Secondhand secrets, p.16
Secondhand Secrets, page 16
She pressed her lips together and shook her head. “They only open a few inches. Aggie’s idea to stop anyone breaking in.”
She pushed out a heavy sigh and began pressing buttons on her phone, the forward roll of her shoulders and the deflated tilt of her head sparking a fire low in his gut.
He fought a sharp ache to reach out and touch her, to make her forget this misery, only he didn’t need to fight that ache at all. “Don’t.”
His tight command had her crystal blue stare pinned to him, her brow pressed into a quizzical straight line. Meanwhile, his gaze slipped to the silky white texture of her forearm and her phone in her hand, a new rise of desperation spurring him on. “Don’t call Aggie.”
Twenty-Five
Ally frowned up at Chip’s unwavering stare and long strides toward her, making her sink deeper into her work shed’s couch. His hand was quick to clasp hers and halt her ability to call Aggie.
“Just don’t call her yet, okay?” He pulled the phone from her hand and laid it gently on the table beside the sofa, her heart rate spiking at what his interjection meant. “Let her enjoy Maynard’s for a bit longer.”
He knelt on the fluffy mint rug before her, leaving her few places to look but the rich hazel of his eyes.
“What are you doing?”
He leaned in closer, hands pressing into the cushions either side of her. “Do you need to ask?”
She ran her tongue over her upper lip and recalled the kiss he’d given her moments before she’d discovered they were trapped in this room together.
Oh, but I’m trapped in more ways than one.
Her heart confirmed her theory of entrapment with one solid beat inside her ribcage, her pulse racing because she did know why he knelt so close. Especially now his gaze did a small dance about her face, hinting his knowledge on her realization.
“Ally, kiss me.”
He paired his vulnerable whisper with tugging her to the couch’s edge, one hand pushing at her knee, her body instinctively doing as asked and parting to make room for him.
Heat rose up her neck and into her cheeks, and as much as she wanted to say, “Someone might find us,” even she heard the weakness in that excuse.
“Ally.”
There came that whisper again. The one that burrowed deep into her heart and brought a solid thump to her chest, his fingertips tilting her chin up so that her lips aligned better to his. “Please.”
And even as his forehead met hers, she slammed her eyes shut and surrendered, hooking her arms around his neck—every breathtaking second bringing an awareness that she became evermore reliant on him.
She would have to let him go. And one day soon. Oh, but he was here now. Temporarily hers.
She would take what she could get, and what she got was the hard crush of his lips while she drank him in hungrily and cursed her lack of control.
His kiss drank her in too. His arms holding her to his impossibly firm body, the jut of his excitement pressed against her inner thigh and obliterating any doubt that he dominated the moment. Just as he had last time.
He can’t be the only one leaving scars.
No, she would claim her piece of him too.
She bunched his pale blue shirt and pushed the fabric higher over rigid contours and the heat of his skin.
He obliged her exploration, helping with the task of lifting the shirt past his head, only to return to his habit of matching her every effort, his fingertips brushing her exposed waist and sending sharp pangs of need throughout her entire body.
He pulled at her shirt, tossing it to the couch’s armrest, his frantic gaze darting over her short skirt and sheer pink bra—like he didn’t know where to focus, only that he worked of pure instinct—even as he caught her again and unleashed another onslaught of kisses.
Never having felt so wanted, she moaned at his unbridled desire for her and slipped her head back, making room on her neck for his mouth, her nerves bursting to life the moment he yielded to her request.
In return, she offered the surrender that he wanted, melting at the sweep of his open palm over the bare skin between her breasts, enclosing her legs around him.
But then she remembered her vow. That he couldn’t be the only one here leaving scars. So she straightened and quit melting, setting about staking her claim of him too. Starting with the front of his jeans, where she ignored the burn of his gaze in her periphery, and worked his button open.
“Ally?”
She pushed the heavy denim down his hips until she had him free and heavy in her hand, only then did she allow him contact with her direct gaze.
His eyes slammed shut, and she rewarded his compliance with one firm, long tug at his length, his head tilting back and his shoulders dropping, as though a measure of his strength left.
She hooked a hand around the back of his neck and pulled him in, her lips finding home at the center of his Adam’s apple. While he sighed at her touch, she sighed at the scent of him, all masculine heat and musk, paired with the salty, crispness of his cologne.
In time, her breaths turned ragged, and she sought control with a push at his shoulders, directing him to take a seat on the couch where she climbed atop him.
There, she allowed her kiss to wander from the edge of his jaw to the edge of his collarbone, all while his hands slid in rough movements up her thighs, under her skirt until his fingers curled at the waist of her underwear, signifying for her to stand so he could strip her.
She let him have that small win, and the wisp of soft lace brushed her legs before hitting the floor, though he left her skirt on—his victory only lasting as long as she took to kneel before him.
She caught the sharp surge of his excitement in her hand, hot and hard, her every nerve humming from the power trip of having him so completely caught and at her command. She drew closer, intending to have him in her mouth, only for his grip to hit her shoulders.
“Stop.” He lifted her up, and the wide look in his eyes conveyed the same concern she’d held earlier.
Too much. And in a partnership, dripping with uncertainty. As though he worked to avoid the absolute truth that, once experienced, certain things could not be taken back.
A distinct ache wrapped around her heart, and she nodded, easing back. Agreeing to help him dampen the pain they would both have to deal with later.
He caught his pants from the floor and rummaged through the pocket, soon producing a condom and slipping the pack into her hand. His quiet stare acknowledged her disappointment, before he pulled her in for a heart-wrenchingly tender kiss. His compensation for playing safe.
Even as he kissed her, his fingers curled in a desperate hold at the nape of her neck, but she inched back and held his gaze, taking a moment to bring his beauty and perfection into focus.
In that instant, the space beneath her ribcage swelled, as did the muscles in her throat. She was trapped in this tiny room with her childhood friend, his light touch to her bare tummy sending an overwhelming thrill through her entire body, another reminder of exactly who she shared this moment with.
She slammed her eyes shut, the first to kiss him this time while tearing at the silver packet in her hand. He helped her blind attempt to roll the condom down his length, his other hand shifting her onto his lap and above him. Soon, his lips caressed the base of her throat, and his hands pressed her hips down, the breath of his whisper stroking her skin. “Ride me.”
She groaned at what was both an order and an expression of desire, savored the lead of his touch on her hips, his hot girth slowly filling and stretching her, her fingertips curling into his chest in mutual punishment.
His relentless kisses stole her every moan while his hands guided her movements, and she moved over him, slow and testing. The unhurried pace spoke of how he would return to his life in Boston. And she would do her best not to drop everything in Harlow just to chase him there.
A man is not a plan.
A man is not a plan.
She wouldn’t let go of her own dreams.
What if he was fast becoming one of her dreams?
A light snap at her back brought her mind to the bone-melting awareness of him unhooking her bra. His gaze claimed her now, and his fingers dug harder into her hips, his grip pushing her to a faster pace.
An avalanche of desire swept her over, and she indulged the all-consuming compulsion to move. They didn’t have forever, but they had now. And she had his unrepentant kiss and the hard lap of his tongue over hers.
There was more.
The soul-nourishing sense of belonging to someone. Not once doubting this man wanted her.
That he’d wanted her first.
“You’re killing me here.” Though he kept his eyes shut and tilted his chin back in clear pleasure, his strained tone pulled a sudden light chuckle from her that only lasted until he bucked against her.
“Oh”—she clenched at the renewed pressure, her voice weak, his move perhaps spurred by vengeance for what she did to him—“now you’re killing me.”
“I hope not.” His soft laugh washed over her, and his lips hit her shoulder. “This isn’t how anyone should find our bodies.”
Even as he released an effort-filled groan, she laughed back. “Or maybe it is?”
“I guess that’s one way to stay together.” His brow flexed as though he’d said too much. About what he wanted, what she wanted, but was too afraid to admit out loud.
As if to distract her, he flipped her under him, her previous laughter turning to a surprised squeal. Now, she lay on the couch, him knelt before her, the tables once again turned.
His hands grasped her waist and he plunged into her, movements demanding and desperate, each firm thrust forcing her arms to wrap around his back for purchase.
His exploding breaths matched hers, and her heart charged like a fierce bull, Chip being everything red and inciting. All that remained was her keening cry tearing from deep within, one that spelled out the rise of her peak.
His mouth found hers and swallowed the sound, claiming each wild and satisfied moan as his, not once stopping to grant her reprieve from the rush of light building behind her shuttered eyes.
Her heart nearly ripped in two, and her world turned all glittery-white and starry. She arched into him and found blissful release, his lips on hers as he did the same.
In time, she turned all pliable beneath him, and one by one, her senses returned. He rested his head at her neck, which offered the sumptuous soft brush of his hair on her cheek. Next came an awareness of this room’s pale light and the plush cushions beneath her back, a reminder of the spontaneity of this encounter.
But more than any of that came the crushing knowledge that something here had changed. She’d changed. She’d grown. She found what she’d been chasing all these years.
And what exactly had she learned from all of this?
That no amount of bargaining could undo the pain of knowing that true love really did exist.
Twenty-Six
Chip stood before the open kiln, his shirt still in his hand, and Ally perched on the couch’s edge, her phone pressed to her ear. The kiln stood shy of waist-height, the door opening more like a lid from the top up, the empty inside insulated with a wall of white, heat-resistant bricks. He squinted at the control panel and tried, but failed, to make sense of what each button did.
“Thanks Aggie.” He peered over to Ally with her lips dipped in a frown, although he tried not to smile because she wore no more than her short skirt and bra, his body thrumming at the sight of her and the knowledge of having just been inside her. “We’ll see you soon.”
She hung up, and he hurried to hide his staring, tugging his shirt on over his head before retrieving her shirt from the couch’s armrest and handing it to her. “Sounds like that went well.”
“Yah, Aggie’s on her way.” She took the shirt but didn’t rush to put it back on. “Thanks”
She tilted her chin up to him, and a quiet pause unfolded. Though he couldn’t say what went through her mind, all he could think about was the hard-to-define shift that seemed to have occurred. Like the connection here had deepened all while he braced for a greater than ever fall.
He leaned over her and caught her lips in a sumptuous kiss, a kiss he imbued with the hollow hope of making her more than a short summer fling, even though he’d come to Harlow with no desire for anything serious.
She obliged the kiss, rising to drape her arms over his shoulders and sinking into his hold, the silken skin over her bare lower back filling his palms only for her to push away from him.
“Nah, ah.” A flurry of hard breaths followed her denial, and she went about jamming her shirt on. “We’re not going to let poor Aggie walk in on round two.”
He let out a laugh and turned for the bright red kettle in the pottery’s tiny kitchenette. “Okay, fine. What about coffee? Is coffee safe?”
An easy chuckle wafted from her general direction. “Sure, but there’s no fridge so no milk.”
He caught her strolling over as if to help, but he shook his head and pointed to a chair tucked under the small, nearby table. “You sit. I’ll make coffee. Straight black still gets a pass from me.”
She frowned but did as told, folding her legs beneath her on her designated chair. Even at school, she’d struggled to sit in chairs the traditional way, contorting her legs into weird shapes that seemed comfortable only to her.
The memory brought a smile to his face, and he ruffled his hair with one hand while depressing the kettle button with the other. More silence passed as he searched the bench’s lower cupboards for cups and processed this room’s distinct earthy scent of potter’s paint.
That smell brought about an unexpected reminder that a world outside his computers and bug-fixing existed. A world of handcrafted art and the woman who made it. The woman he fast fell for and would lose within a week, unless…
He pulled two cups out and placed them on the bench, the thick ceramic walls and mottled mauve and turquoise glaze a blatant Ally Egan creation.
This train of thought prodded him to learn more about something clearly important to her, so he nodded to the kiln and set about making her talk. “How hot do those things get?”
She narrowed her gaze at the kiln in a pensive look. “Well, that one is from Germany, and her name is Brunhilda, so I like to say she’s 1300 degrees Celsius. But if we must stick with local figures, I guess you could say about 2370 Fahrenheit.”
She shot him a smile that produced another chuckle from him. “Your kiln has a name?”
She tilted her head to one side in a way that said, Do you even know me? before adding, “Sure, the name Brunhilda means armed for battle, and trust me, that girl likes to put up a fight. Between bisque and glaze firing, a lot can go wrong.”
“Let me guess”—the kettle dinged, and he went about pouring water into a nearby plunger—“explosions?”
“If I’m not careful, lots of explosions.”
He lifted a glazed cup from the bench and inspected the swirling colors anew. “And how did you get this one to be so glossy and colorful?”
“Hmm…” She rose from her seat and wandered over, a thoughtful indent forming between her brows. “It’s the way the oxides react when heated—cobalt, manganese, potassium—most go on one color and come out something completely different when fired. The turquoise in this cup is made from copper, and the top glaze is essentially powdered glass mixed with water. The glass melts in the kiln and fuses into a high gloss when cooled. Over fire, and you get pinholes all over your work. Under fire and your piece looks like it’s coated in opaque glue.”
“And this one has neither.” He smiled at her, her attention still fixed on the cup in his hand. “Also, the way you describe the interaction between chemicals and heat. Ally, I wasn’t joking when I said you know how to science.”
She blinked up at him, her frown slowly easing. “I never thought of my work like that. Thanks.”
A small laugh escaped her, and her gaze continued to search his face, the bend in her brow and that thought-burdened look returning. “Was it hard leaving Harlow?”
He reeled a little at her question, not sure where the thought came from, though maybe his reference to her work got her thinking about leaving.
As much as he wanted to sweeten the truth, to make leaving seem simple so that she’d love Harlow a little less and him a whole lot more, his conscience got the best of him, and he vowed to share the truth.
“Harder than you’d think.” A lump took up space in his throat, and he spun around to the coffee plunger, hoping the subject would pass once he had coffee to serve.
But then, his next confession slipped out. “People around here seem to think leaving was the admirable thing to do. You know, like I instantly embarked on a bigger and better life, in a bigger and better city. But everything happened so fast, and I wasn’t ready, Ally. Everyone forgets that I watched my mother’s mental state disintegrate before my eyes. That I came home from school one day to find all our possessions strewn across the front lawn, and her bleeding from the countless wounds she’d inflicted on her arms. What if I hadn’t returned when I did? What if I’d done the usual that day and went out with you after school?”
Though he couldn’t see her, he imagined Ally’s stare hitting his back, his attention hooked to the unserved cup waiting on the bench before him.
No matter how much he told himself to move on from that day, the sense of being that same overwhelmed fourteen-year-old never seemed all that far away.
“Chip?” She called to him.
Though he turned, he failed to actually look at her and, instead, stared at the black speckles of rock amongst the floor’s polished concrete. “I had no control over any of it. Not how Mom reacted. Not about dropping everything I knew to move to Boston. Much less, I didn’t want to move to Boston. Especially not to live with Dad and his new woman.”
He swiped up a cup and ferried it over to her, his shoulders easing a little at having something to do.
