And boy, did I ever appreciate them. And him. All of him.
“Yeah, a big storm’s coming.” I tore my eyes away from him and gestured to the small television in the corner where the local news was covering the weather. I felt my anxiety spike as I stared at the news, watching the enormous yellow and green blob move closer to Mount Pleasant.
The oven beeped, and I slid in the baked chicken parmesan before focusing on the garlic bread. Mark came up behind me and twisted the top off of one beer, handing it to me before doing the same for his. He took a sip, then rested it on the counter, taking the bread knife from my hands and pulling the loaf toward him. He passed each piece back to me to butter as he sliced, the two of us working in tandem.
“You look tense,” he said, wiping his hands on a dishtowel and slinging it over his shoulder. Phoebe pranced into the kitchen, and Mark scooped her up and put her in her cat bed in the corner.
“What? No, I’m not,” I said, putting the garlic bread by the oven and taking a drink of beer to cover my nerves. “I’m just trying to decide what book to read next. Definitely not tense. Nope. Loose as a goose.” I shrugged and sat the beer on the counter with a clang, causing the foamy liquid to bubble up and overflow. I groaned and snatched it up, slurping the foam and ignoring Mark’s obvious glare.
“Liar. Your shoulders are ramrod straight, and you’re going to wear a hole in the tile with the way you’re tapping your foot.”
“I’m fine, really. Nighttime thunderstorms freak me out, but it’s not a big deal. Do you like brussels sprouts? They don’t really go with Italian, but we need something green on our plates, don’t you think? I mean, I don’t think the parsley counts. I can sauté them with balsamic...”
Mark stepped closer until he was right in front of me. He didn’t speak, but the way he rubbed up and down my arms, fingers trailing over my bare skin, soothed my anxiety. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and he held my gaze, silently seeing me. He was good at that.
Observing.
Listening.
Knowing.
My mind was bombarded with graphic, intense images. Images of him, of us. Of what it would be like to feel the heat of his skin pressed hard against mine.
I closed my eyes and imagined what his quiet knowing would be like in bed, what he would be like in bed. He’d be exceptional—the kind of man you didn’t let leave. I imagined that intensity staring directly into my soul as he pressed me harder into the mattress. He would watch my face and know. Know the pitch of each moan and what each breath meant. Know when to go hard, grind and adjust, and exactly how to touch my skin with his large, inked hands. He would know how hard to pinch my nipples and the exact pressure my clit needed to shatter and come around his hard, thick length.
He would know, without a word, because he could detect the change in my breath and the shift in my moans. He would know when I said his name louder it meant he needed to grab my ass and bite my neck, pushing my legs further apart to hit the spot, that spot, over and over again until an orgasm started in my toes and built up to such intensity, I would dig my nails in his back, and white spots would dance across my vision.
He would know.
Fuck me! I need a drink.
“Jenna?” he said, squeezing my shoulders. “Where’d you go?”
I tried to smile, but all I managed was a slight upturn of my lips. I was ready to snap with the slightest touch.
“I, um...” I started, desperately thinking of something to say.
I could tell him how he quieted my mind and was in my dreams.
I could ask him to kiss me.
“Did you want to watch a movie after dinner?” I said, chickening out and lifting my hands to rub my temples. Between arguing with Dr. Duvall, volunteering, and my frustration with whatever was going on with us, my head was pounding.
“A movie? Sure,” he said, stepping back to pick up his beer. “I’ll go pick something good. Be back in a minute to help with the brussels sprouts.” He winked and walked out of the kitchen, leaving me breathless.
I sighed and picked up the beer, taking another drink. A part of me screamed to climb him like a spider monkey so we could give in to this tension. The more rational part said to take headache medicine and just be in the moment. Not knowing what to do, I opened the fridge and took out the sprouts, deciding to take my frustration out on the harmless vegetables.
After we ate dinner and loaded the dishwasher, he grabbed us another beer and sat beside me on the couch. “Alright, I’ve narrowed it down to two choices for you,” Mark said, rubbing his hands together. “Your head still bugging you?”
“No. It’s better. Tell me what you have in store for us,” I said, bumping my leg against his.
“Okay. I guarantee the first choice will make you laugh.” He grabbed the remote and scrolled down to a movie, looking at me and raising his eyebrows.
“Oh,Weekend at Bernie’s.A classic.”
“Yes, but if you’re looking for something lighter, something quirky, something romantic perhaps, might I suggest this one.” He scrolled up to another movie and paused, looking at me for a reaction. “And I am not ashamed to admit this is one of my favorites.”
I grabbed the remote and clicked play, pulling a blanket from behind us to cover up my legs. Mark got up and turned off the lights, then sat back down and snatched the corner, pulling it over his legs and reaching forward for his beer. The opening credits forWhen Harry Met Sallystarted, and I snuggled deeper into the cushions. My eyes got heavy, and I scooted a little closer to Mark, closing my eyes for a second...
