’ve practiced signing this sentence no fewer than a thousand times since I last saw him.
“I have something I need to say before we do this.”
He pulls back a few inches, watching my hands, waiting.
I sign the words “I love you.”
His eyebrows draw apart, and relief floods his eyes. He lowers his mouth to my hands and kisses them, over and over, then quickly pulls farther away, unwrapping my legs from around his waist. Just when I begin to fear he’s come to some absurd notion that we need to stop, he lowers himself to my side but leans over me and presses his ear against my chest.
“I want to feel you say it.”
I press my lips into his hair, then lightly secure him against me. “I love you, Ridge,” I whisper.
His grip tightens around my waist, so I continue repeating it several times.
I keep his head pressed against my chest with both hands. He releases his grip on my waist and trails his hand over my stomach, causing my muscles to clench beneath his touch. He continues stroking his hand in sensuous circles over my stomach. I stop repeating the words and focus on where his hand is traveling, but he stops abruptly.
“I don’t feel you saying it,” he says.
“I love you,” I quickly repeat. When the words leave my lips, his fingers begin moving again. As soon as I’m quiet, his fingers stop.
It doesn’t take me long to figure out what game he’s playing. I grin and say it again.
“I love you.”
His fingers slip inside the top edge of my panties, and my voice grows quiet again. It’s really hard for me to speak when his hand is that close. It’s really hard to do anything. His fingers come to a pause just inside my panties when he doesn’t feel me talking. I want his hand to keep moving, so I somehow breathe the words.
“I love you.”
His hand slides further inside and stops. I close my eyes and say it again. Slowly.
“I . . . love . . . you.”
What he does next with his hand causes me to repeat the words again instantly.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again and again and again, until my panties are somewhere on the floor, and I’ve said the words so many times and so fast that I’m almost screaming them now. He continues to prove with the expertise of his hand that he’s quite possibly the absolute best listener I’ve ever encountered.
“I love you,” I whisper one last time between faltered and shallow breaths. I’m too weak to utter the words again, and my hands fall away from his head and land against the mattress with a thud.
He lifts his head away from my chest and scoots upward until his face is so close to mine our noses brush. “I love you, too,” he says with a smug grin.
I smile, but my smile fades when he rolls away from me, leaving me alone on the bed. I’m too exhausted and spent to reach out for him. However, he returns to the bed as quickly as he left it. He tears open a condom wrapper and keeps his eyes focused on mine, never once looking away.
The way he’s looking at me, as if I’m the only thing that matters in his world, makes the moment take on a whole new feel. I’m completely consumed, not by waves of pleasure but by waves of raw emotion. I didn’t know I could feel someone this much. I didn’t know I could need someone this much. I had no idea I was capable of sharing this kind of connection with someone.
Ridge lifts a hand and wipes away a tear from my temple, then dips his head and kisses me, gentle and soft, coaxing even more tears out of me. It’s the perfect kiss for the perfect moment. I know he feels what I’m feeling, because my tears don’t alarm him at all. He knows they’re not tears of regret or sadness. They’re simply tears. Emotional tears stemming from an emotional moment that I never imagined could be this incredible.
He’s waiting patiently for my permission, so I nod softly, and it’s all the confirmation he needs. He lowers his cheek to mine and slowly begins to ease himself against me. I squeeze my eyes shut and focus on trying to relax, but my entire body is way too tense.
I’ve only ever had sex with one guy, and he didn’t mean half as much to me as Ridge does. The thought of sharing this experience with Ridge, as much as I want to, makes me so nervous I’m physically unable to hide my discomfort.
He can sense my apprehension, so he pauses and stills himself above me. I love how in tune he is with me already. He looks down at me, his dark brown eyes searching mine. He takes both of my hands and pulls them over my head, then laces our fingers together and presses them into the mattress. He leans into my ear. “Want me to stop?”
I quickly shake my head no.
He laughs softly. “Then you have to relax, Syd.”
I bite my bottom lip and nod, completely loving the fact that he just said “Syd” out loud. He runs his nose down my jawline, then brings his lips close to mine. Every touch sends waves of heat coursing through me, but it doesn’t ease my apprehension. Everything about this moment is so perfect I’m afraid I might do something to mess it up. It can’t get any better, so that only leaves things with one direction to go.
“Are you nervous?” he asks. His voice brushes across my mouth, and I slide my tongue over my bottom lip, convinced that I could taste his words if I tried.
I nod, and his eyes soften with his smile.
“Me, too,” he whispers. He squeezes my hands tighter and then lays his head across my bare chest. I can feel the rhythm of his body rise and fall against mine with every tense breath. His entire body sighs, and one by one, each muscle begins to relax. His hands are still, and he’s not exploring my body or listening to me sing or having me tell him I love him.
He’s still, because he’s listening to me.
He’s listening to the beat of my heart.
His head lifts off my chest in one swift motion as he locks eyes with mine. Whatever realization he’s just had causes his gaze to pierce mine with excitement.
“I want to try something that might help,” he says. “Do you have earplugs?”
Earplugs?
I know the confusion can be seen in my expression. I nod anyway and point to the nightstand. He leans over me, opens the drawer, and feels around inside. When he finds them, he lowers himself beside me again, then places them in the palm of my hand. He motions for me to put them in my ears.
“Why?”
He smiles and kisses me, then trails his lips to my ear. “I want you to hear me love you.”
I look down at the earplugs, then back up at him questioningly. “How can I hear you if I’m wearing these?”
He shakes his head, then places his hands over my ears. “Not here,” he says. He moves a hand to my chest. “I want you to hear me from right here.”
That’s all the explanation I need. I quickly put the earplugs in, then adjust my head on my pillow. All the noise around me slowly fades away. I wasn’t aware of all the sounds I was taking in until they no longer run through my head. I don’t hear the clock ticking anymore. I no longer hear the usual activity outside my window. I can’t hear the sheets moving beneath us or the pillow under my head or the bed when he shifts his weight.
I hear nothing.
He grabs my hand and opens up my palm, then turns my hand around and places it over my heart. Once my palm is flush against my heart, he reaches to my face and brushes his hand over my eyes, closing them. He scoots himself away from me until he’s no longer touching any part of me.
He becomes still, and I no longer feel him moving next to me.
It’s quiet.
It’s dark.
I hear absolutely nothing. I’m not sure this is working out the way he imagined.
I hear nothing but complete silence. I hear what Ridge hears every moment of his life. The only thing I’m aware of is my own heartbeat and nothing else. Nothing at all.
Wait.
My heartbeat.