Beautiful Storm (9 page)

I wake early and throw my legs over the edge of the bed. The movement produces a soft noise from Lizzie. My morning glory sits heavy between my legs. I’m not sure which I want the most, to take a piss, or to wake her up and take her again. Unfortunately the need for the bathroom wins out.

As I’m about to stand, there’s a vibration from her phone on the bedside table. I’m not nosey but it’s five in the morning so maybe it’s important. Leaning towards the phone, I glance at the screen.

Mac:
I’m home, tour ended. Where R U? I missed U baby <3

Mac? Shit. The boyfriend. He’s home early from tour; he wasn’t due back until next month. I’ve had her to myself for months and my stomach tightens at the thought of sharing her again. He’s flown in a few times for a day here or there, but this is different. He’s back, full-time. My fingers squeeze around the phone. Smashing it is too tempting, so quietly I place it back down. It’s either that or fight the urge to scroll through her personal messages and see if there’s any other loved up shit on there.

My nails dig into my head when I scrub over my hair and down my face. What am I going to do? Why the fuck should it bother me? I’ve never cared before.

I’ve never cared before? Before what? Her…

The thought of him touching her in ways I touch her sends a wave of nausea through me. Or could it be the beer? Yeah, that’s it. Getting out of bed, I snatch up my underwear and head to the bathroom. I flip the lid on the toilet and dry-heave a couple of times. Nothing comes out. Not a fucking thing. I’m guessing it’s not the beer.

My heart still pounds and my stomach churns, making me rethink the cause. Jealousy would be a new concept for me.

I raise the toilet seat, taking my now semi-hard cock in my hand, and wait for it to go down so I can do what I came here for.

Is his bigger than mine?

Why the fuck should I care what size his cock is? Mine’s fucking awesome. But the thought of his being anywhere near
my
girl has the great effect of killing any hardness in mine, so at least I can take a piss. I shake off and pull on my boxers, but I can’t shake the feeling.

Shutting the lid, I hesitate from flushing. I don’t want to wake Lizzie. After the quickest, and quietest, hand wash in history, I chuck on some sweats and head downstairs to the kitchen.

My girl?

She’s not mine. I grab the coffee, milk, and sweetener, and make myself a big mug. The swirls of steam send me into a trance.

Not mine.

Anger begins to mix in with my pounding chest and the nausea twisting my insides.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

With both hands, I grasp the work surface edge and hang my head. All I need is a couple more seconds and this feeling will go away. A few deep breaths and it’ll all be fine. I inhale deeply twenty times. I count each laboured breath, but it doesn’t work.

Fuck. This. Shit.

I flinch at the contact of warm, delicate, arms wrapping around my waist, but relax as her soft cheek rests against my bare back.

“You saw the text, didn’t you?”

Every muscle tightens, but I’m not going to lie to her. “Yeah.”

We remain in the same position without talking. Her thumb-tips trace my abs absentmindedly. And I fight to calm the fuck down.

“I can’t lose you.” My voice is raw. It dawns on me that’s the issue. Why her touch won’t calm me like usual.

“You won’t. I’d never willingly leave you.” Her words act as an anti-stress injection. Everything loosens but leaves me weakened.

I lean back a fraction and spin around so I can see her. Her skin’s pale, her eyes dull. Her vibrancy has disappeared. Not a sign of my Lizzie. She gives me a sad smile then buries her face into my chest. One arm wraps her tight against me, the other free hand tangles into her hair. Just one text and her light has gone. My lips rest in a flat, hard line.

“What does he do to you?” No man should take the light from a woman’s eyes. When she’s mine, her eyes are an electric storm. When she’s his, they lose all spark.

She holds her breath a little then sighs against me. “Nothing.” She smiles against my chest. “He’s just not you.”

The hand in her hair tightens and I tug her head back, finding her lips with mine in a tornado of desire. My free hand digs into the waistband of her jeans and my heart stutters a fraction before getting lost in her. When we break apart we are both breathless.

“You’re dressed,” I point out.

Her gaze shifts nervously around the kitchen then back to me. “Yes. I need to go.”

I move away and take hold of my coffee, swallow down the now cold liquid, and try to control the unreasonable temper rising in me. “You’re running straight home to him?” Nothing could stop the shift in octave of my voice.

Her nervous hands twist fingers together. “No. I’ll go to Boo’s.”

“What’s the difference? Why don’t you just stay here?”

“What if he tracks my phone and finds me here?”

I slam the mug back down onto the surface. “He fucking tracks you?” Protectiveness I’ve never felt so strong hits me, slamming me hard in the chest.

Her shoulders drop. “I can’t take the chance. I can’t deal with the repercussions if he did.”

“What repercussions?” I demand. Something’s not right here, there’s a tight tone to her voice.

She storms out of the kitchen, throwing over her shoulder, “Just leave it, will you?”

“Turn your fucking phone off,” I yell after her.

I take a few minutes to calm down and leave her to do the same. I’m not angry with her. I’m angry with the cocksucker. I’m fucking livid he gets to call her his, and I don’t.

When I finally give in and head upstairs, I find her lying on the bed. Her eyes are shuttered closed and the heaving in her chest tells me she’s still upset with me. I don’t blame her. I’ve no right, or even any reason, to demand she answers shit. And if she thinks it’s best to go to Boo’s then who am I to stop her? That doesn’t stop me from staring at her, almost as if memorising every line, every curve of her perfect body.

I sink down onto the bed next to her. “I’m sorry.” My voice is low and soft; I don’t like seeing her upset.

Her eyes open and she fixes me with her gaze, before releasing me to stare into space. “This is too hard. We need to stop.” There’s no conviction in her tone and she can’t look at me.

Fuck. I need her eyes on me.

“No.” It’s out of my mouth before my brain can engage. But there’s no way this is stopping. Not now. Not fucking ever.

A sad smile forms on her lips as she returns her gaze to me. “I thought this was just entertainment to you.”

Was it? Maybe. Is it now? Fuck no. It’s so much more.

“I like having you in my bed.” I scrape my hands through my hair, and then let out a low, frustrated breath. Admitting this is huge for me. “I like being around you. A lot.”

“Really?” She searches my face.

I’m not sure what she’s looking for, but I hope she finds it, because I can’t say what I’m really feeling. “Yeah.”

“I like being around you, too.” Her dejected face disappears, replaced by a naughty look. “And I like you having me in your bed.” She wants to play? Now?

“Then leave him. Be mine.” I say it with conviction. My pulse increases with the request.

The grey storm in her eyes comes alive and then fades. “I… Noah…” She sighs. “I wish it were that simple.”

I want the light back. I fucking demand it. “I can make it simple.” My body covers hers within seconds. My thighs encase her hips and I pin her hands behind her head.

Her tongue peeps out from between her pink lips, sweeping over the bottom one. The small movement strikes me right in the dick. And I want her again. It’s like I can never get enough, never get deep enough inside her to take the edge off the need.

“I’m not going to fuck you.” My cock quite clearly demands something entirely different.

Her smile widens. “Really? And why’s that?”

Yeah, Noah. Why the fuck is that?

“Because I want you begging for me. I want you permanently wet imaging how I’m going to take you next time.” I lean down and run my nose up the soft skin of her neck to her ear. “I want you to need my hands and mouth on your pussy, and when you can’t take it anymore, I want you to beg me to fill you”—I sound like a conceited tosser, but I know how to fuck, and if that’s the only thing to bring her back to me, it’s what I’ll use—“and begging to be mine.”

Her breaths become shallower, and between my thighs I can feel hers tighten. I tease her ear with my teeth and trail my tongue back down her neck. I could cut glass with how hard my cock is, but this is the right thing to do. Claiming her now would achieve nothing, and make my thirst for her worse.

I plant a swift kiss to her lips and stand up. “Do you want a cup of tea before you leave?”

The soft laughter from her doesn’t go to my cock. It hits my heart. Hard. And I’m temporarily paralysed.

This shit is going to kill me.

“I’d love one. Thank you.”

I nod and go downstairs, trying to figure out what the hell’s up with me. When did my heart get involved in
anything
?

Lizzie left an hour ago. For the past sixty minutes I’ve been staring at my coffee cup. A thousand different thoughts have been whirling through my brain, but I’m trying hard to ignore the main one I keep coming back to.

When the wanker’s gone, I get her to myself. We can’t go out for meals, or on dates, because we aren’t a couple. They are, although they haven’t been together for months. I know next to nothing about him, apart from he’s in some band. I don’t give a shit who he is. He’s a tosser. He’s never here for her and I get the feeling there’s something very wrong with their relationship. I know she’s unhappy, or she wouldn’t be in my bed. She’s not the type to have a fuck toy on the side. Plus, last night she handed me her heart.

I pour the remaining coffee down the sink and slam the cup down on the side. The only thing I can think to do is go for a run, or I’m going to go all caveman and drag her arse back here. I quickly put on my running shoes and a sweatshirt, then head out the door.

After ten miles it becomes clear the burning feeling in my chest and the rampant thoughts in my head aren’t going to disappear anytime soon.

I’m in love with her.

Fuck.

How do I deal with this?

Another five miles and my muscles burn, my sweatshirt’s soaked, and nothing’s changed. I still feel the same. Exhausted, I turn for home and watch people on the way. Couples young and old, families, doing day-to-day shit, but they’re happy. I’ve never wanted that, avoided it for good reason. My life involved other people’s deaths, so it’s safer for everyone if I stay away from relationships. It’s better not to get attached. But that was my old life, right? I’m past all that. Retired.

I stop to plug in my earbuds, hoping the music will drown out my thoughts. My lungs are on fire by the time the house comes into view. I jog up the driveway, and then do some stretches before trying to get much needed air back in my lungs.

I release a disgruntled exhale and run a hand through my sweat-drenched hair. Falling in love is a dangerous game, as Lizzie stated; someone usually gets hurt. But for me? I know it’s already too late. She fucking owns me, black heart and all. And I’ve just made the biggest decision of my life. No music, no amount of muscle fatigue, and no internal argument could change my mind.

I’m going to ask her to move in with me. I need her by my side.