More Than Words
Page 37
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“Let me take you to dinner tonight. We can’t spend the entire day in this room.”
“Can’t we?”
“Maybe we already did. Let me feed you properly, at least one meal where we use utensils.”
I smiled, thinking utensils were overrated. The rain had stopped earlier in the day, and out the window, the street was dry, the sun lowering. I thought of the backless Clémence Maillard dress I’d packed and was suddenly excited about the prospect of getting dressed up and going out for dinner with Callen. “Okay.”
I blew my hair dry and put it up in a twist, leaving a few wisps loose around my face and neck, applied some makeup, and then slipped the dress on, smoothing it down my hips, making note once again of the fact that Clémence’s creations miraculously resisted wrinkling. I slipped on the strappy black sandals I’d brought to go with it and emerged from the bathroom.
Callen was standing at the window, gazing out. He was humming, and it was sweet and melodic, beautiful. For a moment I simply watched him, listening to his music. But he must have sensed me standing behind him because he turned around and smiled, handsome in a pair of dark slacks and a pale gray button-down shirt. “Wow, you look great.”
Callen looked from my face slowly down to my feet as he walked to where I stood, something almost reverent in his eyes. “You … I don’t even know what to say about you. You’re stunning. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
I smiled, biting my lip. I knew that wasn’t true. I’d seen the women he usually spent time with. He’d obviously been with women far more beautiful than I was, but the way he was looking at me right then made me feel as if he really did believe his own words.
When we walked down the stairs, Madame Leclaire was at the front desk. I asked about a restaurant close by, and she gave us directions to one a few blocks over. She beamed at us as we waved goodbye, winking as we smiled back.
The cozy family-owned restaurant was charming and intimate, the white wine I ordered rich and buttery, the food delicious, and the music soft and romantic. We sat by the window and chatted easily about our lives, about me living in Paris, about what he liked and didn’t like about Los Angeles. My heart overflowed with the love I felt for him, the ease with which we talked about everything and nothing, and the magical feel of this weekend, in this village where fate had somehow delivered us. And though I’d given myself to him knowing it wouldn’t last, I allowed myself to pretend it might, just for now. Just for tonight.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CALLEN
The letters blurred and changed positions, moving on the paper as if they were running from me.
“What’s this?” he demanded, his index finger pounding on the open textbook in front of me, his voice gruff with fury.
I wanted to please him. I wanted to make him proud of me so badly, but I didn’t have the answer, couldn’t even begin to guess. My lips started quivering, and I felt tears burning the backs of my lids.
Please, God, please help me.
My dad flipped the book over roughly, letting out an angry growl as he rose to his feet, causing me to startle and sit back abruptly. “What the fuck is wrong with you, you little retard? Jesus Christ. It’s a fucking W!”
“I’m sorry,” I squeaked, my shoulders sagging with humiliation and defeat.
“Try again,” he barked.
I stared down at the paper, the black ink smearing before my eyes, the tears finally spilling over and tracking down my cheeks.
“Are you crying, you little bitch? Are you fucking crying?”
I shook my head, denying it, despite the obvious evidence. I tried to stop, tried to pull the devastation and shame back inside me. But I wanted my mom, and thinking of her made me cry more, made me want her back so badly it felt like a pit in my stomach that would never, ever be filled. She was dead, and she’d never come back. Never protect me again. It was only us now—him and me and the never-ending reminder that I was a disappointment. The tears came faster, a small sob rising from my throat.
The smack was sudden and unexpected and caused me to jerk backward, the chair I was in falling over with a clatter. I scrabbled backward as he loomed over me, reaching down and grabbing me by the shirt and backhanding me again.
At the surprise of the slap, the tears dried on my cheeks, a shocked numbness taking the place of the pain inside. My dad had shoved me a couple of times, had slammed his fist on the table, even punched a hole in the wall one time, but he’d never hit me in the face before.
“You want me to give you something to cry over, you fucking idiot?”
My cheek stung and my hip hurt where I’d hit the floor, but the physical aches felt better than the hurt inside my heart. I spit at him and watched as his face contorted with rage, and he brought his hand back to strike me again. He didn’t realize that wasn’t what made me cry. The words made me cry, and I’d just figured out how to make them stop. Now I knew how to make him stop.
“Callen, you’re dreaming. Shh, wake up. It’s only a dream.” Her voice came from far away, and I started awake, a cry of anguish on my lips, the wet feel of tears on my cheeks. I was breathing harshly, and I didn’t know where I was. I blinked, moving my head around, the vision of a small, ratty kitchen fading as the tiny attic room came into focus. Reality settled in. I had been dreaming. I wasn’t back there. I was here. With Jessie.
“Jessie,” I rasped. Her arms came around me, the warmth of her body such sweet comfort I wanted to drown in her and never come up for air. “Jessie, Jessie.”
“I’m here. It’s okay. What were you dreaming about?” She wiped the tears off my cheeks with such tenderness, her eyes pools of concern in the dim moonlit room.
“Him, I guess. I don’t know,” I lied. I didn’t want to talk about it. I needed to push the memory of him far, far away and not think about the way it’d felt to be that little boy. My breathing slowed. I was here with Jessie in the warm circle of her arms. I wanted—needed—to lose myself in her, to bury myself in her body and soak in the peace—the healing—she offered.
“Jessie.” I sighed, bringing my hand to her cheek and turning so I was leaning over her. For a moment I just stared at her, her pretty face soft with sleep and a look in her eyes I thought might be love. It scared me—terrified me—but it also filled me with an aching wonder. I took the feeling inside myself, storing it deep in my heart. Even if I couldn’t keep it, I could take it out and look at it, remember what it felt like. And in that way it would always be mine.
I leaned in, kissing her and drinking in the familiar taste of her mouth, moaning with the way it caused my heart to leap and my body to tighten. She brought her arms around me, and when my mouth moved to her breast, she wove her fingers into my hair and wrapped her legs around my hips.
I guided myself inside her, lifting my head from her nipple momentarily as I hissed out the bliss of her body’s tight grasp. Pinpricks of light exploded in my mind, clearing away thoughts of anything other than her as I began to move and thrust.
I brought my mouth to hers again and we kissed, our tongues dancing as we moved together, slowly at first, gently, and then faster, almost frenzied. Our skin slickened and the room filled with the wet sound of sex, of Jessie’s moans and my panted exhales of breath. It was life. It was beautiful and primal and euphoric, and I gloried in it, in her touch, her smell, the way our bodies fit together as if we’d been made for only each other.
The pain, the doubts, the echoes of the words that had once sliced like knives, the scabs that still bled so easily, all that hurt faded away and there was only her. Her heartbeat, her scent, the sweet clench of her inner muscles as they massaged me with such warm, delicious friction.
“Jessie, oh God, the things you make me want,” I panted.
“Take them. They’re yours,” she said breathlessly right before she cried out, her inner muscles contracting around me and bringing on my own orgasm, almost shocking in its intensity. I thought I called her name, but I couldn’t be sure as my head reared back and I pressed myself into her, milking every drop of intensity from my climax, circling my hips and then falling forward on a strangled moan of pleasure.
“Can’t we?”
“Maybe we already did. Let me feed you properly, at least one meal where we use utensils.”
I smiled, thinking utensils were overrated. The rain had stopped earlier in the day, and out the window, the street was dry, the sun lowering. I thought of the backless Clémence Maillard dress I’d packed and was suddenly excited about the prospect of getting dressed up and going out for dinner with Callen. “Okay.”
I blew my hair dry and put it up in a twist, leaving a few wisps loose around my face and neck, applied some makeup, and then slipped the dress on, smoothing it down my hips, making note once again of the fact that Clémence’s creations miraculously resisted wrinkling. I slipped on the strappy black sandals I’d brought to go with it and emerged from the bathroom.
Callen was standing at the window, gazing out. He was humming, and it was sweet and melodic, beautiful. For a moment I simply watched him, listening to his music. But he must have sensed me standing behind him because he turned around and smiled, handsome in a pair of dark slacks and a pale gray button-down shirt. “Wow, you look great.”
Callen looked from my face slowly down to my feet as he walked to where I stood, something almost reverent in his eyes. “You … I don’t even know what to say about you. You’re stunning. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
I smiled, biting my lip. I knew that wasn’t true. I’d seen the women he usually spent time with. He’d obviously been with women far more beautiful than I was, but the way he was looking at me right then made me feel as if he really did believe his own words.
When we walked down the stairs, Madame Leclaire was at the front desk. I asked about a restaurant close by, and she gave us directions to one a few blocks over. She beamed at us as we waved goodbye, winking as we smiled back.
The cozy family-owned restaurant was charming and intimate, the white wine I ordered rich and buttery, the food delicious, and the music soft and romantic. We sat by the window and chatted easily about our lives, about me living in Paris, about what he liked and didn’t like about Los Angeles. My heart overflowed with the love I felt for him, the ease with which we talked about everything and nothing, and the magical feel of this weekend, in this village where fate had somehow delivered us. And though I’d given myself to him knowing it wouldn’t last, I allowed myself to pretend it might, just for now. Just for tonight.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CALLEN
The letters blurred and changed positions, moving on the paper as if they were running from me.
“What’s this?” he demanded, his index finger pounding on the open textbook in front of me, his voice gruff with fury.
I wanted to please him. I wanted to make him proud of me so badly, but I didn’t have the answer, couldn’t even begin to guess. My lips started quivering, and I felt tears burning the backs of my lids.
Please, God, please help me.
My dad flipped the book over roughly, letting out an angry growl as he rose to his feet, causing me to startle and sit back abruptly. “What the fuck is wrong with you, you little retard? Jesus Christ. It’s a fucking W!”
“I’m sorry,” I squeaked, my shoulders sagging with humiliation and defeat.
“Try again,” he barked.
I stared down at the paper, the black ink smearing before my eyes, the tears finally spilling over and tracking down my cheeks.
“Are you crying, you little bitch? Are you fucking crying?”
I shook my head, denying it, despite the obvious evidence. I tried to stop, tried to pull the devastation and shame back inside me. But I wanted my mom, and thinking of her made me cry more, made me want her back so badly it felt like a pit in my stomach that would never, ever be filled. She was dead, and she’d never come back. Never protect me again. It was only us now—him and me and the never-ending reminder that I was a disappointment. The tears came faster, a small sob rising from my throat.
The smack was sudden and unexpected and caused me to jerk backward, the chair I was in falling over with a clatter. I scrabbled backward as he loomed over me, reaching down and grabbing me by the shirt and backhanding me again.
At the surprise of the slap, the tears dried on my cheeks, a shocked numbness taking the place of the pain inside. My dad had shoved me a couple of times, had slammed his fist on the table, even punched a hole in the wall one time, but he’d never hit me in the face before.
“You want me to give you something to cry over, you fucking idiot?”
My cheek stung and my hip hurt where I’d hit the floor, but the physical aches felt better than the hurt inside my heart. I spit at him and watched as his face contorted with rage, and he brought his hand back to strike me again. He didn’t realize that wasn’t what made me cry. The words made me cry, and I’d just figured out how to make them stop. Now I knew how to make him stop.
“Callen, you’re dreaming. Shh, wake up. It’s only a dream.” Her voice came from far away, and I started awake, a cry of anguish on my lips, the wet feel of tears on my cheeks. I was breathing harshly, and I didn’t know where I was. I blinked, moving my head around, the vision of a small, ratty kitchen fading as the tiny attic room came into focus. Reality settled in. I had been dreaming. I wasn’t back there. I was here. With Jessie.
“Jessie,” I rasped. Her arms came around me, the warmth of her body such sweet comfort I wanted to drown in her and never come up for air. “Jessie, Jessie.”
“I’m here. It’s okay. What were you dreaming about?” She wiped the tears off my cheeks with such tenderness, her eyes pools of concern in the dim moonlit room.
“Him, I guess. I don’t know,” I lied. I didn’t want to talk about it. I needed to push the memory of him far, far away and not think about the way it’d felt to be that little boy. My breathing slowed. I was here with Jessie in the warm circle of her arms. I wanted—needed—to lose myself in her, to bury myself in her body and soak in the peace—the healing—she offered.
“Jessie.” I sighed, bringing my hand to her cheek and turning so I was leaning over her. For a moment I just stared at her, her pretty face soft with sleep and a look in her eyes I thought might be love. It scared me—terrified me—but it also filled me with an aching wonder. I took the feeling inside myself, storing it deep in my heart. Even if I couldn’t keep it, I could take it out and look at it, remember what it felt like. And in that way it would always be mine.
I leaned in, kissing her and drinking in the familiar taste of her mouth, moaning with the way it caused my heart to leap and my body to tighten. She brought her arms around me, and when my mouth moved to her breast, she wove her fingers into my hair and wrapped her legs around my hips.
I guided myself inside her, lifting my head from her nipple momentarily as I hissed out the bliss of her body’s tight grasp. Pinpricks of light exploded in my mind, clearing away thoughts of anything other than her as I began to move and thrust.
I brought my mouth to hers again and we kissed, our tongues dancing as we moved together, slowly at first, gently, and then faster, almost frenzied. Our skin slickened and the room filled with the wet sound of sex, of Jessie’s moans and my panted exhales of breath. It was life. It was beautiful and primal and euphoric, and I gloried in it, in her touch, her smell, the way our bodies fit together as if we’d been made for only each other.
The pain, the doubts, the echoes of the words that had once sliced like knives, the scabs that still bled so easily, all that hurt faded away and there was only her. Her heartbeat, her scent, the sweet clench of her inner muscles as they massaged me with such warm, delicious friction.
“Jessie, oh God, the things you make me want,” I panted.
“Take them. They’re yours,” she said breathlessly right before she cried out, her inner muscles contracting around me and bringing on my own orgasm, almost shocking in its intensity. I thought I called her name, but I couldn’t be sure as my head reared back and I pressed myself into her, milking every drop of intensity from my climax, circling my hips and then falling forward on a strangled moan of pleasure.
