Page 68 of If Not for My Baby
When I come to, his eyes are glazed and he’s completely hard again, pressing that thickness against my belly button. We aren’t quite aligned because of his height, and I study his member openly, wondering how it’ll work when we have sex. The thought is both daunting and surprising—when. My concern must be plain across my still-dazed face, because he’s breathless as he says, “You’ll take me just fine.”
Words don’t find me. He’s too tall and his voice too deep, and the things he says to me and the way he touches my body—I’m not equipped to handle this level of attraction. Nobody gave me an instruction manual. It’s all I can do to whimper in response, which earns me a devil’s grin.
When the luggage compartment slams shut from outside, Tom zips my jeans up for me and does the button with one hand. He runs his other over my cheek and into my hair, brushing some strays from my face. “You ought to get yourself out there.”
“Mhm,” I agree, though I don’t move. I know I’ve got mere seconds until they’re all back on the bus, but I’m glued to the wall. It supports my Jell-O body. The wall and I are one now.
An edge of a smile. “I don’t want you to, but if you wait much longer, they’ll be wondering why the two of us are crawlin’ out my room.”
He moves back to the bed and slips on his briefs. Dark fabric around wide slabs of pale muscle and long, lean limbs. Tom allows me to shamelessly study him as I continue to catch my breath. He tosses his jeans into a drawer he’s designated for laundry, and then fishes those Trinity sweats from his suitcase.
“Come on, love,” he cajoles in that soft voice I pretend is only for me. “Off with ye.”
“I’m goin’, I’m goin’,” I lament, peeling myself from the wall and finding my land legs once more. My fingers comb a little self-consciously at my hair.
My hand is on the doorknob when his warmth envelops me from behind. All that delicious weight swallows me as he presses a soft kiss to the back of my head. My eyes flutter closed and I inhale his soap and sweat and foggy rain scent.
“I’ve not a clue how I’ll sleep tonight,” he murmurs into my hair.
“I’d sleep better next to you,” I admit. It’s easier to say things like that—to be brave, or at least, brave by my standards—facing the suite door.
His mouth is gentle against my ear. “No, love. You wouldn’t sleep at all.”
Twenty-Four
“Are we being robbed?”
Indy’s voice is still sleep-coated as I blink twice, adjusting to the blackness. “I don’t think burglars knock.”
With the next strong rap on the hotel room door I fold myself out of bed and click on the reading light, purging a muffled groan of indignance from Indy. She shoves her face into the pillow as I throw my Happy Tortilla sweatshirt over my head and pad over to the entry.
If I wasn’t exhausted from the most exhilarating performance of my life followed by the most toe-curling, knee-shaking non-sexsexof my life, then the two-hour midnight gab session with Indy when we arrived in New York certainly did me in. We’d gotten up to our room, Molly had ditched her bags to find Pete’s floor, and I was just about wound down enough to sleep when Indy claimed Molly’s bed and demanded every sordid detail.
It’s not like I could course correct now—she’d covered for me before I’d even told her anything. So I’d walked her throughHalloran’s and my friendship and first kiss and told her things were blossoming from there.“Are you into him?”she’d asked.
“We’re just having fun,”felt like an easier response than saying nothing that feels like this—whatever it is—can last. Even if I wanted more than thisfunwith Tom, even if I told him as much, what future could we possibly have? I’ve never seen anyone walk away from a relationship with more than a crumpled-up heart and enough baggage to ensure the next one’s worse. Not my mom when she was a teen. Not my mom as an adult. Mike’s mom, Everly. Tom himself. In fact, I’m pretty sure I haven’t seen one healthy long-term relationship stick the landing, unless it was on a stage with a finale number. I’m not dumb enough to strap on my rose-colored glasses and go bounding after the same fate. Not a chance.
Indy had conked out soon after, satiated by a mug of juicy gossip like a kid with warm milk, and I’d stared at the pitch-black ceiling for another hour wondering why I felt like I’d just lied to the principal.
I’m probably functioning off three hours of sleep. Not ideal before a frightfully long weekend: Tom has three shows in the city—Dreamland music festival in Central Park today, tomorrow night’s concert at Madison Square Garden, and Sunday’s at Radio City Music Hall.
When I wrench the door open, it’s Tom who peers down at me. Freshly showered and dressed in my favorite of hisDead Poets Societyclothes: khaki slacks, high-tops, nineties jean jacket, and a white button-down. Backlit by the buzzing hotel lights, he looks like a redwood-tall indie-rock messiah.
I curse myself for applying so much spot treatment before bed. “What are you doing here?”
“Mornin’ to ya,” he says quietly. “How’d you sleep?”
“Who is it?” Indy sounds like she almost passed out again only to remember we were at risk of being burgled and rallied for moral support.
“Uhh.” I falter. I decide I never want to lie to Tom, so I mouth,She knows.
“Hey, Indy,” Tom calls out, unfazed. His deep voice scatters goose bumps over my bare thighs.
Indy groans something likeOh, brotherinto her mattress and I fight a grin.
“A bit of a last-minute thing, I know,” he says. “But I was hopin’ I could take you on that date.”
“At”—I look at my phone—“five thirty a.m.?”
