This gentleness is completely unexpected from the guy who wouldn’t turn down his music.
I shrug, relishing the fact that we’re still pressed close together, and that when my shoulders move, they move against him.
“I guess I have a problem with giving up control.” My voice is low, and I can feel shivers go through him. Like he was affected in some way, but what I just said.
“Closing my eyes, and not knowing what you were going to do—”
This is the point where most guys, particularly the most untrustworthy, would tell me I could trust them. Cruise doesn’t say anything. In fact, when I pull far enough away to search his face, he looks worried.
“Close your eyes again.” We're so close together, that his whisper seems loud. I can feel his heart beat. I can feel the incredible strength in his arms.
My eyelashes flutter, they want to stay open, to retain control, but I let myself relax into him and shut my eyes, and then he kisses me.
At first his lips are soft, but when I don’t pull away, they become more insistent. Without meaning to, I feel my arms wrapping around him, pulling him into me. My lips part, and his tongue meets mine, and sparks explode behind my eyes, and through my entire body. His thumb caresses my cheek, his fingers in my hair.
Nothing in the world exists, besides our mouths, our tongues…but slowly I become more aware of the rest of my body, of desire.
He tastes like lemonade and sea air, and I want his hands everywhere. I want his hands and mouth all over my body, want to run my hands over those hard abs of his, down further.
Footsteps on the stairs alert us to Karen’s return, and we break apart.
My lips throb. Every inch of my body has come awake. Maybe this is how my college friends felt, the reason they were willing to fall into bed with guy after guy. I’ve never felt desire like this.
“I’ll get you to try clams, and you’re going to love them,” Cruise growls. He returns to his side of the table, carefully arranging the linen napkin over his lap, just as Karen enters the room.
“Is everything delicious?” she asks brightly.
“Best meal I’ve had in over a year,” Cruise answers.
It could be my imagination, but Karen seems to blanch. I wonder what kept Cruise away from home for a year? The idea of learning all about him, of learning his darkest secrets, and most simple desires, washes over me. I want to know his favorite color. I want to know who his best friend was in third grade. I want to know why he looked so worried right before he kissed me. Could there be something more to him than just the jerk who likes to party and make my life more difficult?
“You know I’m always here for you,” Karen tells Cruise seriously. “You know I believe in you.”
More proof that there’s depth to him beyond being a pretty party boy.
“Thanks, Karen.” When he smiles, I see the hint of a dimple in his left cheek. I wouldn’t have believed that the Cruise who met me in the doorway of his villa, wearing nothing but shorts and a smirk, could look abashed, but right now, he does.
“Amber is supposed to have a tray of desserts.” Karen goes back to the doorway and calls to one of her employees.
“You have to the clams before the dessert arrives,” Cruise says.
I shake my head. “Maybe next time.” Because more than anything in the entire world, I want there to be a next time. Otherwise, I’ll spend my time wondering what I missed out on, even if it’s just one more meal, one more kiss, I want to know more about Cruise.
Karen comes back in with another tray, this one laden with deserts.
“I knew this was your favorite,” she tells Cruise, “But I wasn’t sure what Maya would like.”
He digs into a dish of blackberry cobbler with as much enthusiasm as he had for the clams.
“I’m not sure how you keep a physique like that,” I gesture to him, and we both smile, “While eating like this.”
“I recently had a lot of time to work out,” he says.
“So what do you do? When you aren’t collecting noise complaints?”
“I'm between things at the moment,” he says, leaving me with no information about what he is trained to do, whether he went to college, what his plans are for the future, besides living in Villa Seven.
He raises the glass of lemonade that Karen just filled, and offers a toast.
“To friendship.”
His sleeve rides up, and for the first time I can see the entire tattoo. It seems very familiar.
“That’s the mermaid!” I exclaim.
“What?”
“Sheila Fields took me on a tour yesterday. She took me to the ballroom. That’s the mermaid, from the mosaic on the floor.”
“It’s a mermaid,” he says carefully.
“No, I’m sure, it’s the same design.” I reach out, only realizing how forward I’m being as my fingertips graze the warmth of his skin. The mermaid is a gorgeous combination of greens and blues. “I’m certain of it.”