“This is me trying to tell you I want to be with you forever.”
I sift his hair through my fingers and search his face. “You used to be afraid of forever.”
“You’re right. I’m not anymore. Now I’m afraid of not having it.”
“So am I. You kinda kept taking my hopes for a happily ever after away.”
His jaw muscles twitch. “I’m trying to give it back.”
“I know,” I say softly. “And I love it so much. I just think we have to take things slow.”
I hate saying those words. The last thing I want to do is take things slow. I want everything now—Him. Happiness. A wedding. My own family, together. I want it now before he changes his mind or something happens to take it all away.
He nods but says nothing. Just moves his fingers lightly up and down my ribcage and the curve of my waist.
“And I think you’re not supposed to make any real big life decisions during your first year or so of being clean. Right?”
“Someone’s been reading,” he accuses, then moves his attention to the dip between my breasts. He slides his tongue over my goose-bump pebbled flesh.
“I have,” I admit. “I want to understand, and help you, that’s all.”
“I know you do, babe. That’s why I’m gonna be chasing you down with a ring in a few months.” He leans up on his elbows, looking down at me with his notorious sexy smirk. “So you better take off running, or be prepared to get caught and have a diamond as big as an ice cube on your hand.”
I laugh and he covers my mouth with his, capturing my laughter. Swallowing it. He grinds his hips into mine as he slowly pulls my clothes off. When I’m naked and lying in the middle of his bed on the slate gray comforter, he reaches into his nightstand and pulls out a pen. He twirls it in his fingers like an expert drummer.
“About that autograph...” he chides.
Staring up at him, I reach for his shirt, seductively undo the remaining buttons, then run my fingertips over his abs.
“I’m your biggest fan,” I coo. “I know the words to all your songs.”
He scrunches up his face, trying not to laugh. “I bet you do.”
“Can I get your autograph?” I bat my eyelashes.
“Only if it’s on your breasts.”
This time it’s me who tries not to burst into giggles.
“Oh my God. That would be soooo amazing.”
He pulls the pen cap off with his mouth and spits it out onto the floor, then cups my breast in his hand, bending down to place a soft wet kiss on the tip before signing his name across my pale skin. I could’ve sworn I’ve always seen him write with his left hand, but he signs me with this right.
“I’ll never wash it off,” I say, twisting my body beneath his and rubbing myself against his thighs.
“You better not.” He stands and tosses the pen onto his nightstand, then pulls his shirt off, throwing it onto the floor. My stomach still does a somersault every time I see him shirtless—or even better—when I see him totally undressed. While I appreciate a nice body, I’ve never really been the type to get all drooly over bodybuilders, movie stars, or hot naked men. But when it comes to Blue—there’s just something so sensual about the confident way he moves and how his hair flows over his broad chest and shoulders like a Viking. The tattoos covering almost every inch of him are the icing on the cake and it all sets off sparks of desire in me.
“Do you bring a lot of women back here?” I ask, still using the sugary role-playing voice, but asking for myself.
He steps out of his boots and watches me watch him unbutton his jeans. They’re my favorite on him. No zipper. Just five silver buttons. The jeans are worn and soft and fit him like he was born in them.
“Hundreds,” he replies. “They’re all buried in the backyard.”
I laugh as he climbs onto the bed and between my legs.
“Do you like my room?” he asks. “And my house?”
“So far I’ve only mostly seen the ceiling of your room,” I tease, leaning up to peer around. His room is like the others in the house I’ve seen so far. Neat. Clean. Four guitars stand in a row in front of the windows that overlook the front yard. Black and white paintings of birds hang on the walls. Several photos in silver frames sit atop one of his black dressers, and as I squint at them, I realize they’re photos of me, Lyric, and Acorn.
“You have our pictures,” I say softly.
“Yeah. I print all the ones you email me. When I feel like I might fuck up again, I look at the pictures. There’ve been nights when I’ve sat here for hours just staring at your picture, waiting for the demons to fuck off and leave me alone.”
A vision of him flashes in my mind—sitting on the floor, taunted by drugs and alcohol and staring at photos of me, his daughter, and his dog while he sweats and struggles between all the things he loves and wants the most.
I swallow over the unexpected lump in my throat. “Does that work?”
“So far.”
I don’t know if it’s good or bad that I’ve been both his muse and his therapy. I suppose some might say that’s obsession and not real love. Some might say what we have is dependency and codependency. I wonder if it matters. Maybe all that really matters is that we make a difference in another’s person life in the way they need it.
Chapter Forty
Piper,
I love seeing you asleep in my bed. You have no idea how much peace you bring me. You’re like an angel in my dark mind.
Come downstairs when you’re awake, I’ll make us breakfast.
Love,
Blue
I smile at the note he left on his pillow for me. He’s been incredibly sweet since I arrived yesterday. Dare I say romantic in many ways?
After I make his bed I find my clothes from last night and hold them against my body as I sprint down the hall to my room. I take the note with me and stash it in my purse so I can add it to all the others I have saved at home.
I shower and blow dry my hair, then pretty myself up with a little makeup. I’m not sure what Blue’s got planned for us today, so I dress casually in skinny jeans, low black boots, and a purple gypsy top with wide butterfly sleeves.
The happy, carefree feeling I’ve had since I woke up takes a slight nose dive when I find him in the kitchen. I frown in confusion at the scene of disarray around me. The countertops are covered with glasses, mugs, bowls and dishes. All the cabinet doors are wide open, showing the bare shelves. Blue is standing at the center island, looking quite boyish and young in a band T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, black sweatpants, and black and white high-top sneakers with the laces untied.
I observe him quietly from the doorway. A niggle of worry burns my stomach. His eyes are darting from one piece of glassware to the next. He touches each one, lifts it up to the light to examine it, then places it with a different group of glasses or dishes.
“Hey, you.” My voice comes out louder than I intended.
He looks up and smiles crookedly.
“Oh. Hey.” He runs his hand through his hair.
I move to stand on the other side of the island. “I thought you were making breakfast?”
He nods quickly. “I am. I was. But when I took out the coffee mugs, they didn’t match. And I hate that.”
“They don’t have to match, hon. I’m good with anything.”
He moves a few salad bowls around, then stacks them within each other.
“No, they should match.”
Reece appears in the doorway, and rolls his eyes. “Fuck me. Not this again,” he says.
Blue holds up a glass. “One of these is missing. There’s an odd number. There’s five.”
Reece blows out an exasperated breath. “You dropped it when you were wasted last year, remember? You stepped in the broken glass and bled all over the place. Guess who cleaned it up?”
“I don’t remember that.” Blue doesn’t look away from the glass he’s inspecting.
“Because you were drunk off your ass.” Reece plucks a beige coffee mug from the assortment on the counter. “Stop sorting all our shit, Blue.”
“Sorting?” I repeat.