Page 23 of Zeppelin
I’ve seen the antique Triumphthat Dravin and the rest of the club restored for Dominic. It’s a work of art, so it’s rarely ridden. It’s the kind of thing that belongs in a museum.
I don’t doubt that Zeppelin was right there, probably in all his glory as he helped bring that turn of the century bike back to life.
“I’m sure it will just blow over. Tornadoes are so rare here.” I like the savagery of storms, but only if they don’t cross that line into damaging and dangerous. Rain is one thing. Thunder and lightning an awesome display of sound and fury in their own right, but hail and strong winds can damage crops and buildings beyond repair.
I check my app one handed, but the warning is still there. I scroll to the bottom and I can see from the radar that the angry red center of the storm is pretty much coming right for us. We’re going to be down here for a little bit yet.
The thunder keeps rolling on above us, as does the steady drumming of the rain. I don’t hear any hail pinging off the roof. The farmyard is a bit overgrown right now, and it’s surrounded by trees, but none of them are close enough to break and fall on the house. If it was hailing out there, I’d hear it.
Zeppelin swallows an obvious lump down. “Sure. Probably.”
He doesn’t believe that. It’s the wrong thing to say. He’s breathing all over the place again. I search for something to say, something to ask to distract him, but all I can do is grip his hand. He stares down at the dirt floor like he’s ice and my touch does nothing to thaw him.
I swing to the side to set my phone down on the wooden shelving with the light playing over the small space. It sends shadows after shadows, creating an intimate feeling. I like the earthy smell down here. The sound of the rain is relaxing for me. I can understand how it might not be this way for everyone.
It’s not this way for Zeppelin.
He’s not doing well.
I take his phone from him, switch off the light, and slide it into his pocket. Mine is more than enough and we should conserve battery life, just in case we end up needing it.
I wrap my other hand around his, twisting our fingers together. He glances down, blinking at them like he’s not certain what’s happening.
I don’t know what’s happening either. We’re so close. So, so close. It’s a different kind of tension for me. A hot electricity sucking up the oxygen in here. There’s solid earth beneath my feet, but it doesn’t feel as though there’s anything grounding me.
“You have good hands.” Maybe if I say something, it will remind me where I am and who I am, who we both are, but my voice is breathless and thin.
“They’re just regular hands.”
“That’s not true. They’re strong. They’re capable of performing magic.”
He snorts, but at least it’s something. “I’m afraid not.”
“To me, mechanics are magic. You take something that’s not working and at the end of it all, it runs again. That’s pretty special.”
“It’s more like science, math, and follow tried and true directives.”
“So is magic, I guess. They have to work hard to make it seem like one thing, when it’s really another. It’s not so magical if you know how it works, but if you don’t, it’s quite fascinating.”
I stroke the callouses on the palms of his hands, then unfurl his fingers and trickle mine like a gentle rain down the length of them. I turn them over, examining the scars on hisknuckles, the dirt wedged under the nails, the grease stained into just about every crease. They’re rough, working man’s hands.
The thought of them on my body, rough or gentle, hurried or slow, starts a fire low in my belly all over again. The burn spreads until my panties are wet and clinging to my body.
Impulsively, I grasp one palm and raise it, bending forward to kiss his palm. He hisses, trying to curl his fingers around it, but I hold it open. I know I couldn’t if he didn’t really want me to. He’s so big, so much stronger than me, that he could do anything he wanted. I get another glorious full body shiver when I imagine him manhandling me. I kiss his wrist and trail all the way up to his forearm. Tiny scars dot his skin and there’s a larger one by his elbow.
“Welding burns,” he explains.
“You should be wearing protective gear.”
He doesn’t scoff at that. He stays perfectly still, almost as if he’s afraid to move. The only sound in here is the sawing of his breaths, which have barely calmed. They’ve changed, though. Changed in tempo and intensity. They’re deeper.
When I look up, still holding his hand, I have to grasp his wrist to keep from swaying at the intensity on his face. It’s more than shadows. The dark need in his eyes is painted there clearly. His lips are pulled back in a scowl and he’s frowning, his brow creased deep in concentration.
The need in me that I’ve been suppressing because it’s wrong, wrong,wrong, rattles through my bones, shaking me like the wind has picked up outside and it’s rattling the very foundation of this house.
He’s fighting what he feels, or he’s confused and repulsed, or it’s everything. We shouldn’t do this, but do I want to keep fighting so hard not to feel anything? Should I keep those rigid set of rules in place? I’ve never had trouble getting out of my head. I’ve never had to justify doing something like this. I either wanted to, or I didn’t. It was either right, or it wasn’t. It either worked or it didn’t.
Wanting this man can’t be an arrangement.
