Lorien either did all her sleeping already or she’s one of those who tosses and turns a lot.
And she talks in her sleep.
This is brilliant entertainment. Except for the flopping around. If I were trying to get some shut-eye, I’d be pissed.
“The broccoli babies don’t have arms.” I’m fairly certain that’s what she said a few minutes ago. I managed to withhold a laugh, but barely.
The tone has changed though. It’s more melancholy, and the whimpers coming from her verge on terror.
Despite my better judgment, I reach out and place a palm on her shoulder. “Lorien?”
Her body shakes.
“Lorien.”
With a gasp, she sits bolt upright, scrambling. To my utter surprise, it’s not away from me, but right into my lap. The computer is damn near crushed as she burrows into me, fighting the remnants of the dream and, sadly, the bruises of our reality.
“Liam?” she whispers as her eyes flit over my features.
“Yeah, it’s me.” I say in the same quiet tone, wrapping my arms around her.
Her fingers reach for my face, raking through my beard, scraping through in what can only be considered erotic torture. Her eyes follow her hand, stopping on my mouth.
Lifting her chin, her lips hit mine with the barest hint of touch.
It’s sensual, it’s soft, and it’s intriguing.
It’s also complicated, problematic, and cannot happen.
I pull back, doing what I can to reduce the sting of what I hope isn’t rejection. “We shouldn’t.”
She averts her eyes, drops her face, though I can feel the warmth blooming there, and moves my hands to make her escape. She heads for the bathroom.
I grab my laptop and head anywhere but this bed that smells like her.
Of course, I’m interested. My dick has been from the moment I saw her shake that full, round ass on her front steps. But who knows how much time we’ve got in this arrangement and disbanding of a marriage is one thing. Divorce is another.
One is dissolving an LLC with two owners and no assets in common. The other is murky waters, entangled in squid tentacles, and sinking. And I don’t want either of us to drown. What alternative do we have?
I’m not looking for serious. I’m definitely not into virginal. It’s intriguing and hot, but not my thing. Not that I assume she’s untouched, but I’m used to a little more experience, a lot more adventurous, and no responsibility other than our safety and our orgasms.
She strikes me as the settle down and have grandkids type. I wonder if she even knows what she wants. It’s probably not a give-no-fucks, self-employed, pierced-dick dude. She probably plans to bring home a starched shirt, khakis-wearing insurance broker to mommy and daddy. Maybe someone who bought into a franchise, golfs on Saturdays, and takes one “exotic” vacation a year… to places like Boca Raton.
I’m not him.
And I don’t want to be him.
The problem I’m having is the burning inside me thinking ofher with the striped-tie frat-bro. The mental image of her smiling at another man. The thought of her looking at someone else the way she just looked at me. I hate it.
But I loathe taking it away from her more.
So here I sit, contemplating my life, bailed on my sofa. The sofa I’ve been relegated to in my own damn house.
And here I remain when the sun peeks through the blinds and, from down the hall, I hear the clicking of heels. Lorien enters the living room, rounding the wall toward the kitchen paying no heed to me. She’s in a long skirt instead of those terrible pants, her shapely calves on full display. Her hair is sleek as glass and frames her face as she moves silently to add what she needs to her purse.
Without a word, she walks to my garage.
I follow, as if led by my dick, and remote start the SUV, taking a minute to go into the unit next door before sliding into the driver’s seat. Once we’re out on the road, I lift her ring between my thumb and forefinger. It’s an ask. It’s also an expectation. Keeping up appearances sucks, but it’s altogether necessary.
