I exhaled and pulled Jessie closer. I didn’t want that. I wanted her. I was desperate to hold on to the only good thing I’d ever had. But it wasn’t possible. If she knew how little I really had to offer, she wouldn’t want me, shouldn’t want me, and I couldn’t do that to her. Trap her in a way she’d come to resent, cause her to look at me with shame and embarrassment. I couldn’t bear that. It would kill me.
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. I could hear the regret in my voice, and my chest tightened with pain. But she’d gifted me with so much, and I owed her the truth.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Jessica
I blinked, disoriented, as my eyes grew used to the low light in the room. Memory swept in, bringing with it a warm surge of elation as I recalled the way Callen had looked as we’d made love, his mouth parted and his skin flushed with arousal, the muscles of his arms tensed as he held himself above me. I squeezed my legs together lightly, feeling the tinge of achiness where he’d been, smiling despite the slight discomfort. Where was he? I was in the bed alone.
Pulling myself up so I could see over the puffy comforter, I spotted Callen sitting in the chair by the window in only his boxers, his tanned skin smooth in the low light, a notepad on his knees as he hunched over it. His lower lip was pulled beneath his upper teeth and his hand moved rapidly as he used a pen to scrawl something—musical notes, I assumed—on the page.
“Hey,” I said softly. His head snapped up, and he released his lip. I smiled at the look of intensity on his face, the focus. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
He shook his head, standing and setting the notepad and pen down on the bureau next to the empty bag of food we’d consumed hours before, sitting cross-legged on the floor wrapped in blankets. My lips tipped up at the memory of the intimate floor picnic and how no food had ever tasted more delicious. Callen moved to the bed, clicking off the one lamp that had been on, and got back in next to me, bringing the covers over us and pulling me close. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
I snuggled into him. He was so solid, so hard everywhere, and yet somehow the perfect pillow. “Mmm.” I sighed. “You didn’t. It’s just sleeping in a new place. For a minute I didn’t know where I was. What were you writing?”
“The harmony of the piece I’ve been working on. It came to me tonight.”
I lifted my head. “Really? Is that how it works? You hear music in your head first and then write it down on paper?”
“Yeah. Sometimes.”
We were silent for a minute before I said, “I’m glad the writer’s block has lifted. Why do you think you were so stuck?”
He paused for so long, I glanced up at him, wondering if he was going to answer at all. “I’m sure you remember from when we were kids that I didn’t have the best home life, Jessie.” My heart clenched painfully, and I nodded. “My dad, he liked to throw punches, but he liked to hurl insults even more. The worst things he could think of, the things he knew would hurt the most…” Silence again, as if he was struggling to find the right words, maybe even skirting around some, though I wasn’t sure why I got that feeling. “I hear his words sometimes, even still. They run through my mind and they, I don’t know, it’s like they paralyze me, make me feel that same worthlessness I did as a kid.”
I leaned up. “Oh, Callen. But you’ve found so much success in your life. You’ve proven him wrong on every level.”
He exhaled a big breath. “Maybe. But I hear the echoes of his words, and it’s like they get stuck on repeat and I can’t make them stop.”
“Except with alcohol and…partying,” I said. Women. A thought I pushed aside. He was opening up to me, baring his heart, and I wanted desperately to know this part of him.
“Yeah. For a while I could numb myself enough so his words were muted, just background noise. But it’s been harder and harder to do that.” He kissed my shoulder. “Until you.”
I bit at my lip, a surge of hope filling me, the feeling that he needed me. The problem was, I didn’t want to be needed only as some sort of muse for his music. I wanted to be loved. “Do you have any kind of relationship with him now?”
“No.”
“What about your mom? You never mentioned her…”
“No.” So much pain in that one word. “She died when I was eight. An overdose of prescription meds. They said it was an accident, but…I don’t know. She had been depressed for as long as I could remember.”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, wishing he’d told me about that when we were children. It would have explained more of the sadness in his young eyes. I’d lost my own mother to illness, and that had been hard enough to deal with as an adult. What would it be like for a sensitive eight-year-old to lose his mother to something that may or may not have been an accident? Especially when the parent he had left sounded like a mean bastard who had probably been little comfort, if any at all.
He was silent for a while and felt sort of tense, so I moved my hand down the ridges of his abdomen, seeking to distract. His muscles bunched, and he drew in a breath. “Did I ever tell you that I hear music in my head sometimes, too? The one that’s playing right now goes a little something like this: bow chicka wow wow.”
He laughed, the sound deep and sexy right next to my ear, and I tipped my head, grinning at him. “That’s good stuff,” he said.
“I’m glad you like it.”
“Come here, Mozart, and give me that wandering hand before you and that sexy beat give me ideas.”
“What sort of ideas?”
“Ideas that your body needs to rest from.”
“Hmm,” I grumped. “Maybe just for tonight.”
“Just for tonight.” He pulled me close and his heat enveloped me, the scent of him—warm male skin and some piney-smelling product he’d used recently—bringing security and comfort. I sighed, and after only a few minutes, drifted back to sleep.
* * *
I woke to the feel of something hard at my back and a hand kneading my breast gently. I moaned, pressing my butt back against Callen as he sucked in a sharp hiss. “I want you,” he whispered. “Are you still sore?”
I was, just a bit, but I didn’t care. I was turned on, and I wanted to feel the fullness as he entered me, the sweet invasion as we became one. “No.”
I turned around and gazed at him, the soft midmorning light bringing out the chocolaty highlights of his hair and the traces of blue in his gray eyes. His jaw was rough with stubble, and his lips looked swollen from sleep and all the kissing we’d done the night before. He was beautiful, my prince finally returned, and I knew I loved him. Maybe I’d never stopped.
“I had planned to get up early and take you to a museum near the château. The château we never made it to,” he murmured, biting softly at my ear.
I smiled, running my hand down his chest. “You’re my museum,” I whispered, pushing him gently so he rolled to his back. I threw a leg over his and kissed his neck as he groaned. “So much to see and experience,” I murmured against his skin, my hand grazing the ridges of his stomach, moving down to trace a finger along the hollow at his hip. “The art offered here is a study in form and”—I went lower, wrapping my hand around his hardness as he hissed in a tortured breath—“function.”
I slid my hand slowly up and down, glorying in the hot throb beneath my fingers, and he arched his back, a burst of garbled words rasping from his mouth. I held back a grin. “Hmm. Do you offer studies in antiquated languages, too?”
He laughed, though it was infused with a groan. He put his hand over mine, stilling it momentarily so he could roll me to my back, taking charge, leaning in and flicking my nipple with his tongue. “Only one, and it’s as old as time itself. Want me to teach it to you?”
My smile turned to a sigh of pleasure. “Oh yes.”
We made love slowly, a leisurely quality that hadn’t been there the night before, when we’d both been greedy with the newness of discovering each other’s bodies.
He kissed do
wn the curve of my neck to my shoulder and ran his hands up my inner thighs, before flipping me over, causing me to laugh, a chuckle that turned into a moan as he ran his fingernails over my backside and nuzzled his prickly jaw on my shoulder blades. It seemed as if he wanted to explore all the places he might have missed the night before, to see every part of me in the morning light. We have time, I wanted to say. We have all the time in the world. But I knew that was a lie, and I didn’t want to think about it, so I pushed it away. The feel of his hands on my body became my focus, and I lost myself in the earthy male smell of his skin after a night’s sleep and how it spoke to every feminine part of me.
We lay together afterward in satisfied repletion as I snuggled into him. A goose feather from the duvet spiraled upward with my movement and then floated lazily downward in a gossamer shaft of muted sunlight. Callen reached up and tried to grasp the fluttering piece of down, laughing when it danced away. He turned to face me, his hand running down my back as he pressed a quick kiss to the side of my mouth. “Do you know how I found that boxcar? The day we met?”
“No. How?”
He glanced upward, a smile playing over his mouth. I reached up and let my thumb glide over the perfect indent in the center of his bottom lip, unable to resist touching anywhere and everywhere that drew my interest. I felt hungry to experience him in every way I could…while I could. He kissed my thumb once, then pulled back. “I followed a feather.” He paused, taking a piece of my hair between his fingers and rubbing them together, feeling its texture. At this point he must know the feel of every single part of me, and yet he sighed as he watched his own fingers move, seemingly captivated by the strands, perhaps as hungry as I was. The thought made me warm and content. “I’d had a run-in with my father, and I’d left the house. This feather…caught my attention, and I followed it.” His gaze met mine. “I followed it to that boxcar, where you found me only a few hours later. I didn’t even remember that until recently.” He leaned in and kissed me, and I was lost in him once again.
The day went by in changes of light and the steady rise and fall of pleasure, his fingernails grazing my skin, his mouth seemingly everywhere. He called downstairs and ordered croissants and coffee and then later, more sandwiches and an upside-down fruit and pastry dessert called tarte tatin, which we again ate on the floor picnic-style.
Callen leaned forward and kissed me, licking the bit of caramelized apple on the side of my mouth as I laughed. He groaned. “We’d better take a shower. I don’t have any more condoms with me.”
I raised a brow. “I’m disappointed in your lack of preparedness.”
He smiled, and it was sweet. “No, I wasn’t prepared for this, Jessie. For you. But somehow…” He kissed me again.
“Somehow what?” I whispered.
“Somehow I got lucky, far luckier than I deserve.” He seemed pensive as he sat back, beginning to gather the wrappers from our lunch.
I didn’t want this day to end, not the intimacy of the small bed, the whispered words, eating picnic meals naked, wrapped in blankets, and so I smiled, nudging him. “Well, I guess your luck has run out.” I stood, letting the blanket drop at my feet. “I’m going to take a shower and think about all the things we might be able to do without a condom.” I put my finger on my chin in feigned consideration. “There probably aren’t any, though I’m pretty inexperienced—”
Callen stood so fast, he startled me and made me yelp out a laugh. “I’m feeling lucky again.”
We used far too much hot water before we emerged, pruney and laughing and me educated on the delights of shower benches and mouths, body wash and naked skin.
“Let me take you to dinner tonight. We can’t spend the entire day in this room.”
“Can’t we?”
“Maybe we already did. Let me feed you properly, at least one meal where we use utensils.”
I smiled, thinking utensils were overrated. The rain had stopped earlier in the day, and out the window, the street was dry, the sun lowering. I thought of the backless Clémence Maillard dress I’d packed and was suddenly excited about the prospect of getting dressed up and going out for dinner with Callen. “Okay.”
I blew my hair dry and put it up in a twist, leaving a few wisps loose around my face and neck, applied some makeup, and then slipped the dress on, smoothing it down my hips, making note once again of the fact that Clémence’s creations miraculously resisted wrinkling. I slipped on the strappy black sandals I’d brought to go with it and emerged from the bathroom.
Callen was standing at the window, gazing out. He was humming, and it was sweet and melodic, beautiful. For a moment I simply watched him, listening to his music. But he must have sensed me standing behind him because he turned around and smiled, handsome in a pair of dark slacks and a pale gray button-down shirt. “Wow, you look great.”
Callen looked from my face slowly down to my feet as he walked to where I stood, something almost reverent in his eyes. “You…I don’t even know what to say about you. You’re stunning. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
I smiled, biting my lip. I knew that wasn’t true. I’d seen the women he usually spent time with. He’d obviously been with women far more beautiful than I was, but the way he was looking at me right then made me feel as if he really did believe his own words.
When we walked down the stairs, Madame Leclaire was at the front desk. I asked about a restaurant close by, and she gave us directions to one a few blocks over. She beamed at us as we waved goodbye, winking as we smiled back.
The cozy family-owned restaurant was charming and intimate, the white wine I ordered rich and buttery, the food delicious, and the music soft and romantic. We sat by the window and chatted easily about our lives, about me living in Paris, about what he liked and didn’t like about Los Angeles. My heart overflowed with the love I felt for him, the ease with which we talked about everything and nothing, and the magical feel of this weekend, in this village where fate had somehow delivered us. And though I’d given myself to him knowing it wouldn’t last, I allowed myself to pretend it might, just for now. Just for tonight.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Callen
The letters blurred and changed positions, moving on the paper as if they were running from me.
“What’s this?” he demanded, his index finger pounding on the open textbook in front of me, his voice gruff with fury.
I wanted to please him. I wanted to make him proud of me so badly, but I didn’t have the answer, couldn’t even begin to guess. My lips started quivering, and I felt tears burning the backs of my lids.
Please, God, please help me.
My dad flipped the book over roughly, letting out an angry growl as he rose to his feet, causing me to startle and sit back abruptly. “What the fuck is wrong with you, you little retard? Jesus Christ. It’s a fucking W!”
“I’m sorry,” I squeaked, my shoulders sagging with humiliation and defeat.
“Try again,” he barked.
I stared down at the paper, the black ink smearing before my eyes, the tears finally spilling over and tracking down my cheeks.
“Are you crying, you little bitch? Are you fucking crying?”
I shook my head, denying it, despite the obvious evidence. I tried to stop, tried to pull the devastation and shame back inside me. But I wanted my mom, and thinking of her made me cry more, made me want her back so badly it felt like a pit in my stomach that would never, ever be filled. She was dead, and she’d never come back. Never protect me again. It was only us now—him and me and the never-ending reminder that I was a disappointment. The tears came faster, a small sob rising from my throat.
The smack was sudden and unexpected and caused me to jerk backward, the chair I was in falling over with a clatter. I scrabbled backward as he loomed over me, reaching down and grabbing me by the shirt and backhanding me again.
At the surprise of the slap, the tears dried on my cheeks, a shocked numbness taking the place of the pain in
side. My dad had shoved me a couple of times, had slammed his fist on the table, even punched a hole in the wall one time, but he’d never hit me in the face before.
“You want me to give you something to cry over, you fucking idiot?”
My cheek stung and my hip hurt where I’d hit the floor, but the physical aches felt better than the hurt inside my heart. I spit at him and watched as his face contorted with rage, and he brought his hand back to strike me again. He didn’t realize that wasn’t what made me cry. The words made me cry, and I’d just figured out how to make them stop. Now I knew how to make him stop.
“Callen, you’re dreaming. Shh, wake up. It’s only a dream.” Her voice came from far away, and I started awake, a cry of anguish on my lips, the wet feel of tears on my cheeks. I was breathing harshly, and I didn’t know where I was. I blinked, moving my head around, the vision of a small, ratty kitchen fading as the tiny attic room came into focus. Reality settled in. I had been dreaming. I wasn’t back there. I was here. With Jessie.
“Jessie,” I rasped. Her arms came around me, the warmth of her body such sweet comfort I wanted to drown in her and never come up for air. “Jessie, Jessie.”
“I’m here. It’s okay. What were you dreaming about?” She wiped the tears off my cheeks with such tenderness, her eyes pools of concern in the dim moonlit room.
“Him, I guess. I don’t know,” I lied. I didn’t want to talk about it. I needed to push the memory of him far, far away and not think about the way it’d felt to be that little boy. My breathing slowed. I was here with Jessie in the warm circle of her arms. I wanted—needed—to lose myself in her, to bury myself in her body and soak in the peace—the healing—she offered.