Chapter 7
Sunday 8:32AM
Rigsby woke up with his fantasy fulfilled. Grace's bed. Two bodies. And a tangle of red hair scattered across his arm and chest. Arms and legs twisted together. Warm. Happy. Naked. Even half-asleep, he almost howled with joy.
He looked down at the sleeping woman draped across his body. Her hands gripped him by the shoulders and she was using his chest as a pillow. Her legs interlaced with his, smooth and shapely, like warm marble. She made almost no noise as she breathed, just tiny pushes of air breezing across his pectorals. More than anything, he felt her breathe. Her slim ribcage lifted against his in shallow undulations, faster and smaller than his as his larger lungs inflated in his barrel chest. He picked up a lock of her hair lying across it and held it up to the light: fire, ox blood, carrot, carnelian, burgundy, strawberry. The individual strands varied in a dozen colors. He planned to identify every single one. He spent almost 20 minutes immersed in these little details.
What really got his goat was the she had him pinned. An adorable little feather weight, earnestly fighting a big, bad man in a heavy weight arena. Her slim arms would need to triple in size to equal his, yet she had him trapped. Gladly. He felt lightheaded and smug all at once, proud that she wanted to trap him in the first place. Like he was going anywhere. After all, he'd been positive that even if they ever got to this point in their relationship—namely a romantic one—that he'd be one doing the pinning. Not that he hadn't hoped for her affection, obviously he had, but he'd never considered for a millisecond that she'd feel as strongly as he did. Ever. She would like. He would adore. She would be fond. He would self-enslave. She would lay supine. He would twist into a human cage. Enjoy his company. Die without her.
He had expected nothing less than this asymmetry. And it was perfectly acceptable. If she would deign it, he would absorb every drop of warmth she gave him and in return, he would flood her with his love.
And pin her to their bed every second she was in it.
But she pinned him first.
It knocked him for six.
And she loved him. That was the gooey, warm center of this whole doughnut. She. Loved. Him. We were galaxies away from fondness and affection now. She didn't deign. She dove. Just like he dove. They fell together. For each other. He had never expected that. Last night at the restaurant, she'd gone down on him like his filthiest wet dream, then she held him in his aftermath and whispered that she loved him.
For a moment, he was terrified. Not of her words, but that he was hallucinating them. Or dreaming again. Or suffering a stroke. Something serious and totally mental. Because no man gets a reality that sweet. Dream women weren't real, hence their name. They didn't invite you into their home, fuck your brains out, suck you stupid, then whisper that they loved you. Sorry, but he already saw that Red Shoe Diaries episode. He knew better.
Wayne, I love you.
He'd heard the words a few times before. Girlfriends of the past. He had traded these words with them, like people trade Christmas and baseball cards. He was pretty sure he meant them at the time. After all, his taste in women was fair. By and large, they had treated him well and he'd done the same for them. They'd been pretty, smart, some of them funny, some of them sweet. Almost all of them had been forward, finding him in a crowd. They flirted and giggled. He'd been charmed. His height and boyish smile usually meant he wasn't lonely if he didn't want to be. The problem was that, upon finding him, those women already had certain ideas about who he was.
Sure, he was big. Sure, he was strong. Sure, he could pick them up, toss them on a bed and satisfy them within an inch of their life. No problem.
But what didn't gel with their preconceptions was his shyness. His insecurities. And, bizarrely, his interest and deference to their thoughts and opinions. He could blush. Apparently men who grew passed six feet aren't supposed to blush. He could cry. Apparently men who can bench 200 lbs. aren't supposed to cry. He got upset and uncertain during arguments. Apparently he was supposed to throw a chair through a window, call them a whore, then rip the door off its hinges as he stormed off to a bar to drown his sorrows with other real men.
None of them had ever said as much, but he wasn't stupid. They had dated him expecting a macho man and instead they got a cuddler.
Now it was his turn to choose.
And his choice loved him back.
Yeah. He might have overreacted a little. He kinda dragged her to the car and fucked her so hard and so desperately that he hadn't been able to take care of her like he should have. As shattering as sex was with Grace, it was hard to judge what gave him more pleasure—coming or watching her come. That's why he always made sure they both happened. But not last night in the car. He dropped the ball.
He'd felt so awful that he'd brought her home and spent three hours making it up to her. He strung himself out for ages, pushing her over the brink again and again until his body exploded without his permission. He was pretty sure she forgave him, not that his sweet baby would ever hold it against him. She was too kind. Too understanding. Another reason he pleasured her into a boneless haze. For selfish reasons, but also because she deserved every earthly pleasure he was fit to give. Her year of celibacy—though exhilarating to him—was far too long for an angel with a sinful body to go without a man's touch. His touch. His chest made a purring, groaning sound as he imagined the things he'd do to her for the next twelve months.
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She woke up on a warm, hard pillow that was rumbling in her ear. A lion's purr. She didn't open her eyes, but she smiled at the sound as it vibrated against her cheek. She'd woken just like she had the morning before. Early and in the warmest, sweetest embrace she'd ever known. The clock told her it was 6:47. Time to get up. Or so the routine would dictate. But this time, she closed her eyes in defiance. Screw that clock. It was Sunday. It was Wayne. She wasn't moving a muscle.
She'd snuggled deeper against him, throwing her arms over his torso and burrowing her cheek into his chest. Boyfriend and girlfriend. Madly in love. Sleeping happily in each other's arms. She was almost giddy.
His reaction last night still had her reeling. They'd made love like it was the end of the world. Frantically. Angrily. Desperately. And yet they'd laughed and cuddled and kissed languidly like time no longer existed. She was delighted to discover such a dichotomy existed. Passionate comfort. Soft ferocity. Endless split-seconds.
Heaven.
Her own little purr answered his.
She felt his chest muscles tighten as he craned his head up. "Hey, pretty kitty," he drawled.
She lifted her head and smiled at him. "Hey, yourself."
She propped her chin on his chest and watched as he fanned a lock of her hair between his fingers. "Watcha thinkin' about?"
He smiled. "Gooey, happy, unmanly thoughts."
She giggled and kissed his chest. "Gooey, happy thoughts are the best kind. Fie on any man who doesn't have them."
Rigsby chuckled. "Fie? English Lit. 101 rears its oldy timey head."
Grace punched him lightly in the ribs. "Hush, you. 'Fie' is a great word. And fie on you for teasing me about it."
"You gonna fie me to death here?"
She gave him a truculent pout and moved to get up from the bed. "Oh, no. I'll just get up and take my fies with me into the kitch---eeeek!"
Rigsby grabbed her by the elbows and flipped her so quickly that she was trapped under his weight before she realized what happened.
He gazed down at her as she squealed and bucked under him. "Fie on you for trying to leave me."
She instantly stilled underneath him. She brought her hands to either side of his face and held him gently. "I'd never leave you, Wayne. I love you." She turned her head and kissed the column of his forearm next to her head.
Rigsby lowered into a push-up position, his lips an inch from hers. "Again."
She smiled, staring at the blurry face before her. "You'll get sick of hearing it at this rate."
He shook his head. She could only see dark skin and blue eyes. "Never. Again."
"I love you."
"Say my name."
"Wayne. I love you, Wayne."
He felt the words breeze across his own lips. He inhaled them. "Promise?"
Another sweet giggle. "Cross my heart."
"I love you too."
"I know."
"How long?" He was genuinely curious. Everyone else had known forever.
"Since the first week."
"God, really? Was I that bad?"
She lifted that inch and kissed him chastely. "You were that sweet."
He huffed. "Sweet."
She could hear his light annoyance and sought to ease it. "Yes, sweet. I like nice, sweet men."
"You know what they say about nice guys finishing last."
She raked her nails through his hair. His eyes fluttered with pleasure. "Bastards never finish at all, Rigsby. They chase women for the sport, not for the trophy."
He smiled despite himself. "So you're my trophy girlfriend?"
"Ha!" she gripped his hair and pulled slightly. He pretended to wince with agony. "Anyway, I hate that saying. Nice guys finish last. It makes men act like jerks."
She raised herself up into him, letting her body slide along his. "I've had men who weren't sweet. Believe me. I want you sweet."
He continued to hold himself just above her. It amazed her how long he'd kept the pose. All of his weight bore down into his arms, yet he didn't seem to notice. Impressive.
"How long have you loved me then?" This also interested him. He had absolutely no clue.
She thought carefully. When she sought his eyes again, she whispered straight to them. "I honestly don't know. At first, I thought you just had a crush on me. We barely knew each other. I was quiet and distant, how could anyone love that?"
He didn't answer. He thought the answer was obvious.
"But the months went by, and you were always there. On stakeouts, in the office, in the field, I could feel you, even when you weren't with me. I felt myself…leaning towards you." She searched for the right words. "And then I felt myself…falling. I knew," she looked down, embarrassed. "I knew you'd catch me."
He didn't answer. Instead, he sank into her and caught her lips. "Always," he whispered. He lifted a fraction again. "Tell me again that you caught me back."
She beamed and complied. "I love you."
